She walks around the bike, squatting down to check the pedal.
“Need a hand?” I offer perkily.
“If you could just move to the left so I can get some shade, that’d be great.”
I do as I’m told. No matter how much I’d love to just leave her stranded here in the heat, I need to think bigger picture. I fold my arms over my chest and glance at my watch.
“You got class at nine?”
“Nope, I just love going on bike rides at eight twenty in the morning. Car fumes in my hair, the thrill of the potholes—what’s not to love?” She glares up at me. “Why sleep in when you could risk your life on the roads, you know?”
She’s playing hardball, but instead of turning me off, she’s making me want to up my game. She reminds me of that Lions player who tried to bite me last season.
“Yes. I have class at nine.” She kicks her wheel. “On the other side of fucking campus, too!”
She slams her foot into the bike again, and I’m suddenly not so sure she’s the right coach for me. She’s actually kind of scaring me.
I crouch down to examine the damage, paying my respects to the absolute piece of crap that is her bike when I feel Carrie’s eyes hot on my skin.
“What are you doing here?” she blurts.
I shrug. “I saw you by the side of the road and felt like helping out.”
“Know much about repairing bikes?”
“Nope. But I do have a car that actually works.” I smirk. “Get in.”
I can tell she’s about to say no, her mouth twisting as she glances at her watch. She sighs, and I know just what she’s thinking—there’s no way she’ll make class if she walks.
“I don’t have money to pay you,” she says, eyeing me warily.
“This isn’t a Campus Drivers gig. I’m just helping you out.”
“Yeah, right. You’re obviously gonna want something in return…”
Amen to that.
“It’s your call. Maybe getting to class isn’t so important after all.” I shrug. “Skipping one is no big deal.”
She balks. I’m pretty sure she’s not the kind to ditch class without a damn good reason.
“Fine, whatever…” she begrudgingly agrees.
She locks her bike to a railing, muttering something about coming back as soon as she can to pick it up. Then she swings her backpack over her shoulder and grabs her book before striding over to the passenger seat and slowly fastening her seat belt.
I’m almost disappointed. I was expecting it to be harder to break her down.
I slip behind the wheel, hit the ignition, and flick on the radio.
“Nice ride,” she says, running a finger over the dashboard.
I nod proudly. “Plymouth Road Runner. 1971.”
“Calm down,” she deadpans. “I was just being polite.”
She shakes her head and flips open her book. And that’s how we end up driving in silence for a whole five minutes, her eyes glued to the page, mine fixed on the road. I’m trying to figure out how to get us back to our dining hall chat, when she suddenly looks up.
“Nope.”
