But it’s a huge relief knowing that after the last year of college hockey hell, finally, I’m home.
4
Kolby
I’m always psyched about going to improv class, but today I’m doubly stoked because Professor Frost is finally letting us play our first actual improv game today. And it’s Questions Only, one of my favoriteWhose Linesketches. Players take turns asking questions to each other, and the first person to respond with a statement is out. The questions don’t have to make sense—the trick is to get another player to fall into the habit of automatically answering.
I spent last night watching oldWhose Lineepisodes to pick up pointers from Colin, Ryan, Wayne, and Brad. They’re all great, but Wayne is definitely my favorite. I’m not much of a singer myself, but that doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate his ability to pull off an impression of a musical act, be funny, and make it sound like an actual song all at the same time. Add to that his physicality, which the older guys can’t match, and he’s the clear front runner forWhose LineMVP, in my not-so-humble opinion.
Hannah would argue until she was blue in the face if I said any of that to her. She always liked Colin best. We used to watch the show together when our parents were at their gospel study group. Then afterward, we’d play the games ourselves. Or try to, with varying degrees of success.
Even then, Hannah knew I was born to perform. She was the one who encouraged me to audition for my first play in high school. Listened to me too when I poured out my dreams of living in New York and working on Broadway. Helped me fill out all those applications to college theater programs. I wouldn’t be at Moo U if it wasn’t for her.
I’ve got a couple of minutes before class starts, so I stop next to the door of room 105 and pull out my cell to shoot off a quick text to Hannah’s friend Sarah. She’s the one who lets Hannah use her phone to keep in touch with me.
I ask her to have Hannah call me when she sees her. It’s been a couple of weeks since we talked or texted, and I’m worried about my younger sister. The last time we spoke, she sounded—I don’t know. Off. Not her usual disgustingly cheerful self. I have the strange, unsettling feeling that something’s going on with her.
Mission accomplished, I mute my phone, stash it back inside my messenger bag, and head into class. There are the usual faces gathered around, waiting for Professor Frost to make a grand entrance, like he always does. There’s Ian, the class clown. Good luck making it through a scene with him without breaking character and cracking up. And Josh, who was so good as the emcee in last semester’s production ofCabaret. And Quinn. She’s a decent actress when she’s working off a script, but she struggles to come up with stuff on the fly.
And one new face. New to class, that is. But one I recognize. Like I’d ever forget those dark, dreamy bedroom eyes. Or the striking contrast they make with his fair hair. Or the sexy stubble that dots his stubborn, masculine jaw.
Puck Boy, aka Adam Serrano.
He hasn’t seen me yet, so I’m able to gawk at him unnoticed. He looks adorably out of place in his team hoodie, track pants, and sneakers. The casual attire doesn’t make him any less attractive. If anything, it ups his hotness quotient. All that big, blond deliciousness wrapped in workout gear, like he just finished a strenuous session at the gym. The guy’s the total package.
What’s even more surprising is that he doesn’t seem to realize how fucking attractive he is. Or at least he doesn’t act like he does. He’s comfortable in his skin, that much is clear. But he doesn’t flaunt his good looks like some of the athletes around campus. It makes me wonder if I misjudged him. Maybe he’s not just another pampered jock.
As if to prove my point, he grabs the hem of his sweatshirt and pulls it over his head, totally unaware of the striptease he’s giving when his T-shirt rides up his torso. I get a tempting but way-too-fleeting glimpse of rock-hard abs, bisected by a fine trail of hair that leads to places I can only dream of exploring.
I’m not the only one sitting up and taking notice. All of the girls are checking him out. And half the boys, too. But Captain Clueless just tosses his sweatshirt over the back of a folding chair and slumps into it, his eyes skittering around the room as if he’s desperately looking for something familiar to latch onto.
I know the instant he spots me. Those bedroom eyes widen and his cheeks pink up. It’s obvious that he’s surprised to see me, and not in a good way.
I could let him off the hook and find a seat across the room. But I don’t. Instead, I plop down in the chair next to him and stretch my legs out, making myself comfortable.
“Fancy meeting you here,” I drawl, dropping my messenger bag on the floor and shoving it under my seat.
“You didn’t tell me you were in this class too,” he says, his stubbled jaw tight with tension.
I shrug. “Didn’t think it would matter since you were trying to get out of it.”
And even though I couldn’t help him, I figured he’d find a way of getting what he wanted eventually. That’s how it usually works for superstar athletes. So what point was there in telling him I was in this class when he’d be taking rocks for jocks or underwater basket weaving or whatever blow-off course athletes usually took to fulfill their gen eds?
Or so I thought.
“Yeah, well you can see how that worked out.”
I can’t resist needling him a little. “What happened? Coach couldn’t pull any strings for you? I thought you hockey gods got whatever you wanted. You’re like the kings of the campus.”
A muscle tics above one eye, bringing my attention to the tiny white scar that slashes through the right side of his eyebrow. I must be in improv mode already because my brain starts spinning stories about how he got it, even though I know the most logical explanation is that it’s hockey related. But it’s a lot more fun imagining he got it in a bar fight. Or from a piercing gone wrong.
“Trust me,” he grumbles. “It’s not all it’s cracked up to be.”
I get the feeling there’s a lot of history behind his cryptic comment. And I want to ask him about it. I want to know everything about this guy. What he likes to eat. His favorite color.
What he looks like naked. The sounds he makes when he comes.
It scares me how much I want to know those last two.
