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I’m not exactly sure what the basics are, but I nod. A plan at all helps ease my nerves. I stand up and grab my bag.
“We should go,” I say.
“After you, Brainiac,” he says.
ELEVEN
QUINN
Professor Rodgers gives us our lab assignment and lets us go. I end up at a four top table with Daniel. He reads the requirements and gets to work. He’s so focused, it’s hard not to watch. He might not understand the book, but he knows what he’s doing in here.
I watch him calibrate without looking at the handout again.
“You’re good at this,” I say. It comes out before I can mentally decide if it’s too much. It’s okay, we’re friends. Friends compliment friends.
Daniel glances up, surprise on his face. There’s a smear of something on his glove. “Yeah?”
“Yes. Really good. You don’t even need the handout.” I nod at the machine. “You seem to already know what you’re doing.”
His whole face does the smile. I have to look back at my own set-up.
“Thanks, Quinn.”
“It’s just the truth.”
“Uh-huh.”
I focus on my samples, but my ears are hot again. Compliments are fine. I give them to my friends all the time. This feels different, and I don’t want to examine why.
We both finish early enough that I have plenty of time to pack up without rushing to French. Daniel strips off his gloves and bumps my stool with his foot.
“Walk you out?”
“I have French after this.”
“I know. In the Language Arts building. I’m headed that way. I have practice.”
Right, the ice rink is in that direction.
Outside, I cut across the lawn to avoid the majority of the people. He matches my pace. It’s nice. A lot of the things I notice about him are nice.
“Do you want to get lunch after my class?” I ask. “If you have time.”
I swallow as he looks over at me. I can’t read his expression. And my heart rate kicks up, making my palms sweaty.
“You don’t have to.”
He grimaces. “I can’t. I wasn’t kidding about practice. It’s a few hours today, because we have our first scrimmage Sunday.” He tips his head to the side, the smile coming back. “Tonight, though. I’ll grab food on the way back to the dorm. Text me what you want.”
“I don’t have your number.”
He holds out his hand. “Give me your phone.”
I fish it out of my pocket and hand it over to him after I unlock it. He stops walking, and I do too as he opens a new text message and sends himself a message from my phone. He hands it back, his fingers brushing mine in the process, and my stomach clenches at the contact.
“Now you do. So text me.”
“Okay.”
