Frozen Hearts #2
I never did understand what the big deal was about sports players.
Everywhere they go, they’re greeted like royalty.
Fawned over. Adored. Idolized. Why? Because they can catch a ball or knock a puck into a net?
Big fucking whoop. Congratulations on being born with excellent hand-eye coordination.
If you ask me, they’re overrated. Overhyped. Overvalued.
I’m quite certain that this Logan Astor cannot be that amazing.
“I heard he’s a Husky on the ice and between the sheets,” I overhear one girl tittering to her friend.
Really? What does that even mean? That he’s likely to growl at you like a rabid dog? How… kinky.
“I wouldn’t mind letting him into my bed,” her friend giggles, making me roll my eyes at their childish antics.
By the time we make it back to our starting point outside Mercer Hall, I have to rush straight to my meeting with my advisor, located in the main administration building.
I follow the directions to his office, pausing outside his door to take a breath as I read the nameplate.
Dr. Edmund Whitaker. Knocking on the door, I let myself in when I hear a gruff “come in” from beyond the door.
Dr. Whitaker is an older gentleman, I’d guess in his mid-to-late fifties, with a rotund body and gray, balding hair.
He sits behind a large, mahogany desk that is bare except for a pen holder and a small stack of files.
Sharply dressed in a hunter-green suit, complete with a mustard-colored shirt that speaks to the era he was born in, he stares at me from behind thin-wired spectacles, the deep wrinkles lining his eyes scored into his flesh as he closely scrutinizes me.
His shoulders drop as he heaves out a sigh, looking frustrated, although I’m not sure why.
“You must be Riley James?” His voice is sharp, authoritative-sounding in a way that can only come from years of teaching.
“Yes, that’s me,” I respond politely. Nervously.
“Mmhmm. And you are this year's scholarship student.”
It’s not a question, but I feel like I should answer him anyway. “I am.”
“Right, well, have a seat. Let’s get this over with.”
I’m sure that’s what every anxious freshman wants to hear from their advisor of studies; from the one person who is supposed to help them navigate the pitfalls and challenges of freshman year.
Yeah, I can already tell that we aren’t going to get along.
With my hopes for this meeting diminishing by the second, I take a seat opposite his desk and wait patiently as he flicks through my student file.
“I see here that you have not yet declared a major.” His lips are pursed in a severe frown, clearly unimpressed, although I don’t understand why. From my understanding, most college freshmen have yet to decide what they want to major in.
“Y-yes, sir. I wanted to explore my options.”
“Do you have any inkling of what you might be interested in pursuing?” he asks with blatant disapproval.
“Emm, well, I’m good with numbers, and I like science subjects, so maybe something scientific—Engineering or Pharmacology or something like that.” Aware that I’m rambling, I snap my mouth shut.
Dr. Whitaker’s bushy eyebrows furrow. “Those are… challenging career paths.”
“Yes, sir,” I state more resolutely.
Challenging may as well be my middle name.
I welcome the gauntlet he doesn’t realize he’s throwing down.
I’m not here for an easy ride. I might not have grand goals of winning a Pulitzer or the Nobel Prize, but I do intend to find the right career path for me.
I’m not afraid of hard work. I won’t be put off by a challenging workload.
When you claw your way out of the bowels of Hell, no challenge is too great. You can achieve absolutely anything with an inflexible resolve and a resolute mindset.
“Mmhmmm.”
Although, I’m guessing Dr. Whitaker doesn’t agree.
“And if you fail?” he asks casually, closing my file and leaning back in his chair as he stares at me.
“F-fail?” I question. I have no intention of failing. I’ve come too far. There is too much on the line for me to fail now. I might not know yet what I want to do with my life, but I will not fail at whatever I choose.
“Yes. What if you can’t hack it?”
“I will hack it.”
My conviction is met with a heavy silence, the weight of his gaze boring into me until I feel about an inch tall.
“Your file shows that you are older than our typical freshmen.”
Jeez, he makes it sound as though I’m in my forties, not twenty. I’m two years older than the rest of the cohort. It’s hardly a significant age gap. “That’s right,” I say politely.
“And yet, with those extra two years, you haven’t figured out what you want out of life,” he snidely remarks.
