Her mood flips fast—I’m starting to get that about her—and for someone who just spent two days back home, she seems more unsettled than usual.
“How was your weekend?” I ask, shooting for casual.
“Great.”
“You don’tseemgreat.” I glance at her. “And no, I’m not just saying that in the hope I’ll get laid.”
“I appreciate your honesty, but I mean—I went to visit my mom. It wasn’t exactly a weekend with the girls, you know?”
“You only ever mention your mom. Where’s your dad at?”
She balls her fists in her lap. “They’re divorced.”
“Since when?”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
She hasn’t snapped at me or anything, but I feel the sting.Okay, I get it. Touchy subject.I knew that already, but right now the message is painfully clear.
AS WE REACH CAMPUS, Ipark by her dorm. She gets out, grabs her bag from the trunk, and sets it on the ground while I walk up to her.
“Thanks for picking me up,” she says, shifting from foot to foot. “It was sweet of you.”
“Hey, look how much you’ve helped me out. It’s the least I can do.”
“Don’t feel like you owe me anything. I never asked for anything in return.”
What’s with the defensiveness?
“I know that.” A thought occurs to me. “Just a heads-up—practice ramped up today, so afternoons will be tight for me. We have workouts after classes,” I explain. “So, that only leaves evenings and weekends when I don’t have away games.”
“Okay.” She shrugs.
Damn. I was expecting something a little more.
“Should we go ahead and schedule something now?” I suggest.
“Why don’t you just get into a routine first. Message me when you feel ready to pick back up.”
She sounds bored as fuck, and it’s depressing me. Does she think I plan on skipping my one-on-ones with her, or what? Because that won’t be happening.
“Our first game is this week. Wanna come?”
“Thanks for the invite, but I’m late with my assignments.” She smiles. “Maybe next time!”
Why the fuck is she being super distant all of a sudden?
“God, I could really do with that shower.” She hoists her bag up her shoulder. “Good luck with practice!”
And with that she gives me a quick wave, and she’s gone. As I watch her disappear into the building, all I can picture is grabbing her by the hips and pinning her to the wall in her tiny, tiled bathroom.
I spend the rest of the day completely and pathetically obsessed with that image. Even more when I’m in the locker room showers at the end of practice, hot water beating down on me while the memory of her thighs, her mouth, her sounds, her everything… takes over all functioning brain activity.
I barely towel off before I’m out the door—hair still dripping—heading straight to her dorm.
I don’t even text her.
I just go.
