Chapter 4 #2
I want to kill him. Not just kill him—flambé him in something tasty like brandy and then feed him to my pet cat, Lucille, back home, because I thought this was all over with. I thought I wouldn’t have to relive the most embarrassing moment of my life again and again.
“You didn’t even let me finish.”
“I don’t need to. You can’t have my number,” I say just as I push my chair out and head straight to Professor Foster. She's sitting behind her desk now, discussing something—probably my demise—with her TA, Kinsey.
“Professor Foster.”
She looks up at me and raises a brow. I close my eyes, trying to think of why I'm up here annoying her again.
“I need a new partner. I can't work with Mr. Hendricks.”
“Why not?”
“Because…”
Shit. Think, Laura.
Any reason other than he accidentally slapped me with his donkey dong and soaked me through.
“Because he's a hockey player.”
Lame. What a lame response.
“So you’re just out here bad-mouthing hockey players?” a deep voice says behind me.
I jump, only then realizing that Scotty is right behind me, clearly having heard every humiliating syllable. His voice is smooth and teasing, and I want to scream.
“I—uh. No. It's not that.”
I turn back to Professor Foster and jab a thumb in Scotty’s direction without looking at him—because eye contact at this proximity might make me kill him. “It’s just that he’s going to be…busy. All the time. With practice, and games. I know what it’s like for hockey players.”
Scotty lets out the tiniest amused exhale. I ignore it with my entire soul.
“I also work long hours,” I tell Professor Foster, desperate now. “I’m worried that we won’t be able to fit in any study time around our schedules.”
“That's life,” Professor Foster says with a shrug so unsympathetic it belongs in a museum labeled Nope. “People have commitments. One of your biggest commitments should be getting a good grade in this class. If you don't figure out how to make it work, then it’s an automatic fail.”
Amazing.
I’m trapped between a professor who does not care… and a hockey player who just caught me bad-mouthing his whole profession.
Kill me now.
I drop my hand and shut my mouth fast. I can’t think of a single plausible excuse for why I can’t work with this man.
And honestly? I blame Danny—my scene partner in Duo Acting Lab—for talking me out of taking improv this semester.
If I’d taken it, maybe I wouldn’t crumble under basic human interaction.
The class ends, and Professor Foster continues talking to Kinsey. No one understands me and the pain I’m about to endure.
Great. Fucking great.
I turn, and the inevitability of being stuck with Scotty starts to sink in.
“So,” Scotty says, far too casually, “tell me—what job makes you so busy you can’t work with a hockey player?”
“None of your business,” I choke out, because the last thing I’m doing is admitting I’m a literal party princess. I’d imagine he’d find that funny, considering he’s never had to struggle for anything in his life.
“I think you’ll find it is my business,” he says, stepping a little closer. “How else are we going to work together if we don’t know each other’s schedule?”
I hate—hate—that he makes sense.
Pushing past him, I head back toward our seats. I’m about to sit when it hits me: if I sit first, I’ll just have to stand up again when he needs to get in. No thank you. My dignity has taken enough hits lately.
So, like a dutiful fangirl, I stand in the aisle, watching him stroll towards me, his eyes never leaving mine.
I hate the way they simmer with intensity. I hate the way it makes me wonder what he’s thinking. I hate that I care at all. He humiliated me in front of everyone.
Toe-to-toe, he stands in front of me, and waits. For what? I don’t know, so I make the first move. I gesture my hand to direct him to his seat like I’m a butler. That’s probably what he’s used to anyway.
“Are you just not going to talk to me now?” he asks, lowering into his seat but keeping his gaze on me. “Kind of hard to work on an assignment if you don’t want to communicate.”
I huff as I drop into the seat beside him, and I hate the way it makes my skin prickle. It’s clearly annoyance. Nothing else.
“Fine,” I mutter. “I’m a theater major with a busy job so I can afford my cute little off-campus room,” I admit with a shrug.
