“Isn’t there anything else I can take? An English class, maybe? Or philosophy?” Hell, I’d even settle for public speaking. At least there I’d be reciting stuff I prepared in advance.
He taps a few more keys, then shakes his head. “Nope. The only other classes that would work with the rest of your schedule are filled up.”
“What about that psych class the guy who just left transferred into?”
“He got the last spot. Sorry,” Hot Work-Study Guy says, clearly not one fucking bit remorseful.
Fuck. Being a transfer student sucks. Not only do I have to try to fit in at a new school, on a new team, I get last pick of classes. Leaving me with crap like improv. I almost had the same problem with housing until a spot opened up for me in the hockey house, where most of the team lives.
“Fine. I’ll just drop it then.”
“You could do that,” Hot Work-Study Guy agrees. “But then you’d be three credits shy of full-time enrollment. Which means you can kiss any scholarships you’ve got goodbye.”
“Fuck.”
This time I say it out loud, making Hot Work-Study Guy smirk. Which, unfortunately, doesn’t make him any less attractive. He’s got the whole edgy bad boy thing going for him, a look that’s enhanced by the shiny silver hoop through the top of his left ear.
Dammit, why do I always go for the bad boys? Chase was a bad boy too. If fighting were allowed in college hockey, he’d have spent more time in the penalty box than on the ice. Once, just once, I wish my dick would stand at attention for a guy with a military-style haircut and wearing a V-neck sweater, perfectly pressed khakis, and Top-Siders.
“What have you got against improv?” Hot Work-Study Guy asks, snapping me back to my present problem.
“Nothing.” I shove my schedule back in my backpack. “For other people.”
“I get it.” Can a smirk get smirkier? If so, his does. “You’ve got performance anxiety.”
My dirty mind immediately goes to the bedroom, where I’m fairly confident in my abilities. “Performance anxiety?”
“You can’t stand the thought of getting up on stage in front of everyone.”
Oh, right. That kind of performance anxiety. Can’t argue with him there. So I do a 180 and dodge his implication. “I perform for crowds all the time. But when I do it, it’s on the ice.”
“Ah, you’re one of those.” He says the last word like it’s dog shit on the bottom of his shoe.
My familiar internal defenses slide into place like elevator doors. “One of what?”
“A hockey player.”
“Got something against hockey players?” I shoot his accusation right back at him.
“Depends.”
I take the bait. “On what?”
He leans across the counter and drops his voice to a whisper. “On whether they’re over me, under me, or trying to get me to change their class schedule even though there’s nothing available.”
Did he have to go there? Now I’m picturing us. Together. Naked. Which, I repeat, is not in the plan for this year. School and hockey. That’s all I’ve got room for.
I take a step back, needing to put some space between us even though we’re separated by four feet of Formica. “Is that psych class really full, or are you messing with me because I’m a jock?”
It wouldn’t be the first time someone’s held a grudge against me because I’m an athlete. People think we have it made, but we get our share of stereotyping and discrimination too. We’re not all dumb. We don’t only take gut classes like Mickey Mouse Math and Needlepoint 101. And most of us work our asses off, in class and on the ice. Or the field or the court or wherever.
He shrugs. “Believe what you want to believe, but I can’t change your schedule.”
“Can’t or won’t?”
“Does it matter? End result’s the same.”
I glare at him, although the heat in my gaze is probably equal parts annoyance and attraction. “So you’re saying my options are drop the class and lose my scholarship or stick it out and risk public humiliation?”
