Page 14 of Breaking the Ice

“What are you up to tonight?” Sam asks, running her bright pink fingernails along my arm.

“Studying.” Unwrapping my burrito, I scoot away from her touch, gesturing at Isabella and the stuff covering our table.

“Wanna hang with us when you’re done?” Brenna asks, leaning forward. Her low-cut shirt may not have the structural integrity to handle that move, and my eyes dart back to Isabella, focusing on her face.

She stares at the food in front of her, cheeks flushed.

What is it with the DGs? Am I a rush challenge or something? Did I get drunk and dance naked at their mixer and not remember it? I mean, it wouldn’t have been the first time.

“Thanks for the invite, but nah, I’m busy,” I tell them, hoping they scram so I can get back to my tutor.

“Will we see you at the Sig Alph party this weekend?” Claire presses, voice breathy.

“I have hockey.”

“That’s never stopped you before,” Sam singsongs, going for what she probably thinks is alluring but is just annoying. Also annoying is the fact that she is right. I used to party every weekend and most weeknights, too, whether it was hockey season or not.

I glance at Isabella, who still won’t meet my eye. Desire to impress her flares in my chest. Greek parties and sorority girls don’t hold the kind of appeal they used to.

“It’s time for me to change my ways,” I say, gratified when Isabella’s gaze locks on mine.

“That’s a shame.” Sam flounces off, and her entourage follows, muttering about getting a salad.

“Sorry about that.” Reaching out, I graze my fingers over Isabella’s hand. “How’s your food?”

Her burrito sits untouched in front of her, and she pushes it farther away.

I raise a brow. “What’s wrong?”

“Did you hear them suggest I need a salad instead?” She spits out the words like they are poison in her mouth.

I blink. “Well, no, I didn’t pick up on that. I was just happy they left. But why would you let a bunch of scrawny sorority girls tell you how to eat?”

It’s Isabella’s turn to stare at me like I’ve sprouted another head. “Did you see them?”

“Yeah. What’s your point?”

“Everybody is supposed to want to look like that.” She points in their direction.

“Why would you want to look like them? You’re perfect as is.”

Her mouth drops open again, and her throat bobs in a swallow. “Okay. Let’s talk about US History.”

We do, while I shove my food into my mouth, and the material is not as bad as I thought. When Isabella explains stuff to me, it makes sense, and I can remember it. With her dry tone and endless PowerPoints, Dr. Knuth makes things impossible. But we talk through the major causes of the Civil War, and Isabella even helps me come up with some bullet points for flash cards, so it’s good.

After an hour of that, I get up to refill our drinks—the extra-large Pepsi was a smart choice.

“So, did you hear about the stuff with the football team?” I hand her cup back, our fingers brushing. Chills run up my spine, but she doesn’t seem affected at all. Even if she wasn’t Coach’s daughter, she’s clearly not interested in me. Which is a damn shame, because I can’t get her off my mind. Determined to focus on anything besides how much I want to touch her, I lean my elbows on the table, then scratch an itchy spot on my forearm.

Isabella raises a perfect brow. “I don’t follow sports.”

“Really?” I ask. “Not even hockey?”

“Especially not hockey.”

“But you came to that game⁠—”

“What were you going to tell me about the football team?” She cuts me off with a sharp glare. Okay, noted. Don’t discuss hockey.