He studies me for a second in that slightly unnerving way before he nods to himself. “Theater major makes sense.”
My head snaps toward him. “Why? Because you think I'm over-dramatic?”
He laughs. It’s low and short, but annoyingly warm. “No.” Then he tips his chin toward my face. “Your makeup. It's heavier than how you usually wear it. Were you rehearsing for a show? Is that why you were late?”
Red flag.
I stare at him with wide eyes. He sits up straighter, suddenly concerned.
He bites his bottom lip. “I probably shouldn’t have pointed that out.” He tilts his head, taking me in. “Don't get me wrong. You’re absolutely stunning with makeup on. It really brings out how deep your eyes are, but it hides your freckles and I like them. Reminds me of those cartoon princesses.”
I freeze, not sure what to do.
Did he just call me stunning?
Scotty Hendricks?
I thought he was trying to soften the blow when he mentioned he'd seen me in class. At no point did I think he'd been paying enough attention to see my freckles.
“Uh oh,” I blurt. “Am I going to have to call campus security? They have this new guy, Todd, and I hear he doesn’t play well with stalkers.”
“Stalker?” He looks genuinely alarmed. “I’m not—I just saw you in our first class and wanted to talk to you. Is that so weird?”
“Yes,” I say, my voice flat. Unmoving. Unrepentant. “You knew my name. I didn’t know yours. Frankly, I didn’t even know you existed, and you knew my class. That’s literally in the stalker playbook.”
He winces. “Fair. But in my defense, you sit in the front row, and your notebook has your name on it. I sit in the back row where no one can see me. It’s not stalking, it’s… strategic seating.”
“That’s exactly what a stalker would say.”
“Also fair,” he admits.
He holds my gaze for a second but then laughs. I want to say it’s with nerves, but that doesn’t seem right for him.
“Tell me,” he says softly, almost to himself, “why do I keep acting like an idiot around you?”
“Excuse me?”
“I’m not like this with anyone else. I’ve been media trained and filmed for TV for as long as I can remember, but when I’m around you, I can’t quite get the right words out.”
He looks at me—really looks at me—the same way actors do when they’re playing my love interest in a scene. They tilt their chin a little, let their eyes linger a fraction too long… Only it doesn’t feel like he’s acting.
Something flips in my stomach, so I back up before my brain does something stupid.
“Probably because you introduced yourself by going full windshield wiper with your giant dong across my face,” I say. I don’t even know why the joke comes out—it’s like my mouth is trying to break the tension before it strangles me.
He pauses… then lets out a quiet huff of laughter.
“Okay,” he says. “Not my finest moment.”
Then, with a shrug: “How about I try again? Thursday work for you? I’m done with practice after three.”
“That could work. I could meet you in the library.”
“Great.”
“Perfect.” I clap my hands together, noting everyone else has started packing up their things. “See, no need for my phone number.”
There it is again. That genuine smile of his.
“Yeah, no need, Princess.”
Princess?
Did he just call me princess? I shake my head, ignoring it.
“Anyway, I better go. I’ve got class and don't want to be late for that one too.”
I stand, pretending to be deeply invested in packing my things instead of noticing how stupidly well his shirt fits when he leans into his bag.
“Before you go.” He pulls out a book and hands it to me.
I take it before processing that it’s not a normal paperback. It’s a leather-bound special edition. I glance down at it, my thumbs running over the embossed letters.
The Princess Bride.
My favorite.
“It’s for you,” he says. “To replace the copy I ruined in the fountain.”
“For me?” I choke out. “Oh, no. Scotty. This is too much. I can't accept something like this.” I push it back toward him, but he holds his hands up.
“Please, take it. It's the least I could do after everything.”
“But it's expensive. You could have gotten a cheap one from the mall.”
He recoils dramatically. “A mall copy? Inconceivable.”
That makes me snort. Actually snort.
