Chapter 1 Chelsea #4
“Right again!” I choke out as Luca celebrates with a whoop.
Clearly, he thinks he’s supplied yet another faux, funny answer like the first time—this time, by parroting one of the most iconic lines from Mean Girls.
But little does Luca know, he’s actually supplied the correct answer this time, thanks to my diabolical scheming.
“Like I told you before, if I’m not mathing, I’m not—”
“No, no, Luca,” I manage between chuckles. “That was genuinely the right answer. The limit does not exist.”
Luca’s jaw drops. “What?”
“I served it up to you on a silver platter!” I roar with delight at his facial expression, and Luca absolutely loses it in reply, which then turns me into an electrified pile of goo. Is laughter foreplay? Right now, it sure feels like it.
“Was that the problem they asked Lindsey Lohan in Mean Girls?” Luca asks.
“I don’t know. All I know is people who love that movie use the word ‘mathlete,’ so I knew the chances were good you’d supply that as your answer if I asked—”
“You mean you reverse engineered it for me?” he bellows. When I nod effusively like a bobblehead doll, Luca palms his forehead. “You know enough math to lead me to that answer on the fly?”
I inhale deeply to collect myself. “Don’t be too impressed. It’s an extremely basic concept.”
Luca looks positively astounded. “No, you’re a legit genius. You are, right? Like, for real?”
“No, no. Truthfully, I fudged it a little. The function oscillates wildly around zero, so it never actually approaches any specific value.” When he looks at me blankly, I add, “Here, I’ll show you.
” I grab a napkin and graph it out, the same way I’d scribble down a football play, and when I look up from my work, Luca is flashing me the same lopsided grin I’ve seen on his big brother’s arrogant face many times at press conferences after a big win.
And yet, somehow, on the younger Maguire’s face, that same smile doesn’t come off as arrogant or irritating to me, only swoony and butterfly-inducing.
“And here I thought I was the smart one for coming up with that,” Luca says. “But I was playing tiddlywinks while you were playing chess. Where do you go to school? Harvard or Yale or someplace like that?”
Crap. If I reveal my school is Northwestern, he could theoretically google my first name with the name of today’s math competition, which he could easily find, at which point he might discover my full name on our team’s roster.
“University of Chicago,” I lie. “I’m a freshman there.” I motion to his T-shirt. “I’m assuming you go to Nebraska?”
He nods. “I’m a freshman, too.”
It’s a massive thing for Luca to be a starter on his team as a freshman. If his name wasn’t Maguire, I’d surely comment on that now and give him his proper due. But as it is, I keep my mouth shut and my knowledge about his impressiveness firmly locked away.
“I hope it’s not weird for me to say this again,” Luca says, “but your eyes really are incredible, Chelsea. I can’t stop looking at them and feeling like I’m in the middle of some beautiful ocean paradise.” He blushes. “I bet you hear stuff like that all the time, huh?”
I do, actually. I mean, it’s not usually anything quite that descriptive and flowery.
And it definitely never comes from a hunky football player who’s making me tingle everywhere.
Not to mention a football player who’s an edge rusher.
But I’d be lying if I pretended people don’t frequently comment on my eyes.
“You have really pretty eyes, too,” I reply, finally giving him the compliment I held back earlier.
“Thanks.” His gaze flickers, ever so briefly, to my lips. When he returns to my eyes, he says, “Hey, are you staying here again tonight? At this hotel, I mean?”
The question sends my heart pounding against my sternum. Why’s he asking me that? “Yeah. You?”
“Yep. I’ve got to have dinner with my teammates after my game, but after that I’ll be free to hang out for a few hours before curfew. Do you wanna maybe meet up? I won’t be able to sleep tonight without knowing how your math competition went.”
I’m floored. Flabbergasted. Gobsmacked. Win or lose, every visiting football player parties with his team after a game.
And yet, this boy is willing to forgo that ritual to hang out with me?
I’m beyond flattered and excited. But I’m also conflicted.
If we do well today, as I’m fully expecting, we’ll move on to the finals tomorrow, in which case I shouldn’t commit to meeting up with Luca or anyone else tonight.
“What time is curfew?” I ask. At which point, my brain instantly supplies a warning shouted at me in the voices of my two older brothers.
Don’t do it, Chelsea!
My whole life, my two brothers have told me never to mess with football players. They’re players off the field, too, Pop-Tart, they always tell me. Don’t waste your time. But you know what? Screw Lincoln and Nate. They’re not here to see how cute Luca is. How charming and kissable.
