I have a small window to work on our project… This time no shenanigans.
I groaned and reached up to touch the bag over my hair. There was still fifteen minutes on my conditioning timer. And it would take me almost an hour to braid it up because I was just that slow. My phone buzzed again with another text.
Unless you want shenanigans. Cause, in that case, I’m down.
My stomach jumped at his last few words. I willed myself to breathe in the candle scent slowly, in hopes my heart would stop trying to pound out of my chest. I had to stay calm and focused because we really needed to work on this project. Unfortunately, today was horrible timing. Not just because of my hair, but because I still wasn’t sure about how I was going to go about interacting with Weston. Because we were partners, avoiding him indefinitely wasn’t an option. And his rules… they were tempting, scary, and exciting.
The sheet he’d given me was still in my backpack. I’d reviewed the writing a handful of times since then. Hands down, his offer was more than an Ari-approved baby step. It was a gigantic dive. So, why did I consider it more than I considered subtle social interactions?
I took one more breath and then typed.Where?
One-word type of texter. I like it.
I snorted and waited for the dots on the screen to form into another text bubble.
My place. I live in the athlete housing. On the south side of campus. You familiar?
Everyone was familiar. The athlete housing was Westbrooke’s pride and joy. It was the place they filmed to show off in commercials and tantalize prospective freshmen. The buildings were the last stop on the walking tour to seal the deal for people still on the fence. The large brownstone buildings entangled with green, writhing vines made you feel like you walked straight into an English town. It felt like a place where witches roamed, and kings sat on thrones. Athlete housing was the real-life equivalent of the word “legacy.”
I wrote back,Okay. I’ll be there in 2 hrs
Perfect. See you soon
I locked my phone, reminding myself I didn’t have to get sucked in. Guys could be cute and dangerous. They could offer to eat you out and be wrong for you. I would do this project and ignore the slight ache in my belly that desperately wanted to revisit his set of rules.
I had to take this slowly. Especially since Weston wasn’t just a picture-perfect football player. Something hid behind his smooth words and deep voice. He was beautiful, but overwhelming. Breathtakingly overwhelming.
What didone wear to a late-night project meeting with a college football player they’ve already made out with?
I figured a dress would be too formal and sweats too relaxed. I settled for a pair of black jeans with one of our school’s oversized blue sweatshirts. A black silk head scarf covered my freshly twisted hair.
The bike ride over to the athlete housing side of campus was a good fifteen minutes. The sun started setting and casted a red glow on everything it touched as I rode through campus. During weekends that didn’t involve some huge event, the campus was typically quiet and nearly empty. Students usually visited home or went on weekend trips. I didn’t have a car for weekend trips, nor a family welcoming me home, so I always stayed put.
I adored having the sidewalk to myself while zigzagging along the pavement. The cold, late-fall air burned my lungs in a good way. I vowed to make weekend bike rides part of my routine. The silence and emptiness were too alluring to pass up.
Once I passed through an arch decorated with white flowers and the words, “Kramer Courtyard,” I swore it transported me into another dimension.
All the trees in the courtyard were losing their leaves. The various shades of yellow and red covered the ground so that the brown grass was barely visible. A few people were laying out blankets in front of a makeshift stage. I heard that the theatre majors were putting on plays across campus. They moved around like a troupe, surprising their audience with which play they’d perform next. I never could muster up enough interest to look up their schedule.
The few students who weren’t getting ready to listen to sonnets and monologues were hanging out on the ironwood benches with laptops and blankets. They looked genuinely happy and excited. My throat tightened a little, an indication of incoming teary eyes. Jealousy crawled across my bones like muscle as I stopped in front of Harvey Hall. Weston leaned against the building in grey sweats and a tight-fitted, long sleeve black tee.
He waited as I dismounted from my bike before he said, “Don’t tell me you live on the north side of campus.”
I didn’t say a word as he pushed off the wall and reached for my bike. His hands briefly covered mine as he grabbed the handlebars. His touch was warm against my freezing knuckles. I tugged my sleeve over my hand to cover the place he touched.
“I would have picked you up,” he told me.
“I enjoy riding at night,” I said. “And I needed some fresh air.”
Weston pushed down my bike stand and wrapped the lock around the bike rack. “Still. These hills are brutal. Coach has us run up them as punishment.”
“So, you’re fairly familiar with them,” I said. The words slipped out before I could rethink my phrasing.
Weston chuckled as he pulled out his student ID. “You’ve read me well.”
He led the way up the staircase. Three flights and a racing heart rate later, we walked into his apartment. I froze almost immediately to find five guys hanging out.
A shirtless guy with a detailed forest tattoo sleeve came out of the kitchen with a bowl of popcorn and a large, brightly colored sports drink tucked under his arm. He had a lightning bolt shaved into the side of his head.
