Chapter 5 #2
Finally, class is over, and students begin packing up their stuff to leave. I’m bubbling over with eagerness and fear—God, talk about a screwed-up combo to be running through your body at the same time—as I turn to Wyatt, who is sliding his laptop into his backpack.
“Where do you like to get coffee?” I ask.
“I like the SD Sips kiosks on campus,” Wyatt says. “There’s one right outside this hall. Is that okay? We can sit outside if that works for you.”
“Yeah, that’s fine.”
To my surprise, Wyatt reaches over and picks up the bakery box. “I’ll carry this for you.”
“Thank you,” I say, appreciating the gesture.
We exit the lecture hall, and I practically feel lightheaded from his nearness. Wyatt towers over me, and I truly have to look up to talk to him.
“Where are you from?” he asks as we make our way through Smythe Hall.
“Northern California,” I say. “My dad is the CFO of a biotech company, and Mom teaches literature at a private college. We live outside of Palo Alto.”
“The literature connection,” Wyatt says. “And you didn’t want to go to school where your mom teaches?”
“Well, besides the fact that, NO, I would not want to be on the same campus as Mom, her school doesn’t have an artistic swim team, so that was problematic.”
“That would be a problem.”
I don’t want to talk about my major, so I switch the subject back to Wyatt before he can follow up on it. “What about you? Where are you from?”
“Tucson."
“And you didn't want to play at Arizona State?”
“So you know about collegiate hockey.”
“No, but TikTok fed me something about Arizona State hockey once,” I say with a sheepish smile.
Ooh. I bet Wyatt has TikToks devoted to him. I’ll have to check on that later. I’m allowed to be interested.
Or is that creepy? Like stalking?
No, it’s NOT stalking. It’s learning more about a new acquaintance, that’s all.
“But you chose OCU for hockey,” I say, refocusing on the conversation.
“Yeah. It’s a winning program here, one of the top hockey programs in the country, and the best out west,” Wyatt says, adjusting his backpack on his shoulder. “Throw in the ocean, and I was sold.”
“So you like the water, too?”
He grins. “I was not supposed to be in Greek and Roman History. My elective choice was surfing.”
I laugh loudly at that. “You must have been beyond disappointed when you got your schedule.”
“That is an understatement,” he says, a rueful smile playing on his full lips.
We reach the doors, and Wyatt moves ahead to open one for me.
Ooh, he’s a gentleman—and that’s something I definitely like about him. “Thank you,” I say, stepping past him and getting a whiff of his cologne.
“You’re welcome,” he says, following me out.
We continue to chat as we approach the coffee kiosk, where there’s a bit of a line. I consider my options, and I wonder if I should get a plain latte, which is more in line with my nutrition plan, or get what I really want as long as I’m already going to eat a muffin.
“I’m going to get the iced almond coconut mocha,” I say, touching my necklace as I make my decision.
Wyatt doesn’t say anything. When I turn to look at him, I find his eyes are locked in on the spot where my fingertips are brushing against my necklace. He immediately clears his throat and lifts his eyes to meet mine.
“I’m sorry, what did you say?” he asks. “I was noticing how you touch your necklace when you’re thinking. You did it during the quiz today, too.”
My heart flips.
WHY IS IT DOING THAT? I’m unnerved by these reactions I’m having to Wyatt, and I don’t know whether to run or enjoy them.
“You … noticed that?” I ask.
“I promise I’m not trying to be creepy,” he insists. Then he shrugs. “I’m an observer. It makes me a good hockey player. Like I see things in body language and habits in opposing players that allow me to exploit them. Not that I want to exploit you,” he adds quickly. “I—I just observed it.”
Of course not. I mean, Wyatt probably hooks up on the regular, and I am not the kind of woman who hooks up at all.
He’d think I was a prude, and I’d drive him insane.
Besides, Wyatt just said he’s an observer. I’m nothing but a study to him.
So why do I feel disappointed?
No. I’m NOT disappointed. I can’t be disappointed.
I need to be relieved.
“But you’re getting a candy bar in a cup, I can get behind that.”
I groan. “My whole training meal plan is already a dumpster fire today.”
“I’ll join you in solidarity,” Wyatt says. “My best friend on the team, Sebastian, has all his meals prepared by a nutritionist. Like he knows every meal he’s eating every day. I follow the guidelines from the team nutritionist, but I could never live as rigidly as Sebastian does.”
I shudder. “No, I would hate that.”
We reach the front of the line, and Wyatt orders two “candy bar in a cup” coffees. I try to stop him from paying for mine, but he refuses to take my money. After we get our drinks and I grab some napkins and a plastic knife, Wyatt suggests sitting on the edge of the fountain so we can eat and talk.
I follow him, and we sit beside the bubbling, splashing fountain. The sun is shining down on us and shimmering across the water. Wyatt puts on his sunglasses—a pair of aviators—and I reach for my oversized tortoiseshell ones.
He grins at me as soon as I slip them on. “Those sunglasses are huge on you.”
“They’re called oversized,” I retort, opening the pastry box. “Okay, I’m going to take cherry almond. You have to indulge with me to ease my guilt. Two athletes going off the plan together is better than doing it alone.”
“I have to admit, I don’t know anything about artistic swimming,” Wyatt says, selecting a blueberry muffin and putting it on a napkin I’ve given him.
I turn my muffin on its side and slice off the top.
“What are you doing?” Wyatt immediately asks.