“Um, thank you?” I say, but the words feel too small for a gesture so big. Too flimsy considering I just spent the last ten minutes trying to get out of being his partner for the rest of the year. “I appreciate it.”
He waves me off. “Sure thing.”
“I'll, uh…see you around,” I say, feeling somewhat hesitant to leave.
He’s still smiling at me, and for a second, I forget why I’m supposed to hate him.
“Yeah. See you Thursday at three, Laura.”
“Great.”
I step into the hallway with the other students. My legs feel weirdly shaky, so I lean against the wall and close my eyes.
What the fuck just happened?
I wasn't supposed to speak to Scotty again, let alone get a very expensive edition of my favorite book. This is not the Scotty I was expecting based on all the things I'd read or seen about him online.
He’s sweet. Thoughtful.
Kind, even.
As more students spill out of the room, panic jolts through me. I cannot let him catch me still standing here like some dazed idiot. I push off the wall and rush to my next class, arriving ten minutes early, which gives me time to stare numbly at the book.
The one that I don’t dare to open in fear that I somehow break it. I place it on the top left corner of my desk because I can't bring myself to put it in my bag. What if it gets bent? Or scratched? Or breathes the same air as my crushed granola bar?
“Hey, roomie,” Lyss says, sliding in beside me.
I only manage a grumble, still focused on the book and what that means.
“Uh, oh. Did your party go badly?”
“No,” I sigh and sink back in my chair. “I'm partnered with Scotty Hendricks in Professor Foster's class.” I cringe when the words come out of my mouth, annoyed that I don't know how I feel about it anymore.
Lyss gasps, her face lighting up. “No?!”
“Yes,” I groan, and I absolutely do not tell her about the book, because she will go feral with implications.
She cackles as she pulls out her notebook. “I know you love drama, but don't you think you're being a little overdramatic here?”
“The man dick slapped me into a fountain, Lyss. So no, I don’t think I'm being overdramatic.”
“Not on purpose.” She argues. “And he likes you. You know he likes you. Personally, I think you should embrace it.” She wiggles her eyebrows. “I mean, you’ve already seen the merchandise. Tell me—breadstick or hot dog bun?”
I cringe as she elbows me lightly. I know she’s joking, and she doesn’t want me to answer, but unfortunately my brain supplies one anyway:
A long, thick baguette.
No—That’s not right.
Like… an extra-large hoagie.
What am I thinking?
“Please stop.” I cover my face with my hand, hoping the images leave my brain forever.
“I’m sorry,” she says, not sounding sorry at all. “But in all seriousness, this could be fun and maybe working with him will make you realize you like him too.”
“You mean like how living next door to Aiden Matthews has made you like him more?”
Her lips purse and jaw clenches. Oh, yeah. I hit a nerve, but if she can push me, I can push her.
Looking up to the ceiling, I say, “Speaking of dicks, has the mystery of Aiden's alleged piercing been solved yet?”
“I don’t know, and I don’t care,” she snaps. “Did you know he hacked my alarm clock this morning and started blasting Christmas music at 3am? I didn’t think he was smart enough to do something like that.”
“I’m guessing Matty helped. He's the only one in that house with enough brains to manage anything more complex than putting milk in a bowl for their cereal.”
The professor walks in, and the room falls quiet. I glance at Lyss. She raises an eyebrow. A look that says everything.
She thinks something’s going to happen with Scotty.
I know she does, but she’s wrong. Completely, totally, catastrophically wrong.
Nothing—absolutely nothing—is going to happen between me and Scotty Hendricks.
Even as I think it, though, I can’t help remembering the way he looked at me in class.
Or how he said he liked my freckles.
Or how his entire face lit up when he realized we’d be working together.
No.
Nope.
Absolutely not.
I shake the thoughts away.
I am not here for a relationship. Especially not with someone like him. I have goals. Plans. A future.
None of which involve getting anywhere near a hockey player with a hoagie dick.