6. Six
SIX
J ax
The last thing I expect to see walking into the campus gym this evening is Harley running on a treadmill. Wearing nothing but the tightest pair of leggings and a hot pink sports bra. The leggings leave absolutely nothing to the imagination and the fact that she isn’t even wearing a fucking shirt has me going entirely mad.
The sweat glistens off of her skin. She’s been here for a while. As if sensing my eyes on her, she slows her pace, dropping down to a fast walk. Lifting her water bottle, she takes a few sips. The towel she brought hangs over the handle of the treadmill. I watch her use it to wipe the sweat from her face. When she runs it over the back of her neck, I take slow steps until I’m standing right next to the treadmill.
She squeaks out a gasp when I come face to face with her. I yank the key out of the treadmill, letting it dangle from the string. She slows her pace with the belt, eyes glaring daggers at me.
“What is wrong with you?” she shouts. “You can’t just walk up on people like that.”
I don’t manage to keep my eyes from roaming down her body. “What are you going to do about it?”
She props her hands on her hips. “Would you like me to show you my best form of defense?”
I narrow my eyes on her. “If it happens to be a kick to the Johnson, I think I’ll pass.”
“Actually, it’s a fist to the throat, followed by fingers to the eyes, and then a kick to the Johnson,” she informs me.
I press a hand to the center of my bare chest. “Brutal.”
“Bananas,” she mutters breathlessly.
“What?” I ask confused.
Her eyes dart across my exposed skin and then snap up to mine. “I’m sorry—what?”
“You said ‘bananas’,” I state.
She shakes her head. “Nope. I didn’t. I definitely did not say ‘bananas’,” she says firmly.
She definitely did. But instead of pressing more on the banana comment, I stare down at the two digit number staring back at me from the digital screen of the treadmill. She just finished running just over ten miles.
“I didn’t know you ran,” I murmur.
“How would you? We literally met five days ago.”
I nod, gripping the back of my neck. “Ten miles is a lot. Surprised you don’t run track or cross country.”
My eyes descend her body again. And for the first time, I get this uncomfortable pang deep within my stomach. Harley is thin, but not so thin that she looks to be starving herself. Yet, her body would likely benefit from her packing on a pound or fucking ten.
“I did in high school, but my academics took precedence over being an athlete.”
“Do you run these types of distances often?” I ask, my brows pinching together.
The lie comes out fast, “Yes.”
White hot rage pulses through my veins. And because I’m a fucking dick, I grind out, “You can’t use this gym.”
Harley blanches. “Excuse me?”
“You aren’t authorized to use this gym,” I reiterate.
She crosses her arms over her chest, jutting her hip out at the same time. “Says who?”
“Says me,” I snap.
Her pretty little eyebrows raise, and her doe eyes turn absolutely murderous. “Here’s a thought, Zayden. Go work out at your stupid mansion that you live in. This gym,” she says venomously, swinging a finger around in reference to the room we are occupying. “I pay to use it.”
With her still standing on the treadmill, she stands much taller than usual. I step up, bringing my nose level with hers. Her eyes flick back and forth between mine furiously. “You don’t pay for anything, doe eyes. You’re here on daddy’s pretty little penny. And I’m here to tell you that you should take his money and go back to where you came from.”
Her nose brushes mine, and despite the hurt that clearly swims in the depths of those bright blue orbs, she spits out, “Your prerogative has been heard loud and clear, Zayden. But I’m not going anywhere.”
With that, she grabs her things and leaves the gym. But not before shooting a deadly glare at me over her shoulder. I stand there seething over the fact that she still doesn’t plan on leaving.
What’s even worse, is I’m even more mad over the pain I put in her pretty doe eyes.
Harley hasn’t spoken to me all week long. It’s Thursday and I’m starting to loathe her cold disposition. I want her to give me a reason to taunt her more. I love the push and pull of this little game we are playing. But I have never been one to make the first move.
I can’t stop thinking about finding her in the campus gym either. Seeing Harley in nothing but a sports bra and the tightest leggings known to man has my dick and my brain rioting against one another. Paired with the memory of her dramatized moan when she took a bite of my cheeseburger that day, my dick is winning the riot.
Harley is gorgeous.
Something that I’m hard pressed to forget when she walks into class wearing black, skin tight skinny jeans and an oversized sweater. Her hair is French braided, loose curls framing her face.
I have to remind myself to breathe.
It’s been three days since seeing her in the gym. When her eyes land on me, her golden brows slowly rise. I shaved my beard this morning after having my hair cut last night. My parents will be in town for tonight’s game being the reason for the cut and shave.
“What?” I ask, spinning my pencil on my fingers.
“Nothing. Just a little bit shell shocked,” she quips, dropping her bag to the floor.
“Shell shocked?”
“Yeah, it’s not every day I get to see a hockey jockey out of his homeless man state. Shaved the beard even. Wow,” Harley coos, starting a slow clap.
She’s gaining the attention of everyone in class, including Professor Gordon who has lowered her glasses and is staring over the frames at us. Harley steps onto the chair of her desk.
“Class,” Harley says, even though all eyes are already on her. “I would like to show everyone what the human version of Zayden Stone looks like.” She holds her hands out toward me.
“I’m not a show pony, Davidson.”
“Oh, no, sweetie. You are much more than that. You’re a hockey jockey.” She smirks.
