Although wary isn’t exactly how I’d describe the way some of them have been eyeing me. Especially Caroline. She’s looking at me like I’m a fucking rock star or something. I’ll bet if I did soak myself with my water bottle, she’d think it was some sort of act performed just for her, like a postgame Gatorade dunk.
But she’s wasting her time trying to hook up with me. I’ve never been into the hockey chick scene. Okay, that’s not completely true. I went through a brief groupie phase when I first started college. But it got really old, really fast. Now I’m more discerning.
Or I thought I was until Chase fucked with my head and almost got me thrown out of school.
I drain my water bottle and head out of the room in search of a fountain to refill it before class starts up again. I’m halfway down the hall when a voice stops me.
“Adam, hold up.”
It’s Kolby, of course. I suppose I should be glad it’s not Caroline. Except it would be way easier to brush her off. I seem to have a hard time getting rid of Kolby. Most likely because even though I know keeping my distance is the smartest course of action, I can’t seem to make myself do that.
I stop—of course I do—and turn to face him. “I’m looking for a water fountain. Is there one around here?”
“Yeah. Come with me. We can talk on the way.”
Do we have to? Can’t I just stare at your ass in those skinny jeans?
He turns down another hallway without waiting for me to follow him. It’s annoying how he just assumes I’ll do as I’m told like a good little boy.
What’s more annoying is that he’s right.
I drag my eyes from his butt and catch up to him. “What do you want?”
“Want?”
“You followed me out here to ‘talk.’” I put air quotes around the last word. “You must want something. Besides the talking.”
He stops so abruptly it takes me a second to realize I’ve blown past him, and I have to double back.
“Here’s your water.” He gestures to a fountain that looks like it belongs on a spaceship, shiny silver and designed to fit a twenty-ounce bottle like mine. My last school didn’t even have water fountains in the academic buildings. Students were always bitching about it. Someone even started a petition at one point.
I unscrew the cap and shove my bottle under the spigot. Like magic, it starts to fill. There must be some sort of motion sensor. Definitely an improvement over the place I transferred from. “You haven’t answered my question.”
“When I asked you to get coffee with me—”
I cut him off with a dismissive wave of my free hand.
“I get it. You weren’t serious. It was part of your strategy. You wanted to throw me off my game. Not that I had any game to begin with,” I end with a pathetic chuckle to hide my disappointment.
Disappointment? I should be relieved, dammit. I’m supposed to be laser focused on two things: school and hockey, not necessarily in that order. Not on that super short list? Going on coffee dates with hot guys.
Kolby shoves his hand into his pockets—I’m surprised they fit, his jeans are so damn tight—and scuffs the toe of one of his shiny loafers against the linoleum floor. “Uh, yeah. That’s it. Strategy. No hard feelings, right? I mean, since we’re going to be working together and all. Unless you’d rather have someone else help you get caught up.”
If I didn’t know better, from his body language and the way he’s rambling I’d think he was nervous. But that’s ridiculous. The guy all but hates me. What does he have to be nervous about?
I should take the out he’s giving me. Tell him I’d be more comfortable working with someone else—anyoneelse, even clingy Quinn or groupie Caroline. But I can’t do that. He might take it the wrong way. I don’t want him to think I’m some sort of homophobe.
And then there’s the fact that I don’t want to let him off the hook because . . . goddammit, I want an excuse to spend time with him. Which is the last thing I should want. Fuck, I’m a mess.
“Nah,” I say finally, screwing the cap back on my now-full water bottle. “I’m cool working with you. I mean, you haven’t groped or propositioned me like Quinn. Or ogled me after banging one of my teammates like Caroline. So that’s a checkmark in your column. Two if you count them separately.”
Kolby’s shoulders relax and his lips quirk into a smile, and there’s that damn dimple. “You’re pretty funny for a Puck Boy.”
Puck Boy. That’s the second time he’s said that. I kind of like it. Not that I’m admitting that to him. “I prefer—what was it you called me before? Hockey god?”
“You would.” He gestures to my water bottle. “All set?”
I nod.
