Chapter 7 – Lena
chapter
seven
Lena
Eight a.m. on a goddamn Sunday, and the one person I never wanted to hear from again had the audacity to text me.
Asshole: Can you meet me at the Commons?
I sat up in the bean bag chair I used as my reading nook and stared at the screen.
My dorm was a mess—tennis trophies gathering dust on the shelf, my old racquet leaning in the corner with loosened strings, Kimmy's bed empty and unmade with her heels from last night kicked off by the door.
I reached for the coffee on my desk and took a sip. Cold. Bitter. I drank it anyway.
He hadn't texted me in over three years.
I'd deleted all of his previous texts after everything had happened with Trevor.
And after the quad collision yesterday—me literally landing on top of him, his hands on my hips, his body doing things I was aggressively trying to forget—I'd assumed we'd go back to pretending the other didn't exist.
Apparently not.
What the hell does he want from you after three years of nothing?
Curiosity won. I texted back.
Me: Why?
I'd almost decided not to reply when those three gray bubbles started dancing.
Asshole: Please. It's important.
I should ignore him. But fuck it, I wanted to know what was so urgent that Trace Coulter was texting me like we were still people who talked to each other. Curiosity and the cat…
Me: If you’re dicking around. I swear I will make you regret it.
Before I left though, I made a quick call home to check on my mother. I sank deeper into the bean bag, the vinyl crinkling under me, and pressed the phone to my ear. She answered on the first ring.
"Hi, baby."
“Hey Mama. Just checking on you. How are you feeling today?”
My mother had been diagnosed with a blood disorder a year ago. The specialist she needed had a waitlist a year long, insurance was a nightmare, and Dad was useless.
“Are you taking care of yourself? Because last time I was home, you didn’t look like you were.”
“Excuse me? Hush your mouth. I am a grown woman, Lena Marie, and I can look after myself just fine.” She sucked her teeth. “And I still haven’t forgiven you for roasting me about my locks. Or my cooking. You come into my house and insult my edges and my chicken? The disrespect.”
“Mama, your edges were crying. And that chicken was a war crime.”
“See, there you go. Instead of worrying about me, worry about school. And what’s happening with tennis? Coach Delaney still calling?”
I ignored the tennis grenade like a professional. “I will come home and retwist your locks myself if you refuse to call Miss Shirlene. She’s been doing your hair for fifteen years. Just call the woman.”
“Miss Shirlene charges sixty-five dollars now.”
“I’ll pay for it.”
“With what money? Your good looks?”
“Mama.”
She sucked her teeth. “Fine. I’ll call Shirlene. But I’m telling her you said my edges were crying and she is going to have words for you.”
I laughed. “I can handle Miss Shirlene. Now—are you taking your meds? And any updates on the specialist?”
“Yes, damn it. And no, Dr. Okafor’s office hasn’t called yet. Still waiting.” She pushed past it the way she always did. “Why don’t you tell me something fun, like you went to a party. Give an old lady a thrill.”
"I did in fact go to a party the other night. Are you happy now?"
I could almost hear the smile in her voice. "I am happy. Did you meet a boy? Or a girl?"
"Nope. Just the same people I know. Oh, and I ran into Trace."
"Oh! How is he? Handsome as always I assume. I always liked him. Not his brother though."
Mom had always had a soft spot for Trace. She'd watched him come to every one of my high school tennis matches, even when his brother couldn't be bothered. She never said it, but I always suspected she'd wished I'd chosen the younger Coulter instead.
"Well, that makes one of us. Anyway, I need to get going but I wanted to hear your voice."
"I'm fine, baby. Go do college girl things. Have fun. Meet someone. Do something other than study."
"Excuse me, but isn't that the whole point of being here?"
"God, how are you my child? When I was in college, I partied."
“Good for you. I love you. I’ll check in later. Let me know if you need anything, Mama.”
"We had a deal, love. You focus on school. I focus on this. Have a little faith, would you. We might get lucky and I get moved to the top of the waitlist."
Only problem was that he had a waiting list a year long, and my mother was suffering. I'd try and fight that fight with her insurance when I went home to see her next week.
I hung up and pressed the phone against my forehead for a second, breathing through the tightness in my chest. Then I set it down and stood up.
In the meantime, I had a date with the devil.
I slipped on my worn-out Converse, zipped my jacket to my chin, and shoved my hands in my pockets. The autumn chill had teeth this year.
