Garrett
HANNAH WELLS IS into a football player. I can’t wrap my head around it, but I’ve already offended her once tonight, so I know I have to tread carefully if I’m going to win her over.
I wait until we’re in my Jeep and buckled up before I voice the cautious question. “So, how long have you wanted to fu—make love to Kohl?”
She doesn’t answer, but I can feel her death glare boring into the side of my face.
“Has to be a fairly recent thing since he just transferred two months ago.” I purse my lips. “Okay, let’s assume it’s been a month.”
No answer.
I glance over and see that she’s glowering even harder now, but even with that forbidding expression, she still looks hot. She’s got one of the most interesting faces I’ve ever seen—her cheeks are a little too round, her mouth a little too pouty, but combined with her smooth olive skin, vivid green eyes, and the tiny beauty mark over her top lip, she looks almost exotic. And that body…man, now that I’ve noticed it, I can’t un-notice it.
But I remind myself that I’m not driving her home in the hopes of scoring. I need Hannah too much to screw it up by sleeping with her.
After practice today, Coach pulled me aside and gave me a ten-minute lecture about the importance of keeping my grades up. Well, lecture is too generous a description—his exact words had been “maintain your average or I’ll shove my foot so far up your ass you’ll be able to taste my shoe polish in your mouth for years to come.”
Like the smartass I am, I asked if people actually still use shoe polish, and he responded with a string of colorful expletives before storming off.
I’m not exaggerating when I say that hockey is my entire life, but I guess that’s bound to happen when your father is a fucking superstar. The old man had my future planned out when I was still in the womb—learn to
skate, learn to shoot, make it to the pros, the end. Phil Graham has a reputation to uphold, after all. I mean, just think about how badly it’d reflect on him if his only son didn’t grow up to be a professional hockey player.
Yes, that’s sarcasm you’re detecting. And here’s a confession: I hate my father. No, I despise him. The irony is, the bastard thinks everything I’ve done has been for him. The intense training, the full-body bruises, killing myself twenty hours a week in order to better my game. He’s arrogant enough to believe that I put myself through all that for him.
But he’s wrong. I do it for me. And to a lesser extent, I do it to beat him.
To be better than him.
Don’t get me wrong—I love the game. I live for the roar of the crowd, the crisp air chilling my face as I hurtle down the ice, the hiss of the puck as I release a slap shot that lights the lamp. Hockey is adrenaline. It’s excitement. It’s…soothing, even.
I look at Hannah again, wondering what it’ll take to persuade her, and it suddenly occurs to me I’ve been thinking about this Kohl thing the wrong way. Because yeah, I don’t think she’s his type, but how is he hers?
Kohl plays it off like he’s the strong, silent type, but I’ve hung out with him enough times to see through the act. He uses that man of mystery bullshit to draw girls in, and once they bite, he turns on the charm and lures them right into his pants.
So why the hell is a levelheaded girl like Hannah Wells salivating over a bigshot like Kohl?
“Is this just a physical thing or do you actually want to date him?” I ask curiously.
Her exasperated sigh echoes in the car. “Can we please not talk about this?”
I flick the right turn signal and drive away from Greek Row, heading for the road that leads back to campus.
“I was wrong about you,” I tell her in a frank tone. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means I thought you were upfront. Ballsy. Not someone who’s too much of a pussy to admit she’s into a guy.”
I hide a grin when I see her jaw harden. I’m not surprised that I hit a nerve. I’m pretty good at reading people, and I know without a shred of
doubt that Hannah Wells isn’t the kind of woman who backs down from a challenge, not even a veiled one.
“Fine. You win.” She sounds like she’s speaking through clenched teeth. “Maybe I’m into him. A teeny, tiny bit.”
My grin breaks free. “Gee, was that so hard?” I ease my foot off the gas as we approach a stop sign. “Why haven’t you asked him out then?”
Alarm ripples through her voice. “Why would I do that?” “Uh, because you just said you’re into him?”
“I don’t even know him.”
“How else are you going to get to know him if you don’t ask him out?” She shifts in her seat, looking so uncomfortable I can’t help but laugh. “You’re scared,” I tease her, unable to keep the delight out of my voice.
“I am not,” she says instantly. Then she pauses. “Well, maybe a little.
He…he makes me nervous, okay?”
It takes some effort to mask my surprise. I hadn’t expected her to be so…honest, I guess. And the vulnerability she’s radiating is slightly unsettling. I haven’t known her long, but I’ve gotten used to her sarcasm and confidence. The uncertainty on her face seems out of place.
“So you’re going to wait around for him to ask you?”
She scowls at me. “Let me guess—you think he won’t.”
“I know he won’t.” I give a little shrug. “Men are all about the chase, Wellsy. You’re making it too easy for him.”
“Hardly,” she says dryly. “Considering I haven’t even told him I’m interested.”
“Oh, he knows.”
That startles her. “No, he doesn’t.”
“A man always knows when a woman wants him. Believe me, you don’t have to say it out loud for him to pick up on the vibes you’re sending out.” I grin. “Hell, it only took five seconds for me to figure it out.”
“And you think if I go out with you, he’ll magically be interested in me?” She sounds skeptical, but no longer hostile, which is a promising sign. “It’ll definitely help your cause. You know what intrigues guys even
more than the chase?”
