“That about sums it up, Puck Boy.”
“Thanks for nothing,” I grumble, hiking my backpack up on my shoulder and heading for the door. I’m wasting my time here with Hot Work-Study Guy. He may be hot, but he’s also a jock-hating jerk. Maybe I’ll have better luck talking to Coach. I know he’s helped a couple of guys in the hockey house with schedule problems.
“Wait.”
I turn to see Hot Work-Study Guy vaulting over the counter. That can’t be in the employee manual. But I have to admit, it’s damned sexy. Like Channing Tatum and Jonah Hill doing that sick double slide across the hood of a limo in21 Jump Street.
“What?”
For a split second, I get the feeling he’s going to ask me out. Which is ridiculous. No one at Moo U—what the students and locals call Burlington University—knows I’m bi. Although that didn’t stop him from flirting with me. He’s definitely been giving off mixed signals. One minute, I swear he can’t stand me. The next, he’s acting like he wants to take me behind the counter and fuck me. Maybe it’s both, and he’s looking for a good hate fuck. Something past me would sign right up for. But present me knows better.
I think.
He sticks his thumbs in the pockets of his painted-on jeans and rocks back and forth on the heels of his oxfords. “If you really want to switch to another class, keep checking back with us. People drop all the time. Maybe something else will open up.”
Okay, so not looking to hate fuck me, then. I may be at a new school, but clearly I’m the same old Adam. Misreading the signs. Again. Different day, same shit.
“Thanks,” I say, my emotions bouncing between disappointment and relief. Disappointed in myself for falling into the same, familiar patterns. In Hot Work-Study Guy for not feeling whatever it is I’m feeling. And at the same time, I’m relieved he’s not. No temptation for me to fuck up even further. “I’ll do that.”
“But I hope you’ll change your mind and give improv a chance,” he continues. “You might even be good at it. Hockey’s a pretty fast game, and players have to think on their feet, right? That’s what improvisation is all about.”
“You seem to know a lot about improv.” And a little about hockey, too. Wonder how that happened. Maybe a hockey player broke his heart, and that’s why he’s got it in for jocks.
He shrugs. “Some.”
“Let me guess. You’re a theater major.”
Moo U has one of the best theater departments in the Northeast. Not that that was a factor in my decision to transfer. It also has one of the top hockey teams in the country. And a pretty good business department too. That’s my major. A little on the dry side, but I figure it’ll come in handy when I’m making the big bucks in the NHL.
That’s not false pride talking. I’ve already been drafted by the Brooklyn Barons. And I want to be able to handle my own finances. Or at least know when someone’s trying to screw me over. I’ve heard too many stories about professional athletes being taken advantage of by shady agents and advisors.
Hot Work-Study Guy winks and shoots finger guns at me. “Got it in one. Brains and brawn. The total package.”
My pulse skitters. Is he flirting with me again? Or am I imagining things?
I decide it’s safest not to stick around and find out.
“I’ll think about the class,” I lie, giving him a polite nod before I turn my back on him and sprint for the door. It’s almost three. I’m already late for my accounting class, but if I hurry, I might catch Coach in his office at the arena before practice.
“You do that, Puck Boy,” Hot Work-Study Guy calls after me. “See you around.”
I shake my head as the door swings shut behind me. He’s not wrong. It’s a small campus. There’s a good chance our paths will cross on occasion. But when they do, I’ll be running the other way. Chicken? Maybe. I prefer to think of it as self-preservation.
School and skating. No room for anything—or anyone—else.
2
Kolby
“What was his problem?”
I drag my gaze from the door swinging shut and blocking my view of Adam Serrano’s fine, firm ass. I’ll bet you could bounce a quarter off that thing. I’d sure like to try.
Cassie, the sophomore I’m stuck working with this afternoon—if you define work like she does as vanishing every time someone needs more than the most basic level of assistance—is lounging against the counter, sucking on a heart-shaped lollipop.
“You’d know if you stuck around to help him instead of pulling a disappearing act.” I join Cassie on the other side of the counter. Except this time I use the more traditional pass-through instead of leaping over it like I’m a flipping superhero. Something I tend to do when I’m trying to impress a hot guy. Not leap tall buildings—or not-so-tall counters—per se. But stupid, impulsive, reckless stuff. Like flirt with someone I should stay the heck away from. Like, for example, an entitled jock who thinks the world owes him something because he can shoot a puck into a net.
“Sorry,” she says, not sounding the least bit apologetic. “I needed a smoke.”
