He walks around me and straight to the expensive car parked directly in front of the café.
“Who even drives a Porsche in college?” I let it slip without thinking.
“Someone who can afford to make people forget his grades suck.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
SAM
It’s finals night and the entire campus is buzzing. Everywhere I went today there was someone chanting or yelling, fist in the air, aggression already seeping to the surface.
Go Knights.
I’ll never understand the hivemind of sports fans. They’re loud and territorial. With the painted faces, the ceremonial portrayal of stripping off shirts, getting so angry they’ll shatter the TV. And the screams that are so loud you can barely hear yourself think. God forbid the team loses. A fight would be guaranteed to break out.
It’s fascinating, but also a little scary. I shake my head at the thought and continue working my way through my checklist at the rink and get to work. During practice, I only have the main locker room to worry about, but during home games, I handle the visiting team’s locker needs as well.
It’s not nearly as much work as what I do for my boys, but it’s still quite a bit to get through. I start with the water bottles first, filling each to the brim. Then the med kit and towels.
When I’m done, I check my clipboard for the fourth time tonight. Not that the boys would be pissed if I screwed something up; they hate Baymont. One of the guys on my team eventried to bribe me into slipping laxatives in their bottles. He said it was a joke, but something tells me it wasn’t.
Voices spill in behind me as the other team comes pouring in, loud, cocky, and full of that out-of-town swagger. More like cross-town confidence. I may not like or know much about the sport, but I’ve lived in this town my entire life. If the headlines tell me anything, it’s that Baymont is damn good this year, with a new captain who’s as hungry as anyone on this team.
And if the game footage the Knights have been reviewing in preparation for tonight is any indication, Baymont is about to give them a run for the title.Good.They deserve a good ass whooping. Maybe a little humbling will do them some good.
I glance behind them, taking in the multiracial team. They don’t seem to notice me, all in their own world. The game’s about to start, so I make quick work of my final task.
I’m stacking the last of the Gatorade bottles when I hear it.
“Damn. Who’s that?”
I glance up. One of Baymont’s players leans against the lockers, his eyes glued to my ass. He’s tall and built—which is par for the course—with floppy hair and a porn stache.
“You’re the chick that took out Kincaid, right?” He points at me, then brings his fist to his mouth to hide his laughter. “You are. My homeboy said they made you the towel girl as like punishment or something.”
I turn, attempting to ignore him. Seriously? They said school gossip spread fast around here, but for it to make it all the way across town, to another university, is crazy. Besides, what am I going to say? Yes, that was me, the knee shatterer here. No, that’ll only stir up more drama. Jackson has already made things hell for me, spending every chance he gets to chastise me. Sending his brother to do his dirty work. I don’t need to add anything else on top of that.
“Shit. Maybe I should be thanking you for taking out the competition.”
His teammates laugh as he daps up the person closest to him.
“I’m Aaron.” He moves closer, holding out a hand for me to take.
“I don’t care,” I mutter instead, picking up my crate and turning.
“Williamsburg?” he questions like he’s disappointed.
The jersey.That sneaky bastard. He didn’t give this shirt to me to help me out. He did it to mark his territory in front of the other team. Jerk. And because wearing the school’s gear is mandatory, there’s nothing I can do about his name on my back. Like a brand.
Fucking perfect.
“You’d look better with my name on your back.”
I blink, unsure if I should laugh or be disturbed. They’re all the same, douchey, arrogant dickheads that need to be taken down a notch. I turn to face him. “That line ever work on anyone who isn’t brain-dead?”
He laughs. “Guess I’ll have to find out.”
“Keep dreaming.” I storm away, catching a glimpse of his eyes falling to my backside. I don’t look back, but my skin itches the whole way out.