“I love the top. The rest of the muffin? Not so much,” I say.
“So you decapitate your muffins?”
I burst out laughing. “That’s a bit dramatic.”
“No, it’s accurate. Look what you’ve done to it!”
I look down and see a sad, sawed-off muffin on my napkin.
“I’m not wrong,” Wyatt insists, tearing off a piece of his muffin and popping it into his mouth. “Tell me about artistic swimming.”
I light up at his request. “Okay, I will, but I love to talk about it, so you might have to tell me to shut up at some point.”
“I will not,” he says.
“You will, and it’s okay,” I say. “Artistic swimming is performing a choreographed, synchronized routine to music, in the water. I do both duet and team, where my movements have to be synchronized to my partner for duet and to six other people for the team competition. It’s so much harder than it looks. ”
Wyatt asks more questions, and I see he’s actively listening to each answer I give. He’s not just asking a question to ask it. He’s asking out of interest.
I can’t even begin to explain what that means to me.
I talk about how, for a four-minute routine, I’m underwater for a total of two minutes during the performance.
I explain how I don’t wear goggles—not allowed for performances—and you learn to fight through the chlorine burn.
I tell Wyatt how I can never touch the bottom of the pool the entire time I’m performing and confess how my lungs will burn and my body will shake by the end of a routine.
I talk about being inverted in the water and having to do moves with precision, and learning acrobatics so I can be the flyer for the team competition.
And the frustration of some people sexualizing the sport, like asking why we do splits in the water and why some of our suits are “skimpy.”
“The sexualizing pisses me off,” I say, picking up the knife to decapitate a blueberry muffin. “I’m an athlete in an Olympic sport. It’s ridiculous some of the things people say about it.”
“Hockey is sexualized too,” Wyatt says. “You should see the TikToks of players stretching on ice and read the comments.”
I pause with the knife and make a face. “Really?”
Wyatt laughs and pops another piece of muffin into his mouth. After he finishes chewing, he answers. “Yes. Stretching is sexualized in our sport.”
“I appreciate you saying that. I feel as if you understand.”
We go on to talk for a long time, about classes, our families—I learn that he has a sister who’s a freshman at USC, and I share how Natasha lives in Napa and works for a winery.
Wyatt confesses that he hates history and has no idea how he’s going to make it through Professor Dickhead’s class, and I tell him it’s my minor and I’ll help him with anything he needs.
With each question, I find myself drawn to him.
Which is so dangerous.
It’s dangerous because men are disappointing. Or I’ll disappoint them once they get to know more about me. I have a packed schedule, and I don’t have time for dating—IF I can find a guy who wants more than a hookup in the first place.
Because I want to wait for sex. And that’s a major NO for most guys at OCU.
But every time he asks a question, every time those warm brown eyes are locked on mine, all I can think about is that I want to continue to get to know him.
Maybe I’m fooling myself, but my gut—and my heart—are telling me he’s different.
Wyatt clears his throat. “Grace, there’s something I have to tell you. I didn’t want to start off with it, but I can’t put it off for much longer because I have to go to class in a half hour.”
I bite my lip, fear pooling in my stomach. Is he about to disappoint me like every other guy here has?
He pauses for a moment, looking as if he’s afraid to speak. “Um, I know you’re in Phi Mu Phi,” he finally says.
I stare at him, the fear that’s pooling in my stomach beginning to spread. Despite the warmth of the sun, I suddenly feel cold and shiver.
“I know,” he continues, staring down at the concrete, “not because of anything posted on that fucked-up Greek website, but because I was on the lawn playing football the day you moved in.”
I feel my breath catch in my throat.
Oh God, please don’t be an Alpha Xi Pi, I think. Please, please, don’t say you’re in that awful fraternity.
“Were … were you over there hanging out?” I ask, hoping against hope he isn’t a member.
“Well, yes. I live off campus with some hockey teammates,” Wyatt replies. He pauses for what seems like an eternity. “But I’m an Alpha Xi Pi, Grace.”
My face burns hot in humiliation. I stand up, nearly toppling the box of muffins into the fountain in the process, and angrily snatch up my backpack. “Then you damn well know what your brothers said about me on that website last year,” I say, my voice shaking.
“No! No, I didn’t!” Wyatt protests, leaping to his feet. “Grace. I swear, I didn’t know. I’ve never lived in the house. I don’t keep tabs on all the shit they do. My life is hockey, not the fraternity!”
I laugh harshly. “Right. So let me guess. If you would have known, you would have stood up for me? Shut that horrible behavior down? I doubt it. You would have laughed with all your stupid brothers about the frigid freshman in the Phi Mu Phi pledge class. You’re all disgusting. Don’t ever talk to me again.”
I storm off, but I don’t get far before Wyatt puts his hand on my arm, bringing me to a halt. “I would have put a stop to it!” he insists, his voice now angry. “It’s an insult for you to assume I’m just like the worst of them. Because I’m not.”
I don’t say anything. It’s hard to think over the hammering of my heart.
“Grace. I’m here to help you,” Wyatt says. “There’s a douche in the house who has put out a bet on you. About who can hook up with you first.”
The blood drains from my face. I think I’m going to be sick. I can’t speak because no words will come.
“I’m here,” Wyatt continues, his voice firm, “because it’s fucked up. No girl deserves that, and certainly not you. I wanted to tell you about it first. And now that I have? I’m going to put a stop to it.”