Chapter 4 Stella
Stella
I haven’t been able to get that stupid kiss out of my head. All weekend long, my thoughts would drift to Colt: his amber eyes, the sexy-as-sin groans that rumbled from his chest, the way his calloused hands felt on my body.
As I walk to class now, I can’t stop the butterflies from filling my stomach at the thought of seeing him.
I should feel guilty for running, but the truth is that I don’t. That car alarm brought me back to reality.
I hated every moment I was in that bar. I was on edge and anxious the entire time. I only went because the girls wanted to go after dinner, and they needed a DD. I couldn’t abandon them.
That was the first time I had been to any sort of social event, with alcohol, since the attack. When Colt came and started talking to me the first time, I had to admit that I was relieved. His presence gave me something to focus on other than my apprehension.
Then, when the other guy put his hands on me, the smell of liquor on his breath sent me into full PTSD mode. I couldn’t even tell you what he said because I was too focused on trying not to throw up.
And then Colt was there, again. I was surrounded by his spicy scent and strong arms, and I knew I was going to be okay.
Which is crazy because I barely know him. And no matter how nice I think he seems, he’s still a hockey player, a party boy.
A man.
The incident four months ago isn’t the only reason I am distrustful of the male species. Call it daddy issues, if you will.
Three years ago, my parents got a divorce out of the blue. Why? Because we found out that my father had a secret family. That’s right, my life could be a TV show at this point.
He and my mom started fighting. He would pick petty arguments with her and blame her for stupid shit like not washing his clothes soon enough, even though he was perfectly capable of doing the laundry himself.
He would take “business trips” to God knows where, and then gaslight her into thinking she was crazy for asking about them later.
Eventually, he told her he wanted a divorce, and it was messy. It wasn’t until six months later that we found out he had another wife and a toddler living two hours away.
The craziest part? He was a good dad to my sister and me.
He showed up to every volleyball, basketball, and softball game we played.
He taught us to ride bikes and throw a football.
He took us to the movies and knew all of our favorite foods.
It’s like, one day, he just snapped, and a completely different person took his place.
He was manipulative and narcissistic and acted like he hadn’t done anything wrong.
He threw twenty-something years with my mom down the drain.
So, between that and the graduation party incident, it’s safe to say I don’t trust the romantic advances of men in the slightest.
I probably need therapy.
With volleyball, school, and work, I don’t have time for boys, anyway. Sure, when I was at Georgia State, I had a couple of hookups, but I’m serious about studying and keeping my GPA up to get into grad school.
As I approach the English building, I see a tall, dark-haired figure leaning against a pillar at the top of the steps. Colt, hands in his pockets, smiles when he sees me.
“Hi,” he greets with an impish grin.
I can’t help but smile back. “Hi.”
He walks ahead and holds the door open for me. “Ladies first,” he says, gesturing me forward.
I’m wearing a pair of black flared leggings and a cream oversized sweater. I can feel him check out my ass as I walk by, and I smirk to myself. I put in a little effort when I got ready this morning, knowing I would see him today. It feels good to be admired every now and then.
“How was the rest of your weekend?” he asks as we head down the hall.
“Uneventful,” I reply, “I worked Saturday and Sunday. Nothing fun.”
“Where do you work?”
I give him a look out of the corner of my eye.
“Is playing Twenty Questions your way of trying to get in my pants?” I ask, suspiciously.
He was very interested in everything I had to say while we were standing outside the bar.
It was refreshing to have a real conversation without it being tainted by cheesy pickup lines and innuendos.
Oh, to be wooed by the bare minimum.
Then he kissed me. It was the hottest kiss I’d ever had; I’m talking melt-your-panties hot. But it also served as a reminder to me of the one life lesson I refuse to forget: guys are only capable of thinking with their dicks.
“Is it so hard to believe I’m genuinely interested in getting to know you?
” he retorts. His tone is teasing, but I can see by the set of his mouth that he’s bothered by my question.
Maybe he’s still upset I called him a man-whore.
I have to admit that was out of character for me to say, and I’ve felt guilty about it ever since.
I decide to humor him. “I work at Total Fit, the gym that’s downtown. I usually work the late shift so I can go in after school and practice.”
