Chapter 10 #3
Gabriel smiles and tosses my pen onto my desk. Snatching it from the surface, I drop it into the front zipper pouch on my bag and trade it for a different one I like considerably less. Just in case he gets any ideas again.
“Was that so hard?”
“You are incorrigible,” I tell him. “And you still never explained why you shave.” I fold my arms over my chest and slink lower in my seat. That was the point of this little Q&A, right?
“You wanna do this again? I tell you mine and you tell me yours?”
I know without needing a mirror that my neck and cheeks are a mottled mess of crimson, and I’d like to save myself from further embarrassment so I shake my head.
“Pass.”
He chuckles and answers me anyway.
“I shave for three reasons.” He holds up three fingers and ticks them off one by one. “I tape my ankles and wrists during games. The tape pulls your hair out when you remove it and no lie, that shit hurts like a bitch.”
Reasonable, though shaving your entire arm seems a bit extreme in that case.
“Sometimes, an opposing player is an asshole who likes to rip on your hair to get a rise out of you. Instigate a fight so you throw hands and earn a penalty. That’s reason number two.”
Alright. That one seems more practical.
“And third, injuries happen in any sport, but muscle strain is pretty common in soccer. We have a massage therapist on staff for the team who helps us out and it’s just easier this way. Reduces friction.” He shrugs. “No one wants their hair pulled on when they’re already in pain.”
That makes sense.
“Okay, one more question.” I flick my eyes to the clock. Class should have started already which means our professor is running behind, but even late, there’s no way he’ll miss Gabriel in his classroom.
And I sincerely doubt Mr. Arndt will appreciate him interloping. He’s a no-nonsense, by-the-book kind of professor, and it’s no secret that he isn’t a fan of athletes on campus.
During more than one lecture, he’s reminded the class no one receives preferential treatment from him. Any quizzes or assignments missed due to games or training will still have to be made up and for each day work is submitted late, he’ll dock points.
He doesn’t believe in excusing tests or assignments on the basis of being an athlete. It’s actually one of the things that makes me like him as an instructor.
“Why are you here? You’re not in this class.” My words come out accusatory which isn’t what I intended, but Gabriel doesn’t seem bothered by it.
“I transferred in.”
My mouth drops open.
“I’m in your next class, too,” he adds.
“Excuse me?”
He smirks.
“You don’t even know what my next class is.”
“Diversity and Historical Oppression.”
Okay, that’s freaky. “How do you know my schedule, and why are you suddenly in two of my classes?” I don’t bother to hide the accusation in my tone, not that he’s the least bit phased by it.
“I asked my counselor to look you up.” He says it so casually, like it’s a completely normal thing to do.
News flash. It is not. “And I had her place me in the two classes you’re in that still fulfill some of my degree requirements.
Took a few days for the professors to sign off on everything, but we’re good now. ”
A flurry of strange and uncomfortable feelings wrap invisible fingers around my chest, but the one that sticks out the most is anger. No scratch that. Rage.
Who does this? And more importantly, why would he even want to?
Gabriel doesn’t actually want to be in this class. If he did, that would make this just some sort of coincidence and significantly less creepy. But it’s not a coincidence. This is intentional and beyond inappropriate. I mean, there are rules against this, right?
He got an administrator to look up my schedule. Had himself specifically placed into my classes. Mine. That’s insane. Hell, it's borderline stalker-ish.
“What could possibly possess you to do that?” I thought he hated me? At the very least, he made it clear when we last spoke that he didn’t like me. So, why go to all this trouble?
Gabriel’s previous carefree smile is gone, wiped away and replaced with a look of unbridled determination.
“A lot of things, but most important is the fact I couldn’t save my brother.
” Our professor steps into the room but Gabriel doesn’t miss a beat.
“Not him or my parents. My family. None of it. But…” he lets his words trail off and I wait on bated breath for him to finish.
My heart leaps into my throat, thumping widely. “I can and will save you.”
Spine stiffening, a cold feeling twists inside me and my heart plummets from my throat to the pit of my stomach. What?
The anger from Monday is back. That edge in his voice that tells me this isn’t a game for him. Well, newsflash. It’s not a game to me either. Who does he think he is?
“I am not some charity case. I don’t want or need you—or anyone else for that matter—to save me.”
His eyes bore into mine, unblinking. “Too bad.”
“Excuse me?”
Our professor starts to call out names, taking attendance, but I tune him out, refusing to let this slide. Gabriel doesn’t get to insert himself in my life like this. It’s not okay.
“You’re welcome to hate it. Hell, you can even hate me. Tell yourself I’m an asshole. I don’t care.” He doesn’t. Looking at him now, I know my opinion on the matter means absolutely nothing to him. “At the end of the day, no matter your feelings or what you say, you can’t stop me.”
I bite the inside of my cheek until I taste blood. “You’re insane.”
“Maybe,” he agrees, not sounding at all concerned.
“Cecilia Russo,” Professor Arndt calls out.
I raise my hand, not looking away. He moves on to the next name on his list.
“I don’t need to be saved,” I grind out between clenched teeth.
Gabriel shrugs and turns in his chair until he’s once again facing the front of the room. “Maybe. Maybe not. I guess we’ll find out. But like it or not, I'm here to stay. Just call me your personal guardian angel.”
I grind my molars together. I already call him that in my head, though not with the satisfaction he so obviously feels when saying it.
I get the feeling admitting that to him will only make the smug look on his face grow, so I keep it to myself.
“Oh, before I forget. I have practice today at three.” He says it like it should mean something to me. It doesn’t so I don’t bother with a response.
“I checked in with your parents. Told them you’re hanging with me today, so you don’t have to worry about checking in. They know the deal.”
I wrap my hands around the edges of my desk to keep from throwing them in the air. “You spoke to my parents?” I hiss, barely able to control myself.
He doesn't look at me. “You can catch up on homework or read a book while you wait for me to finish. Your mom says you like to read.”
“I am not going to your practice.” Is this some sort of sick game to him? “We are not hanging out.” I stab my finger down on my desk. “After this conversation, I don’t want anything to do with you. Ever.”
He smirks, apparently finding my outrage funny.
“We’ll see.”