Chapter 15 – Lena
chapter
fifteen
Lena
This was the real test.
Today was our test with the public.
And Matt.
I was damn near guaranteed he’d be at the bake sale today.
So far, Trace and I had done his game, our first public outing, complete with a very public kiss, and last night, we'd done the athletic honors dinner. I'd met his coach, survived two hours of Trace's hand on my thigh under a tablecloth, and made it home without doing something stupid at my door.
Okay fine. I’d barely made it.
But we hadn't had to do the normal college thing. I hadn't seen Matt so far yet, and I was starting to think that this was a bad idea, but I'd already said I was coming, so I had to show up. Backing out meant admitting defeat.
Trace and his teammates were doing a charity bake sale up at the statue on campus. A good opportunity to do the casual date thing and make it apparent to everyone that we were an item.
My hands were slick from the nerves.
Get it together, Lena. It's just more pretending.
No this was different. I needed to look like I belonged. This was about establishing the relationship. That I wasn’t just some puck bunny.
And I'd been around enough hockey to know what the landscape looked like. Growing up near the Coulters, I'd sat through years of games and team dinners and end-of-season parties, and I could count on one or two fingers the number of brown faces in the room.
The teammates were usually okay. No one said anything overt.
But the fans and puck bunnies had made it clear I wasn't being welcomed with open arms. There was always a half-beat pause when I walked in, the quick scan, deciding what box I fit in before I'd even opened my mouth.
Trevor's girlfriend. Oh, okay. That makes sense.
Like I needed a Coulter stamp of approval to be there.
Now I was walking into another hockey space, this time on a different Coulter's arm.
No pressure.
Trace walked close enough that his shoulder brushed mine with every step, his hand resting on the small of my back like it lived there.
He had on a gray Henley with the sleeves pushed to his elbows and a Tag Heuer catching the sun.
The Henley alone probably cost more than my textbooks this semester.
He smelled stupid good, like sandalwood and clean laundry and something underneath that was just him, the same scent that had been ruining my concentration since the party.
"You're going to be okay," he said, low and close enough that I felt his breath stir the hair at my temple.
You need help.
I did need help, because clearly something was wrong with me.
Every night since the hockey game, I'd dreamed about kissing Trace again, okay, fine, it was constant.
Even when I was awake, I would zone out and think about his smirk, the way he'd tilted my chin up, how his stubble had felt abrading my skin, how his hands had gripped my ass and pulled me against him until I could feel exactly how much he wanted me.
The dreams were getting worse too. More detailed, more explicit.
His mouth on my neck, my collarbone, dragging down between my breasts while his hands pinned my hips to the mattress, his fingers hooking into my underwear, his voice against my skin saying things I couldn't repeat in daylight.
I'd wake up with my heart racing and my thighs clenched and my hand already between my legs, reaching for something that wasn't there.
This is so messed up.
"Hey, earth to Lena. Are you okay?" He ducked his head to catch my eye, and I realized I'd stopped walking.
That voice, the kind that sounded like it should whisper dirty things to you in the middle of the night where no one could see you. Why had I never noticed before?
Because you were too busy hating him.
"Yeah, I'm good." I wiped my palms on my jeans and kept walking.
His brows furrowed and he matched my pace, hands in his pockets. "You sure? Because you don't seem good. We don't have to do this. We don't need to pretend for my team."
He was giving me an out, looking at me like my answer actually mattered, and I had to look away before I did something stupid like believe him.
Don't read into it. He needs this deal as much as you do.
I shook my head. "Well this isn't just for them. Matt has a bye week, and I know he likes to sit over there on the lawn. There's no point in me doing this if he's not going to see me."
He nodded, his eyes dropping to my mouth for a half second then back up. "Alright. Let me make him regret everything. How much attention are we talking?"
"I want a lot of attention. Nothing that's going to get us kicked off campus, but enough that he regrets everything."
"You got it. If you want, I can have a stern conversation with him too. Pull some bullshit like, 'Stay away from my girlfriend.' As a guy, I know that will only make him more interested."
The word girlfriend sent heat pooling low in my belly, and my nipples puckered until I crossed my arms to hide it. God, he couldn't know.
So why does it feel like everything?
