“Ah.” That's gotta be interesting. I wonder if he’s run into Luke Morgan over there. I am smart enough not to ask, though.
We walk in silence down the stairs to the ground floor. He’s probably thinking about hockey. I’m back to replaying the endless loop of my own mistakes. But once we're outside, West turns to me.
“Hey. I just want to say I think it's really cool that you show up at practice. I—we, the guys, the team—appreciate the support. We like seeing you there.”
“Oh. Um.” And even though I'm pretty sure this is coming more from him rather than “the guys” in general, it’s really sweet. It should make me happy to hear it. Itdoesmake me happy. But the feeling is muted. “Thanks.”
I turn to go, but he touches my arm. “And…Dashreally likes seeing you. Um, there.” He says. He looks me in the eye with an intensity that’s begging me to take his meaning. I do. I just think he’s wrong.
Gavin really seems like a genuinely good guy. I see why Dash likes him.
My stomach twists. I have to find a way to stop thinking about Dash. Of course, I do nothing but that on mywalk of shame (and not the good kind) back to my dorm.
I knew I was a social screw-up, but I don't understand how even I could manage to screw this up so thoroughly. He liked me. He did. I can admit that to myself now. He obviously did. And what did I do?
Well, for one thing, I clearly alienated him so much he's hiding from me now. I mean, isn't he? Because I know enough from spending time with Dash this week to know he wouldn't normally be out of his dorm this early, unless he was trying to avoid anyone who might show up on his doorstep begging for another chance he doesn’t deserve.
Pretty sure when the team comes back to practice on campus, I'm going to find myself alone in the stands again.
Perfect. Good job. Isn't that what I wanted? Now I can just go back to living my life in a bunch of books and forget there ever even was a real-life guy who wanted to spend time with me. Who kept showing up to watch a game he pretty clearly wasn'tthatinterested in. A guy who waded through all of my awkwardness and shyness and kept coming back. A guy who freaking read a bunch ofromancebooks because he wanted to get to knowme.
I am the actual worst.
It doesn't matter because it's over. Whatever it was, it's done. Welcome to college. Welcome to the rest of your miserable life. My eyes start to burn and, oh good, now I’m tearing up right here in the middle of campus.
I take my glasses off and blot my eyes with the sleeve of my hoodie, hoping the other students passing by don’t notice me. But then something catches my eye.
A hockey jersey. One of the hockey players is apparently standing across the quad from me. And he's frozen in place. Staring. At. Me.
You have got to be fucking kidding me.
Great, he probably recognizes me as the idiot who sits in the arena every day at practice and is now crying in front of Student Support Services.
The tears start coming harder because of course they do. I turn, intending to, well, run in the other direction. But I’m crying and not wearing my glasses, and however it happens, I trip and end up on the ground, pain shooting through my palms as I try to catch myself.
“Caleb!” I’m disoriented and humiliated, and it takes me a minute, but by the time the hockey player reaches me in a blur of green and black, I recognize the voice.
“Dash?”
He’s crouching down, looking me over. He hands me my glasses, which I must have dropped when I fell. “Caleb, oh God, are you all right?”
I swipe at my eyes. “I’m fine. You don’t have to—” I stop as I slide my glasses back on and really get a look at him. His brows are pinched together. He looks so… worried. “I’m fine. Thank you.”
He takes my wrists and turns my hands over, inspecting them. “Your palms are scraped up. Should we take you to the Health Center?”
“God, no!” He looks taken aback, but then he nods and helps me up, a hand under my elbow. He’s being so sweet. I don’t know what it means, I don’t know what he’s thinking. It’s all too much. I can’t look at him. So I look to the ground beside him, and that’s when I notice…
“Is that a boombox?”
Dash blushes. Which is very un-Dash-like.
“Um, yeah?”
Then I stop to really consider what he's wearing: a hockey jersey (which I now recognize as the kind you buy in the campusstore), about eight sizes too big for him, hanging down to the knees of his skinny jeans.
I look him over, a tiny smile pulling at the corners of my lips.
“Dash Dalton, are youactuallygrand gesturing me?”
