Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
Study Date - Wyatt
Ipull open the doors to the student union on Sunday afternoon, squinting as I adjust from the bright sunshine to the indoor lighting. Normally this is a busy spot on campus, with students grabbing a bite to eat, drinking a coffee, hanging out with friends, or finding a place to study.
But today it’s dead. Which isn’t unexpected after the first big party weekend since students got back on campus. If I didn’t have plans with Grace, I’d probably still be at the house, drinking a second cup of coffee and debating how lazy I planned to be today.
I make my way to the coffee bar and shoot Grace a snap when I get in line:
In the union now. Grabbing a latte first. Do you want anything?
I wait for her to reply. Grace has already messaged me that she’s on the terrace. I smile. It’s just like class. She’s always early, prepared, and saving me a seat.
A reply drops in:
I’ll pay you back if you can get me an iced coffee with some half-and-half and vanilla cold foam. Thank you!
I step up to the counter and order Grace her drink and an iced latte with oat milk for me. I move over to the side and message her back:
Gracie, we need to work on your memory skills. I’m your boyfriend. That means I’ll buy you a coffee, and you don’t have to repay me.
I hit send, and what I just typed hits me. I’m someone’s boyfriend.
Christ, that sounds weird. Even though I know it’s fake, I have to act like one. Do things I’ve never done before.
I just hope I don’t somehow screw it up.
“Wyatt,” the barista calls out over the hissing of the machines.
I snap out of my thoughts and grab the two cups of coffee that the barista nudges toward me. “Thank you,” I say.
I head out of the coffee bar, carrying the iced drinks in my hands.
I open the door to the terrace with my body by leaning against the push bar, then scan the area for Grace.
Students are scattered about, some drinking coffee and working on laptops.
Others are engaged in conversation. I get a few appreciative glances from some pretty girls—something I’d normally acknowledge with a smile—but today I don’t.
I continue to look and then I see her.
And my stomach does something that it usually only does before hockey games. I get freaking butterflies.
She’s got her hair pulled up into a knot on the top of her head, and she’s wearing another one of those tight little T-shirts that shows off the curve of her breasts and provides a nice flash of her toned midriff.
She’s also got on a short skirt, and I find myself looking up and down her legs while I have a chance to do it.
She’s so damn hot.
But she’s more than that. I had fun with her on Friday night. I liked dancing with her. We laughed and shouted at each other over the music, and she had me practically hypnotized with the sexy way she moved. I had fun with her at the smoothie shop, too, just shooting the shit.
But sitting with her on the rock at the cove? I discovered so much more about her. She made me think. That’s something no other girl has made me do.
And it kind of scares the shit out of me.
She must feel me staring at her, because she lifts her head in my direction. A sunny smile appears on her face, and she waves at me, as if she needs to get my attention.
When the truth is, she’s had it since Friday night.
I move toward the table where she’s sitting, right at the edge of the terrace railing, overlooking the campus. “Hey,” I say, setting an iced coffee down in front of her.
“Thank you,” she says, smiling up at me. Grace is wearing sunglasses, so I can’t see her eyes this time.
I put down my coffee and pull out a chair. I take out my laptop and set it down next to my coffee, and just as I’m picking up my phone, it buzzes with a text message from my dad. It’s like ESP or something. The man knows when I’m about to do something he doesn’t like.
“Everything okay?”
I blink. Grace’s face is tilted up, carefully studying mine.
“How did you know that?” I ask, shocked. “That I was bothered by that text?”
“The corners of your mouth turn down when you don’t like something.”
I stare at her, incredulous. She noticed that?
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything.” She quickly shifts her attention back to her laptop. “It’s none of my business.”
What if I want it to be her business? “No,” I say, sinking down into the chair next to her. “I don’t mind. I was just surprised you noticed. You’re right, by the way.”
I tap open my dad’s message, and I can feel her gaze on me, even though I can’t see her eyes. I brace myself and read it:
First week of school done, one week closer to the start of the season.
Remember, your priority is having a draft-worthy season.
HOCKEY FIRST. Only do enough to make grades to play.
Have fun, but not too much fun. Don’t get attached.
No relationships. You have your whole life to settle down.
I know, I know, I told you this before you moved in last week, but I know how the girls come after you and thought everything was worth repeating.