My teeth grate. I know exactly what I want out of life; I just haven’t determined the best major to declare in order to achieve everything I want. There’s a difference, asshole.
I don’t respond, because I’m fairly certain if I open my mouth, he won’t appreciate what I have to say.
Eventually, he sighs, placing his hands on top of my file and linking his fingers together before he meets my gaze. “Miss James, given your circumstances, I would be remiss if I did not advise you to choose less lofty goals.”
“I’m sorry, my circumstances?” I can feel my palms sweating as nerves wrack my body.
“Your status as a scholarship student.”
Oh, that. I let out a silent breath of relief.
“The careers you mentioned all involve extra years of studying beyond an undergraduate degree. Postgraduate degrees are competitive and only the best candidates are awarded scholarships. Given your situation, it would be wise to consider careers that only require an undergraduate degree.”
He says it as if simply having an undergraduate degree is something to be sniffed at. Something only us poor commoners should settle for. The arrogant asshat probably has more letters after his name than there is space on a page.
“As you’ll be able to see from my files, I have above a 4.0 GPA?—”
“Yes, yes, I see that.” He waves dismissively.
“However, the academic rigor at Halston is of a much greater standard than what you are accustomed to. Frankly, I’m surprised the school even accepted you with your basic education.
Competition must have been lacking for scholarship positions this year,” he sneers.
“A year of online courses, followed by two more years at Breakthrough Academy.” He shakes his head. “ Delightful. ”
“My—” He holds up a hand, silencing any further argument.
“Let’s see how you get on this semester, and if you are not failing out, then we can reassess.”
Jeez, that’s a positive pep talk. There’s no point in arguing with him, so I nod my head in agreement, and once we set a date for the next meeting, I head out.
As I’m walking out of the admin building, I’m so busy looking at my map, trying to locate the dining hall so I can get my coffee fix after that tremendously horrendous meeting, that I manage to run right into someone.
“Oh my God, I’m so sorry,” I blurt as something clatters to the ground and a strong arm wraps around my waist, pulling me against a hard chest. I’m forced to crane my neck back to stare up at the tall, broad, dark-haired man in front of me.
Tattoos peek out from the collar of his black T-shirt, swirling designs of black ink that form indiscernible patterns before dipping back beneath the fabric, which is stretched across a solid chest.
Lifting my eyes higher, they clash with icy baby blues, two iridescent pools that instantly hold me captive and pull me in as I gape dumbly up at him. He’s gorgeous. Incredibly so.
He takes a second to look me over, his eyes slowly cascading over my skin and turning my insides to mush, even as my body tenses, expecting the same reaction I’ve gotten from everyone else today—disdain. Instead, his eyes heat with a molten intensity that has me melting into his touch.
In the space between blinks, his heated gaze turns to stone, his hands moving to grip my upper arm to the point of pain.
“You should be. Watch where you’re going next time.
” His brutal words and harsh tone are a slap to the face, and I flinch away, gaping at him in shock as he levels me with a scowl.
I yank my arm out of his grip and step back, taking in the rest of his appearance—leather jacket and black skinny jeans that hug muscular thighs, tucked into matching black boots that give him a dark, biker vibe—before dropping my gaze to the ground.
That’s when I notice the notebook, which he must have dropped, lying open on the pavement.
To avoid looking at his angry face, I bend down to lift it, pausing when my eyes catch on the intricate drawing of the main Halston building. Despite being nothing more than a sketch, it’s so life-like looking that I can’t help but stare.
“It’s rude to look through other people’s things,” the asshole snarls, ripping the notebook from my hand.
“Sorry,” I mutter, not that he hears me as he levels me with a final glare before storming off.
Jeez. What a fucking douchebag !
“It was an accident,” I snap under my breath, frowning in his direction before turning my back on him.
Why do the hot ones always have to be assholes? And right when I thought perhaps he was going to be different from everyone else.
Statistics 101 is my last class before the weekend.
My first week at Halston has been relatively uneventful.
The course load is intense, and the standards expected are high, but that’s nothing I hadn’t already foreseen.
With the exception of unimpressed glances and whispering behind hands, I’ve been mostly ignored by the student population, which again is as predicted.
And suits me perfectly fine. I’m used to being alone and didn’t expect to make friends here.