1
Adam
My first day at a new school, and I’m going to be late for class if this fucking line doesn’t start moving.
There’s two people behind the counter at the registrar’s office, not that that’s helping things move any faster. A girl with hair that’s somewhere between pink and purple and a guy who’s currently got his back to me. Work-study drones, probably. Neither one of them seems very happy. Not that I blame them. I wouldn’t be happy if I had to handle pissed-off students who want to change their fucked-up class schedules all day, like me. There’s no way work-study pays enough to deal with that kind of crap.
Thank fuck my athletic scholarship plus the money my parents set aside for my education means I don’t have to work, on campus or off. It’s hard enough keeping up with school and hockey without the extra added pressure of having to hold down a job.
The girl finishes with the student she’s assisting, and I step up to the counter, expecting it to be my turn. Finally. But instead, she disappears through a door to who knows where, meaning I’m stuck waiting for the guy to be done with the kid he’s helping and watching my chances of getting my schedule fixed in time for me to get to class vanish as fast as pink-haired girl. Or purple-haired girl.
Whatever. Either way, I’m screwed.
I clear my throat, hoping that will get Work-Study Guy to pick up the pace. I don’t want to, but I can’t help but ogle him a little on the sly. He’s tall, at least six feet, with shaggy rust-brown hair that brushes the collar of his slim-fit, floral button-down. I can’t see his face because he’s got his back turned to me, flipping through some papers on one of the desks behind the counter that separates the general public from the employees at the registrar’s office.
But what I do see, I like. Muscular shoulders. Trim hips. An ass that fills out his jeans nicely. And don’t get me started on his forearms. The way they ripple and flex as he riffles through the papers. Damn. He may not be jacked like my teammates, but he obviously spends some time in the gym.
In short, just my type.
I squash that thought like an opposing forward against the boards. The last thing my bisexual ass needs is to be lusting after one of my fellow students on day one at my new school. Especially when that’s what got me in trouble at my last one.
“Got it.” Work-Study Guy turns and hands a paper to the kid at the counter, and holy hot shit if the full frontal view isn’t as mouthwatering as the back. His face is like one of those Roman statues we studied in the art and archaeology class I took last semester to fill one of my gen ed requirements. High cheekbones. Full lips. Strong, square jawline.
But his eyes—no cold, marble statute could capture them. Wide and deep set and a color I can’t quite describe. Sort of a blue/gray/green.
They’re hard to look away from, but I manage—eventually—if only because I want to check out the rest of the package. The shirt doesn’t hide the fact that he’s sporting some seriously developed pecs and firm, flat abs—probably a six-pack, if not an eight. And if I thought the jeans hugged his backside perfectly, that’s got nothing on what they’re doing for his thighs and, uh, groin area.
Is it possible to be hot and cold at the same time? Because that’s how I feel now. My cheeks are flushed, my palms are clammy, and my ability to form a complete sentence—or even one intelligible word—has suddenly and magically disappeared.
“You’re all set,” he says to the kid next to me, who I’m guessing is a freshman from the baby face and the peach fuzz on his chin. “Just show that transfer slip to your psych professor.”
“Thanks, man. You’re a lifesaver. I don’t know what I was thinking signing up for organic chemistry first semester.”
“Anytime. That’s what we’re here for.”
The kid leaves, and Hot Work-Study Guy turns those eyes on me. “Can I help you?”
“I have a problem,” I say, trying to sound polite and professional, not hostile. Or horny. “With my class schedule.”
“That’s what they all say. But it’s almost always user error.” He leans against the counter and looks at me like I’m smoking something funny. “I need to see that if you want my help.”
He nods at my schedule, which I’m still clutching like it’s one of Willy Wonka’s goddamn golden tickets.
“Uh, right.”
I hand it over, and he studies it for a second before he turns to the computer on the counter next to him and starts two-finger typing.
“Nope,” he says after a minute, handing the schedule back to me. “No mistake.”
“There has to be. I never signed up for a class called—” I glance down at the paper that’s back in my hand. “Improv 101. I don’t even know what improv is.”
“It’s short for improvisation. It’s a form of live theater where the plot, characters, and dialogue are made up in the moment,” Hot Work-Study Guy explains.
“Okay, now I’m one hundred percent positive I didn’t register for that class.”
There’s no way in hell I’d voluntarily do any kind of theater, especially not something where I’m not sure what’s happening from one minute to the next. I’ll save my performing for the ice, where the only things that come flying at me are pucks and the occasional defenseman. Those I know how to handle.
Hot Work-Study Guy taps the computer screen, which apparently holds the secrets of the universe. “You got put in there because your first choice for your arts and humanities elective was full. As was your second choice. And your third.”