Speaking of worth repeating, always wear a condom. Talk soon. Love you. Dad.
“Do you want to talk about it?” Grace’s concerned voice filters through my thoughts.
I blink. Do I? I let something slip in front of Grace the other day, about my dad hating my decision to go to school instead of playing junior hockey.
That’s enough for her to know. The rest of his involvement is so intrusive, I don’t feel comfortable sharing it.
I never thought about the relationship conversation before because hooking up was fine with me.
But now? Thinking of what my dad would say about Grace, if this were real?
Telling me who I should and should not see or be serious about when I’m twenty-one years old because it might distract me from hockey?
Not to push myself to do well in classes—while knowing I might never make it to the league or have a career cut short by injury—and to focus my entire life on this one thing?
It’s fucking strange. And I’m embarrassed about it.
“Just the usual note from my dad,” I say, opening my laptop. I flash her a grin. “I shouldn’t be studying unless it’s hockey tape.”
“It’s so the opposite of my mom,” Grace says, looking thoughtful. “She keeps asking me when I’m going to start novel writing again. And the truth is? I’m more excited about writing these fashion articles than I am about any story.”
“Oh, before you start—and before I forget—I asked Luca last night. He’ll do the interview with McCall. I’ll give you his info to pass on to her.”
A huge smile appears on her face. “Oh my God, did you really?”
Why do I feel so good, knowing I did something that makes her happy?
“I did. No big deal.”
“Wyatt, it’s a huge deal! Can I get his info now? I can’t wait to tell McCall. She’s going to be so grateful! Thank you, thank you, thank you!”
“No problem,” I say. I text Grace his cell number and give her his Snapchat handle. Grace picks up her phone, types a few things, then forwards the info to McCall. Then she puts her phone down.
“Have you started your sample articles for the fashion magazine?” I ask.
She crinkles up her nose. “If I tell you something, will you promise not to think it’s weird?”
If she only knew how weird the text message I just read from my dad was, she would never ever ask me that question again.
“No, I can’t promise,” I tease, grinning at her. “Because it might be really weird.”
“Wy, promise me!” she cries.
Why is it so cute when she calls me Wy? Even though a lot of people call me that, there’s something different when Grace says it.
“Okay, I promise.”
“I stayed up late working on them last night,” she says, and there’s no denying the excitement in her voice. “After I got home from hanging out with the girls, I didn’t stop writing until after two in the morning!”
“That’s great,” I say, excited she’s so passionate about her project. Then I frown. “Why did you think I would think that was weird?”
She bites her lip. I wonder what it tastes like.
“Well, I know you were probably out last night, either at a bar or a party, and here I was, back early and tucked up away in the study lounge at Phi Mu Phi, writing away on a Saturday night.”
“That’s not weird,” I say. “I don’t always go out on Saturday nights.”
She takes off her sunglasses, and I see I’m being given the biggest side-eye ever. “Well, not all of them,” I correct.
“Most of them, then.”
“Okay, yes, most of them. I was at Milo’s last night. But I promise I was a good boyfriend and served as Sebastian’s wingman all night long.”
Grace winces.
“What?” I ask, confused.
“You’re sacrificing so much to help me,” she says softly.
I burst out laughing.
“What?” she asks. “You are.”
“Um, if I can’t live thirty days without hooking up, I’m pathetic.” I level my gaze at her. “Besides, I didn’t feel it.”
She has no idea how honest I’m being. I had my chances last night. Not to be arrogant, but girls know who the hockey players are on campus and that makes things easy. But I know the commitment I made to Grace for the next thirty days.
And more to the point? I didn’t feel any of them the way I feel her in this moment.
Whoa. That wasn’t part of the plan. I need to move away from this thought fast.
“Tell me about the articles,” I say.
“Okay. The first one I’m doing is the history of artistic swimming costumes. They’ve had an amazing evolution through the decades.”
“Like how?”
“Let me show you,” Grace says, eagerly tapping away on her laptop. She turns the screen around, and I see rubbery caps with flowers stuck on women’s heads. “See? The gelatin is much better.”
“Gelatin?”
“Oh yes. We use plain gelatin with a paintbrush to hold our hair in place for competitions,” Grace explains. “Hold on a sec.”