“I can’t wait to hear it.”
“A woman who’s out of reach. People want what they can’t have.” I can’t help but smirk. “Case in point—you wanting Kohl.”
“Uh-huh. Well, if I can’t have him, then why bother going on a date with you?”
“You can’t have him now. Doesn’t mean you’ll never have him.”
I reach another stop sign, and I’m annoyed to see that we’re almost back at campus. Shit. I need more time to persuade her, so I drive a bit slower and hope she doesn’t notice I’m going ten under the limit.
“Trust me, Wellsy, if you show up on my arm, he’ll notice.” I pause, pretending to think it over. “Tell you what—there’s this party next Saturday and Loverboy will be there.”
“One, don’t call him that. And two, how do you know where he’ll be?” she says suspiciously.
“Because it’s Beau Maxwell’s birthday bash. You know, the quarterback? The whole team will be there.” I shrug. “And so will we.”
“Mmm-hmmm. And what happens when we get there?”
She’s playing it off as casual, but I know I’ve got her exactly where I want her.
“We mingle, have a few beers. I’ll introduce you around as my date. Chicks will want to murder you. Guys will wonder who you are and why you haven’t been on their radars before. Kohl will wonder too, but we’re going to ignore him.”
“And why would we do that?”
“Because it’ll drive him crazy. Make you seem even more unattainable.” She bites her lip. I wonder if she knows how easy it is to read her emotions. Annoyance, anger, embarrassment. Her eyes reveal everything and it fascinates me. I work so hard to mask what I’m feeling—a lesson I learned from childhood—but Hannah’s face is an open book. It’s kinda
refreshing.
“You have a lot of confidence in yourself,” she finally remarks. “Do you honestly think you’re such hot shit that the mere act of going to a party with you will turn me into a celebrity?”
“Yes.” I’m not being arrogant, just truthful. After two years at this school, I know the kind of cred I have.
Though honestly? Sometimes I don’t feel half as cool as people think I am, and I’m pretty sure that if any of them took the time to actually get to know me, they’d probably change their opinion. It’s like that pond I skated on when I was a kid—from a distance, the ice looked so shiny and smooth,
until you got close enough to it, and suddenly all the uneven edges and crisscrossed skate marks became visible. That’s me, I guess. Covered with skate marks that nobody ever seems to notice.
And jeez, clearly I’m feeling way too philosophical tonight.
Next to me, Hannah has gone quiet, chewing on her lip as she considers my proposal.
For a split second, I almost tell her to forget it. It seems…wrong that this girl cares what a douche like Kohl thinks about her. Hannah’s intelligence and razor-sharp tongue is wasted on a guy like that.
But then I think of my team, and all the guys that are counting on me, and I force myself to ignore my misgivings.
“Think about it,” I coax. “The makeup is next Friday, which gives us a week and a half to study. I’ll write the exam, and then on Saturday night we’ll go to Maxwell’s party and show Loverboy how s*xy and desirable you are. He won’t be able to resist, trust me.”
“One, don’t call him that. Two, stop telling me to trust you. I don’t even know you.” But despite the grumbling, I can see her capitulating. “Look. I can’t commit to tutoring you for the whole semester. I honestly don’t have time.”
“It’ll just be this week,” I promise. She hesitates.
I don’t blame her for doubting me. Truth is, I’m already thinking of how I can convince her to hold my hand for the duration of Tolbert’s course, but…one battle at a time.
“So do we have a deal?” I prompt.
Hannah stays quiet, but just when I’ve given up hope, she sighs and says, “All right. We’ve got a deal.”
Hot damn.
A part of me is genuinely shocked that I managed to wear her down. I’ve been badgering her for what feels like an eternity, and now that I’ve won, it’s almost like experiencing a sense of loss. Figure that out.
Nevertheless, I give myself a mental high five as I drive into the lot behind the dormitories. “What dorm are you in?” I ask as I put the Jeep in park.
“Bristol House.”
“I’ll walk you in.” I start to unbuckle my seatbelt, but she shakes her head.
“It’s fine. I don’t need a bodyguard.” She holds up her phone. “All prepped to dial 911, remember?”
A short silence falls over us.
“Well.” I stick out my hand. “It was a pleasure doing business with you.”
She stares at my hand like I’m a carrier for Ebola. I roll my eyes and withdraw the gesture.
“I work until eight tomorrow,” she says. “We can meet up when I’m done. You don’t live in the dorms, right?”
“No, but I can come to you.”
She blanches as if I’ve offered to shave her head. “And have people think we’re friends? No way. Text me your address. I’ll come to your place.”
I’ve never met anyone who’s so repulsed by my popularity, and I have no idea what to make of it.
I think I might like it.
“You’ll be the most popular girl on your floor if I came over, you know.”
“Text me your address,” she says firmly.
“Yes, ma’am.” I beam at her. “I’ll see you tomorrow night.”
All I get in return is a sour look and a flash of her profile as she turns to open her door. She hops out of the car without a word, then reluctantly taps on the passenger window.
Stifling a grin, I press the button to roll down the window. “Forget something?” I mock.
“Thank you for the ride,” she says primly.
And then she’s gone, her green dress fluttering in the night breeze as she hurries toward the darkened buildings.