Trace hadn't reached out since Jason's party—that night senior year when he'd grabbed my arm, told me he wanted me, and then walked away because of his brother. Three years of silence, and now two run-ins and a text in forty-eight hours.
The universe was really committed to ruining my week.
So that's how I found myself marching across campus, chin tucked against the wind, leaves crunching under my Converse.
I caught sight of the women's tennis team practicing on the courts beyond the student center and slowed for a second, watching a girl nail a backhand down the line.
The crack of the ball off the racquet strings echoed across the path.
Her footwork was sloppy—she was reaching instead of setting up—but the shot was clean.
That used to be me. And I would have set up properly.
You gave that up. Don’t you dare stand here feeling sorry for yourself.
I kept walking before the ache could settle in.
I told myself I was going to ignore his text. But that was a lie, because instead of heading to the student center like I'd planned, I found myself marching to the Commons—older building, fewer people, less chance of witnesses.
Smart choice on his part, actually.
And when I walked in, the heavy door groaned shut behind me, cutting the wind.
I found Trace sprawled on the warm leather couches at the entrance.
The Commons smelled like old wood and burnt coffee, and the radiator clanked in the corner.
A few students hunched over laptops, but the building was mostly empty.
And there he was, one arm draped along the back of the couch, legs spread wide, taking up space the way only guys built like refrigerators could get away with—six-foot-four of hockey player who made the couch look like it belonged in a dollhouse.
He wore jeans and a gray Henley stretched across shoulders that should require a permit.
His hair was damp, and I hated myself for noticing, for clocking the line of his jaw and the size of his hands on the couch arm—the same hands that had been on my hip bones yesterday, thumbs pressing into that strip of bare skin between my top and my skirt.
Stop. Stop cataloguing Mr. Smells-too-good-for-his-own-good.
"What's this about?" I asked the moment I sat down across from him. I chose the chair farthest from the couch and put the coffee table between us like a barricade.
"Cutting right to the chase, Lena," he drawled. "I need a favor."
The laugh that bubbled out of nowhere surprised me. "You need my help?"
"Yes. I need your help."
"Okay, I'm sorry, I should rephrase that. Why would I help you?"
He winced, and his hand stilled on the couch. "Yeah, I deserve that. I had no one else to ask, and well, I kind of needed someone who doesn't like me."
"Well, I fit the bill," I said flatly. Why did hearing him say he needed someone who didn’t like him sting worse than it should have?
"Yes, you do," he admitted without skipping a beat. His eyes held mine when he said it, steady and unblinking, no smirk, no deflection—and I was the one who looked away first.
I stared at him, waiting for an explanation.
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and suddenly the coffee table felt a lot smaller.
This close, I could see the faint grass stain on his jeans from yesterday's fall—our fall—and the memory of his body under mine hit me so hard I had to look at the ceiling for a second.
"I need a fake girlfriend."
My spine hit the back of the chair. "I’m sorry, what?" I found myself blurting out. "Did six-foot-four of trust fund hockey player just ask me to be his fake girlfriend? In what universe does that request end well for me?"
"You heard me. I need a fake girlfriend," he repeated, leaning back against the worn leather like it was the most natural request in the world.
"Yes, actually, I need someone who's not going to get attached, not going to be clingy.
Who is pretty, smart, can hang on my arm, can make it look like I'm stable and not a risk after Trevor last year. "
Ah. So that was it. Trevor had burned through the NHL like a brushfire since leaving school early—talented as hell, but hell on wheels with women. A fact I knew very, very well.
"So, Trevor's antics have caught up with you?"
He rolled his shoulders. "Something like that."
"And you think I of all people will help you?"
His jaw worked, and he scrubbed a hand over the back of his neck. "Come on. There has to be something you want. I’ll do anything.”
I frowned at that, sitting back and crossing my legs. My fingers found the zipper on my jacket and worked it up, down, up. "Why would you think I want anything?"
"I don't know." He set the coffee down and leaned his elbows on his knees. "You seem sad lately."
His observation caught me off guard, and my fingers dug into the chair arm. Because you seem sad lately wasn't a guess. He'd been paying attention, and I hadn't noticed him noticing.
"You don't know me, Trace. I'm not even sure you ever did."
His lips pressed together and his jaw ticked, but he swallowed whatever he wanted to say.