Also, I bet both of them had loads more sexual experiences than me by the time they went off to college, so they’re in no position to judge. Maybe an experienced player type, someone I’ll never see again, is exactly the right guy for this particular adventure.
“Curfew’s at ten, unfortunately,” Luca says. “So we wouldn’t have that much time. But even so, I’d really love to see you again and find out how the math competition went today.”
I bite my lip, considering, as my brothers’ voices scream at me to turn him down.
“If my team does well today and advances to the finals tomorrow,” I begin, “I’ll need to get to bed no later than ten to maximize my brain function the following day. Sleep is really important for cognitive function.”
He looks deflated.
“But, I mean, yeah,” I say quickly, “either way, I could still meet up with you. All I’m saying is I’d probably want to chat in the lobby till nine forty-five or so and that’s it. If we get into the finals, I’d really have to prioritize sleep so I don’t let my teammates down.”
“I totally get it. Being a good teammate is super important. It’s the same for me.”
“To be clear, though, I’d love to meet up and hear how your game went today—even though I won’t understand a word of it.”
Traitor.
That’s what my two brothers are shouting at me in my head now. But you know what? What they don’t know won’t hurt them.
Luca isn’t even trying to wrangle his wide smile now. “Awesome. Okay. So, eight o’clock in the lobby, then?”
“Sounds good. But no pressure. If meeting up doesn’t pan out for you, just leave me a note at the front desk so I don’t worry you got hit by a bus.”
His dark eyes flicker. “Chelsea, I promise you this: Even if I get hit by a bus, I’ll still drag my maimed, bloody body to the lobby at eight.”
A swoon ripples through me. “Okay. I guess I’ll see you at eight, then.”
“You sure will.”
“Hey, Maguire!” a voice booms. “Stop flirting with the pretty girl and move out!”
“Coming, Coach!” Luca yells, raising a hand to the older gentleman. When he returns to me, he’s blushing from his neck to his forehead. “Good luck at the math-a-thon, killer. Can’t wait to hear all about it on our date.”
Our date? I’m going on my first real date tonight?
“Y-you, too, killer.”
After shooting one last beaming smile my way, Luca gets up and saunters his hot, muscular ass away. But after only three bounding steps, he whips back around and says, “If it turns out you can’t make it tonight, leave your phone number at the front desk for me, okay? Promise me, Chelsea.”
Well, there’s no way in hell I’m giving this Montague my phone number.
The mere idea that this weekend’s flirtation might haunt me in my real life back home makes want to hurl.
Unfortunately, I do that frequently when I’m panicking or feeling stressed.
But I’ll definitely meet up with him again.
And maybe even get my first real kiss out of the way, too.
Is this tingling I’m feeling why porn is such a thing?
Is this sensation what people are chasing?
“Maguire!”
Luca waves at his coach again, but I’ll be damned, he then returns to me and shouts, “If any math-y stuff gives you trouble today, remember I’m there with you in spirit!”
“The limit does not exist!” I call back.
Luca points at me with enthusiasm. “Always remember that, and you can’t go wrong.”
“WWLA,” I call back. “‘What Would Luca Answer?’ I’ll ask myself that if I have any trouble today.”
“And then I’ll magically appear to you in a hologram, like Princess Leia in—”
“Luca motherfucking Maguire!” It’s that same coach from before, this time screaming at him in a way that makes me worry he’s about to pop a blood vessel in his eye.
“Whoopsie,” Luca stage-whispers with a chuckle.
“Somebody’s big mad at me.” To his coach, he yells, “Coming, Coach!” But damn if that naughty boy doesn’t return to me again with a huge smile.
“See you at eight, Chelsea the Mathlete. Knock ’em dead today.
” With that, he cavalierly jogs away, his body language practically screaming, “It’s my world and you’re all living in it, fuckers! ”
Lord have mercy, no matter what happens next, even if I don’t get that first kiss I’m craving tonight—and possibly more, if the kiss goes well—I’m definitely going to have the juiciest diary entry of my life tonight.
I watch Luca join the throng of young men ambling out of the breakfast area. And when it’s clear he’s truly headed out, I start packing up my computer.
“Hey, mathlete!” I look up from my bag and find Luca standing in the doorway. With a cheeky grin, he bellows, “The limit to my excitement to see you again tonight … does not exist!”