Chapter 8
EIGHT
Markham approves our outlines by Thursday’s class, so Wes and I plan to meet up on Saturday afternoon to practice.
Sitting on one of the cold benches outside the Foundations building, my knee jiggles with nervous energy as I scan the passing students.
None of them fit the descriptors tall, broad, magnetic. None of them pay me any mind.
If I’m being honest, a part of me is expecting Wes to just forget about me altogether. I wouldn’t be surprised. I’m sure he’s got bigger and better things to do than meet me on a weekend, and I’ve almost convinced myself of that when I spot him heading toward me right on time.
I release a slow exhale, my relief more potent than I’d like to admit.
As I get to my feet, I notice the way he ignores the stares and the whispers of students—mostly female—as he passes them by. I wonder how a person gets used to being watched wherever they go. Isn’t it exhausting? Annoying? Or does he find it flattering?
He waves at me halfway down the path, a big gesture that draws too much attention, and I shrink into myself, self-conscious of the curious eyes. I can only imagine what they’re thinking, seeing someone like him with someone like me. He’s larger than life, and I’m, well, a nobody.
He comes to a halt in front of me, his eyes giving me a quick once-over.
I do the same, noting that he’s dressed in his usual uniform of white sneakers, jeans, and a Stratus Football sweatshirt.
His notebook is tucked under his arm, his thermos in his hand, and that forty-watt smile brightens his face.
“Hey, Ives,” he says, using that nickname again. “You look pretty.”
Pretty. My face warms at his compliment, and I stutter out a thanks.
Wes grins like he’s aware of the effect he has and waggles his eyebrows. “I rented us a room.”
“You what?” I blurt, and his smile turns playful.
“A study room. At the library. I figured you wouldn’t want to practice at my house, and I couldn’t very well invite myself over to yours, could I? That would be rude, and my mother taught me better than that.”
My shoulders relax. He’s right. I wouldn’t want to go to his house, nor invite him over to my place. “Oh, good thinking.”
He gestures down the sidewalk. “Shall we?”
"Sure," I say, and we begin our walk across the quad.
Meeting up with Wes on a Saturday, in the middle of the day, has a similar feeling to running into one of my grade school teachers at the supermarket.
Strange. Unnatural. Out of place. And when he holds open the library door, allowing me to step inside first, I can’t help but question how in the world I ended up here.
“Which room is it?” I ask him, unzipping my coat.
“Six, I think.” He narrows his eyes. Scratches the side of his nose. “Do you, uh, have any idea where that is?”
The corner of my mouth twitches. “Don’t spend much time in here, do you?”
He shrugs a shoulder but scans the room like he’s never seen it before. I head in the direction of the front desk, and he follows. “They have study centers for student athletes near the training center.”
“Far away from us commoners?”
“It does seem like that, doesn’t it?” I raise my eyebrows.
“No, trust me. I agree with you. There are definite perks to playing a sport, besides the scholarship, I mean. But it does take over every aspect of your life. Football is the reason I came to this school, but it’s also the reason I have to take a two-year gap before med school. I just haven’t had any time to prep.”
I want to inquire further about his med school plans, but a group of girls distracts me.
Seated at one of the nearby tables, they’re all hand-over-mouth whispering to each other, shooting furtive glances Wes’s way.
Heat crawls up my neck, even though I’m not the one they’re ogling, and I stare down at my shoes as we stop at the desk.
“Hey, man, how are you?” Wes asks the student working, oblivious to his fan club.
“F-f-fine,” the guy sputters, frazzled by Wes’s presence. At least I’m not the only one.
“We have study room six booked. I think we need a key? It’s under Wes Tucker.”
The guy nods so hard his glasses start to slip off his nose. He hastily shoves them back up. “Yes. Yes. I know who you are. Um, one second.”
While desk boy starts clicking through screens on his computer, one of the girls from the table appears at Wes’s side.
“Hi, Doc,” she drawls, and his head snaps toward her in surprise. She’s beautiful—gorgeous, even—her hair and makeup perfectly done up. I shrink a little, finding it impossible not to compare myself to her.
He said you looked pretty.
Maybe so, but I’m sure he was just being nice. He’s nice to everyone, after all.
“Oh, hey,” he says, squinting a little as though trying to place her.
She smiles, revealing a set of glowing, white teeth. “Making house visits yet? I could use a full-body checkup.”
I swear, I nearly choke.
