At least he has one this class. I’d call that progress.
“Right. I know you mentioned us working together on Mondays and Wednesdays after class, but I think we need at least one other day. I mean, this list is pretty hefty.”
As much as I hate to admit it, he’s right. These weekly assignments are pretty detailed. Mr. Randsen wasn’t kidding when he said this class wouldn’t be easy.
“You could come to my practices,” he suggests. “And afterward, we could work on the bleachers. No one will question why you were there because of Cam.”
“Or maybe you could come to Greystone with me,” I say. “Occasionally, not all the time. I don’t need you messing with tradition.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.” He grins as I glance up at him.
“Obviously, my schedule isn’t as crazy as yours, so let me know what your weeks look like—”
“Cam’s look pretty similar.”
“Maybe,” I begin. “But he doesn’t spend extra hours on the ice. And you guys don’t have the same class schedule.”
“How do you know about my extra ice time?” he teases. “Have you been asking around about me?”
“You wish,” I scoff, turning back to my notebook. “Brinley doesn’t know when to shut up.”
“That makes more sense,” he says, but the smug grin doesn’t fall off his face. “For a second, I thought you might be warming up to me.”
“Never.” I shake my head. “So, whenever you get a chance, send me your schedule.”
“You’ll be receiving myemailthis afternoon.” He winks.
I hate that sly grin he always has on his face. And I hate that, just for a moment, things felt normal. We were teasing each other… and he was flirting. Or at least I think he was.
I was taught not to trust anyone’s intentions. You never know what they truly are. But with Declan, it’s like he’s trying to tear away all my layers. And being stuck with him until the end of the year only means one thing—
He might actually succeed.
When was the last time you got laid?”
I’m not sure I’ve heard Brinley right until I sit up and see her staring right at me. Still, I feel like this is some kind of joke. Even after a few weeks of hanging out, I feel like the question is forward.
“Um, where did that come from?” I ask with an uncomfortable laugh, and she shrugs.
“I don’t know. I guess I was curious.”
“About my sex life?”
“Yeah,” she continues. “Aren’t friends supposed to share these kinds of things?”
“Maybe.”
“Okay, so when was it?”
I pause, contemplating my answer. Maia doesn’t even know the truth to this question.
“Wait,” she jumps up toward her bed, resting her arms on the edge, “have you never done it.” I don’t respond and let her jump to her own conclusions. “Holy shit, you’ve never had sex?! That’s so disappointing.”
“Why is that disappointing?”
“Because none of our conversations are gonna bespicy.” She pokes me in the stomach.
“And they have to be spicy because?”