“You don’t train on campus?” The hockey players have state-of-the-art accommodations. Their arena is loaded down with a weight room, a cardio room, a sauna, ice baths, the works. Or so I’ve heard.
The gym that the volleyball team uses is shared with the other girls’ sports. It’s still separated from the public campus gym, which is nice, but it’s nothing compared to what Colt must be used to.
“I do,” I say, “but a job is a job. And I enjoy working at the gym. I don’t have to cook food or serve drinks. I just study at the front desk until someone comes in.”
As we enter the seminar room, Colt follows me to my seat and takes the desk next to me. I raise my eyebrows at him but don’t comment.
“Have dinner with me,” he states, and I’m so caught off guard that I almost drop my laptop.
“What? No,” I reply, laughing awkwardly and shaking my head. He’s leaning toward me, his elbows on the desk, an eager look in his eyes.
“Why not? I thought we had fun the other night. I enjoyed talking to you, Stella. Go on a date with me.”
“I—I don’t date, Colt.”
This causes him to pause his advances. “You don’t date?” he repeats.
“No. I don’t.”
“How can I change your mind?” he asks, tilting his head to the side.
Just then, the professor walks in and calls for class to begin.
“You can’t,” I whisper in response.
At the end of class, we were given our final project assignments. We have three months to write a comparative paper and create a presentation about the similarities and differences between two classic pieces of literature. The catch is that one has to be a tragedy, and the other doesn’t.
The instructions are vague and, truthfully, kind of daunting. The good news is that we get to work with a partner on this project.
The bad news is, Colt signed himself up to be my partner.
It’s not that I don’t think he’ll be a good person to work with. He’s an English major. This assignment is probably going to be a walk in the park for him.
But now my chances of avoiding him are nonexistent.
“You should probably give me your number,” Colt says as we’re leaving class. He smirks as I roll my eyes and pull out my phone. “Playing hard to get only makes this more fun, sweetheart,” he continues.
“I’m not playing hard to get, Colt. I really don’t date.” He types his number into my contacts and sends himself a message, so he has my number in return.
I guess he decided to drop the date topic for now because instead of arguing, he hands my phone back and asks when I want to meet up to talk about possible project topics.
“I get off work from the gym at ten o’clock most nights. I have practice, and I know you do, too, beforehand.”
“That’s okay. Ten works for me. You can come to my apartment. I’d offer to come to yours but…” he trails off without having to mention Summer’s name. I haven’t seen a whole lot of her since that night.
“Yeah, no, that would be awkward. Just text me your address, and I’ll come by later. I’ve got to get to my next class.” I give him a smile and a wave before walking away.
Nine hours later, I find my Uber pulling up to a nice-looking apartment complex off campus. Knocking on the door of number 103, I can’t help but feel the nerves start to rise in my throat.
I haven’t been in a guy’s room in months. I haven’t had sex in just as long.
Why are you thinking about sex, Stella? I need to get a grip. Everything is going to be fine. We’re going to simply do some research, that’s all.
The man who opens the door is not Colt, but he looks very familiar. He’s huge, maybe bigger than Colt, with shaggy light-brown hair that’s on the verge of being blond and dazzling blue eyes.
Like all the hockey players, he’s gorgeous. His chiseled features and full lips look like he could be a long-lost Hemsworth brother.
His eyebrows raise as he recognizes me, and his lips part in a grin that reveals perfect white teeth.
“You must be Stella,” he says in a deep voice. There’s almost a rasp to it, as if he just got done yelling. It’s hot. “I’m Beau Warren, Colt’s roommate.”
Beau Warren steps aside and lets me into the spacious apartment. It’s updated, with marble countertops and an open layout. The furniture is all rich brown wood and leather, making it feel both tasteful and very masculine.
Two other guys sit on the sectional couch watching a late Monday night football game, neither of which is Colt. One is a dirty blond, and the other has light brown skin and loose black curls.
“That’s Drew and Booker,” Beau introduced, pointing at them respectively.
The blond—Drew—shoots me a shit-eating grin that tells me right away he’s trouble. “Yo, you’re Summer’s roommate, right?”
I laugh awkwardly. What is it with these guys and their obsession with Summer?
“Dude, shut up. Why can’t you just drop the Summer thing?” Booker asks, smacking Drew on the chest with the back of his hand.