Wes laughs a bit awkwardly, stuffing his hands in his pockets and shifting back on his heels. “Nah, not yet. Kind of need to go to med school first.”
She reaches out and brushes his bicep, fingertips lingering too long on the fabric of his sweatshirt. My brows shoot up at her brashness, but if I wasn’t looking carefully, I’d miss the way Wes’s eyes harden.
“Well, if you ever need a practice dummy,” she says, “I’ll happily volunteer. Especially for mouth-to-mouth.” And then, I kid you not, she hands him a piece of paper with her phone number on it. “My name’s Vanessa. Talk soon, I hope.”
A part of me wants him to ignore the note, but he takes it from her. Vanessa turns and walks back to her group, not sparing so much as a sneer in my direction. For some reason, I want to evaporate.
“Um, here’s the key,” desk guy cuts in, sliding it across the counter. Wes clears his throat before thanking him, and together we walk to the stairs. The back of my neck prickles as I start to climb, and it takes the utmost willpower not to peek over my shoulder at the table of giggling girls.
I try not to speculate if they’re laughing at me.
It’s not soon enough when we arrive at room six. Wes unlocks the door and flicks on the light, and I take in the space. The room is…small. Very small. There’s a round table at the center, four chairs surrounding it, and two windows overlooking the interior of the library.
I have a moment of hesitation—a split second anxiety spike—before stepping fully inside.
The blinds are open, the door’s unlocked, and I trust Wes.
At least, as much as I can at this point.
Plus, I don’t want to recite my speech in front of an audience larger than one, so this little room is our only option.
Oblivious to the deluge of thoughts bombarding my brain, Wes takes a seat on the far side of the table. I sit closest to the door, setting my bag on the chair beside me.
“Well, this is cozy,” he notes.
“Are you going to call her?” I ask before I can stop myself.
Stupid, stupid, stupid.
His brow knits. “What?”
I dip my head, color blooming across my cheeks. “Nothing,” I mumble. “Forget it.”
He laughs a little as he picks up on the direction of my thoughts. “Oh, you mean that girl from downstairs? Hell, no. I tossed her number in the bin outside.”
I peek back up at him, my brows raised. Once again, he’s taken my pre-conceived notions and turned them on their head.
With his looks and his status and his charm, I’d expected him to be one of those guys with a revolving door of women, but he left those girls high and dry at the frat, and he did it again just now.
He didn’t even flirt back, though he wasn’t exactly rude.
Remembering the look on his face when Vanessa touched his arm, I ask, “Does that annoy you? It must happen a lot with you being, well, you.”
He snorts. “I don’t mind being hit on. It’s inconvenient sometimes, sure, but at least it’s flattering. It’s the touching I hate. No one should touch you without permission.”
No one should touch you without permission.
My mind takes a second to register his words, and then my face flushes with some foreign emotion.
I want to rewind time to hear him say that again because he said it.
He said it, not me. The phrase I want to carve into my skin and stamp over my forehead and tattoo into my soul.
I want to leap across the table and hug him tight, tight, tight, but I can’t because that would be a crazy inappropriate response to a decree like that.
Instead, I sit stock-still. I clasp my hands beneath the table to stop them from shaking.
Would he mean it if the role was reversed?
I think he would. I know he would.
“I’m sorry,” I say softly.
He shrugs it off. Offers an easy smile. “It’s all good. They don’t mean any harm, really. It just gets redundant after a while.” He sets his notebook on the table and begins to flip through the pages. “Anyway, should we start? You better go easy on me, Ives, because I haven’t practiced at all.”
“I haven’t either,” I admit, still a bit shaky, but I pull my outline from my bag.
Gripping the paper between weak fingers, it suddenly hits me what I’m about to do. My palms go clammy, my heart rate kicks up, and I chew at the inside of my cheek. Feeling Wes’s eyes, I glance up.
“Want me to go first?” he asks slowly. “You look freaked.”
“I’m fine,” I say weakly.
“It’s just me. This is why we’re doing this.”
I nod, my mouth too dry to form words.
Maybe this was a terrible idea.
Wes unfolds himself from his chair and stands in front of the far wall. He clears his throat, glances up at me, and launches into his speech about the importance of team bonding in sports.
He fumbles a lot. Reads too much off the paper. Butchers a phrase and then backtracks with a string of muttered curses. He does his best to make eye contact and minimize his ums, but a few slip in here and there, and he winces every time.