I laughed. "Okay, slow down. I don't actually want him back. I just—" I stopped, trying to find the right word. "I just want him to feel it, if that makes any sense."
He held my gaze as he wrapped his arm around my shoulder, the weight of it settling against the back of my neck, warm, heavy, claiming, until I had to concentrate on not tripping over my own feet. "Makes sense. He hurt you. You want him to feel it. One jealous ex coming right up."
And just like that we stepped out onto the Commons. The game and the dinner had been structured, easy to perform. This was the real test, just us, no program, no crowd to hide in.
Seeing all of Trace's teammates lounging around the statue with their grills and baked goods was like stepping onto another planet, one where I had friends besides Kimmy.
They were all there, lining the grassy hill leading up to the statue. Sun overhead, warm for October, people sprawled on blankets, the smell of grilled burgers drifting from the folding tables.
As we approached, a chorus of greetings followed, "Hey, Trace!" "Coulter, my man!" And from the girls, giggles and flirtatious winks that made my fingers curl against his back.
But weirdly, people greeted me too. Not the half-beat pause I'd braced for, no scan, no catalogue.
A girl with a blue streak in her hair handed me a brownie without being asked, still warm with chocolate smudging my fingers, and Marcus gave me a fist bump and said, "Yo, Hartwell!
Finally we get to talk without Coulter hogging you.
We got stories," before turning back to the grill. Just like that, like it was simple.
A tall guy with russet dark hair approached with a broad smile. "Bro, you've been holding out on me. Who's this?"
I almost tripped at the casual intimacy of the question, but Trace's arm kept me steady.
"Lena, you remember Waylon. My best friend."
Waylon enveloped me in a hug. "Thank you for saving us from this one’s moodiness. Since you’ve been around he’s been replaced by a pod person. Even caught him singing in the kitchen the other day."
He cocked his head with his arms folded across his chest. "For real though, how long have you been hiding her? I had no idea until the other night you guys were a thing."
Trace squeezed my shoulder. "Yeah, we're kind of new, so I wanted to keep her away from you heathens as long as possible."
Waylon roared with laughter. "Oh, I see how it is. Can't trust us around your girl."
Your girl. Two words, and heat shot straight up my neck until I had to shift my weight and squeeze my thighs together.
Two words and you're clenching. Get a grip, Hartwell.
"Nah," Trace said. "You guys are animals."
Waylon winked and said, "Well, it's nice to finally meet you, Lena. Welcome," before wandering back toward the grill.
The rest of the afternoon passed in chatter and laughter as Trace held me close.
We ate burgers off paper plates while I watched some of the guys toss a football and Trace talked shit from the sidelines.
At one point he left to help Jenkins flip burgers and I caught myself watching him, the way he moved, easy and confident, laughing with his head thrown back until he looked over and caught me staring and winked, and my stomach flipped.
Stop it.
Ryder's girlfriend showed up and dropped onto the blanket next to me, a quiet girl named Marli with paint under her fingernails.
I only remember her being at the party the other night for about five minutes before she and Ryder vanished.
She asked what I was studying, and somehow we ended up professor horror stories.
How isolated had I been? I never knew how much I missed feeling included. With Dad gone and Mom's bills eating everything, I'd worked double shifts to cover what my scholarships didn't, and there wasn't a lot of time left for hanging out.
But this was nice, really nice.
Don't get attached. You know better.
When Trace came back from the grill, he had two plates balanced in one hand like a waiter and set one in my lap without a word.
Burger, extra pickles, no onions. Then he dropped back down beside me, stretching his long legs out on the blanket and leaning back on one palm.
I stared at the plate because I hadn't told him what I liked.
He'd either asked Kimmy or he'd remembered from high school, and I didn't know which possibility was worse.
"You weren't eating." He bit into his own burger, casual, like he hadn't just revealed he'd been paying attention.
It was something. He was paying attention to you.
I took a bite so I wouldn't have to respond. The burger was actually good, his thigh pressed warm against mine on the blanket, and for one stupid second I let myself pretend this was real.
When he leaned in to ask if I wanted a drink, his lips grazed my ear and every thought in my head went blank, that scent again, and I forgot what I'd been about to say to Marli.