“You’re Cross, right?” I say. “You’re in my econ class.”
I don’t mention how he helped me the day I arrived on campus, though I certainly haven’t forgotten. We haven’t talked at all since.
Cross hangs out with what I learned they call the legacies; the kids of the well-to-do in town, who were all Rothford alumni. They don’t tend to mix with us scholarship ruffians.
“And marketing, I think,” he adds with a shrug. “Though no wonder you haven’t noticed me. I don’t sit at the front like a teacher’s pet.”
I point to the oversized rectangular glasses on my nose. “I don’t wear those for show. Sitting close helps.”
He frowns, head titled, curious, clearly trying to work me out. “Aren’t the glasses supposed to help?”
It’s surreal, me arguing in the parking lot about glasses and seating arrangement with a legacy. I start to walk towards the dorm. Cross follows.
“I mean, they do. I can read the board and everything—but it gets a bit blurry when I’m far. I probably should get my eyes retested, it’s been a couple of years. But they’ll tell me I need fancy lenses with two settings, which arefartoo expensive. I always end up just getting the far sight vision fixed as it’s my biggest problem.” I’m rambling, so I make myself shut up. He doesn’t care about my lenses.
“I see.”
“So, what areyoudoing out so late?”
He vaguely gestures to the domed glass building behind us. “I was iceskating. Lost track of time until they kicked me out to rink.”
My jaw falls. “There’s an ice rink on campus?”
“Sure.”
The Rothford campus is so big, I discover something on an almost daily basis, although I’ve been here for a month.
As I’m studying for a marketing BA, most of my classes are at Silver Hall. I haven’t had many reasons to visit the Dome, the modern building with science labs and modern amenities. I knew they had a gym, a basketball court, a pool, but I didn’t realize there’s a rink, too.
“I’ll have to get my mom to send me my stakes,” I say, relieved I’m not going to need to take up running or cycling to make up for all the croissants I eat the excellent café.
Figure skating has always been my favorite kind of workout. My ex used to joke that surely, I must prefer sex, but in all honesty, sex with him was a distinct fourth place, after Zumba with my mom and running for the bus.
“You skate, huh?” Cross asks, with a secretive grin I can’t interpret.
I shrug. “Yeah, I mean I grew up in a village known for nothing except winter sports. People either ski or skate—not much else to do for half the year.”
“You must be good,” he states, no question in his tone.
“I’ve done it most of my life, but I don’t compete. The coaches, the outfits—that would have been far too expensive for my parents, so it’s more exercise than an art for me.”
He whistles. “I can hear the confidence, Lily Trueman. That tells me you’reverygood.”
I blush a little, not sure how to tell him to lower his expectations.
“I guess I’ll see you on the ice, then.”
To my surprise, we’re right in front of the dorms. He’s walked me all the way from the car park, although he’ll have to circle the dorm in order to reach his private drive. I might not know muchabout Cross, but I know he’s a shark—belonging to one of the frats on campus that they’re not calling frats because Rothford University is too posh to do anything like everyone else. He lives in one of the private houses.
Did he…walk me home? The entrance to their drive isn’t anywhere close to the dorms, yet here we are.
That was sweet and unexpected from a guy like him, but there’s no denying that if he’d just meant to head to the shark house, there would have been a more direct path.
I stand there dumbly for several seconds before clearing my throat. “Right. Thanks, Cross.”
He tilts his head. “Whatever for?”
If he wants to play it like escorting a damsel in the dark is nothing, I decide to let him. “The company. Maybe you’re not so bad, for a shark.”