Game. On.
I rise from my seat and mimic her, standing on my chair. I tower over her. “Class, I’d like everyone to take note. Davidson has finally figured out how to tame the mane.”
I mimic her slow clap from earlier, literally, and she claps back, metaphorically that is.
“I did it for you. I figure your focus has been a little,” Harley tilts her head to the side. “What’s the word I’m looking for?” She taps her chin, flashing a perfectly manicured, sparkling nail. “Stagnant.”
“Oh shit,” someone breathes.
I trace my bottom lip with my tongue, not missing the way Harley’s eyes follow the movement. Her bright blue orbs remain on my lips as I say, “That’s funny. I think the same could be said for your studying skills. Too much Taylor Swift, not enough notes.”
Her eyes flare with determination, flicking up from my mouth to meet my gaze. “Professor Gordon?”
“Miss Thomas?”
“What would you say to a little friendly competition?”
“What do you have in mind?” Professor Gordon asks.
“Statistical equations on the probability of life on Mars. The fastest to provide data in the allotted time of class today wins,” Harley says confidently.
“What does the winner get?” I ask.
She purses her lips. “If I win, at tonight’s game you have to kiss one of your defensemen after the first goal is scored.”
“Which one?”
“Quinton.”
“And if I win, you have to kiss me.”
She fires back, “Fine.”
“Fine,” I repeat.
“Okay,” she snaps.
“It’s on.”
Professor Gordon split us up on the whiteboard. Harley started out on a chair, frantically scribbling down equation after equation. When we are both finished, we step back from the board, letting Professor Gordon look over our work.
There are only a few differences in the data displayed on either side. Harley bounces on her heels, waiting for Professor Gordon’s results. I sit on the edge of a desk, flipping the expo marker in my fingers. I know who won this match.
Professor Gordon steps up to the whiteboard, holding her red marker up. “It’s close. You both made mistakes, but the winner is,” she pauses for dramatic effect. I watch Harley’s face. “Mr. Stone.”
Those blue eyes go wide and her jaw drops. “What?” she breathes out.
“I’m sorry, Miss Thomas. I was looking forward to that game kiss just as much as you were,” Professor Gordon tells her.
I set the marker down on the desk and stand. I take slow, deliberate steps toward Harley. When I’m close enough, hearing her erratic heartbeat, I lean down, bringing my lips close to her ear.
“Keep those lips nice and soft for me, Davidson. Who knows when I’ll feel like cashing in on my winnings.”
I exit the classroom, leaving her there completely stunned. She didn’t expect me to win. Hell, I didn’t expect to win. Harley Jules Thomas is smarter than I am.
Regardless, I need to get her out of my head and get my head in the game. Especially with Harley being in the stands.
Tonight's game is against our rival team. The Knights are always hard to beat. They play dirty. They talk enough shit to rile up my own guys and the phrase ‘keep it clean’ is not in their desired vocabulary.
There will be time in the penalty box for many of us. But the more we limit power plays with them, the better. Playing against the Knights is always exhilarating.
Harley goes the rest of the day not speaking to me. Or looking at me. And I’m pretty sure it’s because she is redoing every equation in her head on a loop. Either that or she is avoiding me because she doesn’t want to kiss me.
Did I read her wrong this morning when she followed the movement of my tongue?
I walk into the library, passing by Harley frantically writing something down. When I peek down as I walk to my table, I see her rewriting the equations from this morning. Her pencil scratches into the paper. Instead of going to my usual spot, I pull out the chair next to her.
She stiffens, but doesn’t stop writing equation after equation. Silently, I watch her body language. At first, she is tense. Her shoulders are drawn back. Her jaw is set. Her dark, pink lips are in a firm line. But with each passing minute, she starts to relax.
I take this moment to study her heart-shaped face. With her hair back, the sharp lines of her jaw and cheek bones are accentuated. She wears mascara, making her likely pale eyelashes look incredibly long and dark. It makes her eyes pop.
“Davidson,” I murmur.
Harley ignores me. I scoot closer and tap her forearm. She pulls it away, turning her body away from me.
“Stop writing,” I tell her. But she continues.
My irritation at the situation is growing. I want her to look at me. I want her to talk to me. I need her attention. But she wants to be left alone. My gaze drops to her open bag. On top is all of her pens and highlighters in a clear bag.
I shouldn’t do it.
I should stand up and walk away.
But I’m a glutton for her punishment.
The bag is in my possession as I stand from the table and reluctantly go to mine. Harley shifts her body back around, slouching over the paper where she starts writing the equations over and over again.
And thirty minutes later, the soft sound of her humming touches my ears. I glance up from my study notes. The smallest smile touches her lips. If I didn’t know any better, I would say she let me win this morning.
“Good luck tonight,” Harley says, rising to her feet.
“Oh. Thanks. Are you coming?” I ask, already knowing the answer.
“Alicia is making me go. Hockey isn’t really my thing.” She shifts from one foot to the other.
“I’ll make it your thing,” I tell her confidently.
The smuggest of smirks takes over her face. “That’s the thing about jocks like you, Zayden. You think you can just charm a nerd like me into falling in love with your sport. But I’ve dealt with jocks a lot. I’m not interested in loving hockey. But don’t worry, I’ll still come dressed as a doting hockey fan.” She winks and exits the library.