The Goal
Page 11
Beau doesn’t look away from the mirror. “Sure. I’m gonna do bench presses in a sec. You can spot me.”
“Sounds like a plan.” I take a seat on the bench next to him and mentally count his reps as he does them. At ten, he drops the fifty-pound kettle bell and turns to me.
“I’m doing light weights, double reps,” he explains, feeling the need to justify the two-fifty weight on the barbell.
“Should you even be lifting anything at all?” I don’t know much about the quarterback position, but it seems to me that any extra muscle could affect his throwing arm.
“Light weights only,” he reiterates.
As he lies back and reaches above him, I move to the head of the bench. With these weights, I doubt he could hurt himself, so the spotter position is sort of unnecessary. But it gives me something to do while we talk.
“Heard you hooked up with Sabrina James this fall,” I start awkwardly. “You still holding a torch for her?”
Beau tilts his head backward so he can stare at me. He’s got vivid blue eyes that I’m pretty sure half the chicks at Briar have gotten lost in. Or have dreamed about getting lost in.
“Naah, no torch here,” he finally answers. “Why? You aiming to tap that?”
Already have, dude. But I repeat what I told Sheena. “Maybe.”
“Gotcha. Well, if you’re looking for more than a hookup, she’s not your girl.”
“Yeah?”
“Oh yeah. Seriously, Tuck, she’s closed tighter than a clam. She doesn’t have time.” Beau wrinkles his forehead. “She’s got like four or five jobs and you have to fit in on her schedule. Like a doctor on call.”
“That’s good to know.”
He finishes out his reps in silence. When he’s done, he pushes upright, and I toss him a bottle of water I find next to the bench.
“Need any more help?” I ask.
“Naah, I got it.”
“See you around then.” I take a step, then glance over at him again. “Do me a favor and keep this convo between us?”
He nods. “Gotcha.”
I’m at the exit door when Beau calls out to me.
“Hey, what if I said I was still interested?”
I turn around to meet his eyes. “That’d be too bad.”
Beau chuckles. “I thought so. Well, more power to you, dude, but I’m warning you—there are easier women than Sabrina.”
“Why would I want someone easy?” I flash him a grin. “That doesn’t sound like any fun.”
5
Sabrina
I’m having one of those days. The kind of day where I’m living in a cartoon and I’m the Road Runner, speeding from one place to another without a single opportunity to sit down or breathe.
Well, technically I do a lot of sitting in my morning classes, but it’s not relaxing at all, because we’re gearing up for our con law papers which make up the entirety of my grade, and I stupidly chose one of the hardest topics—the differing legal standards applied to examine the constitutionality of laws.
Breakfast consists of a cheese croissant that I scarf down on the way from Advanced Political Theory to Media and Government. And I don’t even get to finish it, because in my haste I trip on the cobblestone path that winds through campus and end up dropping the croissant in a puddle of slush.
My stomach growls angrily during the Media lecture, then gets louder and angrier when I meet with my advisor to talk finances. I didn’t find any acceptance letters in my mailbox this morning, but I have to believe that I at least got into one of the programs I applied to. And even the second tier schools will cost a pretty penny, which means I need a scholarship. If I don’t get into a top law school, there’ll be no BigLaw job offer with its BigLaw paycheck, and that means crushing, demoralizing, endless debt.
After the meeting, I have a one-hour tutorial for my Game Theory class. It’s run by the TA, a skinny guy with Albert Einstein hair and the annoying, pretentious habit of incorporating REALLY BIG WORDS in every sentence he utters.
I’m an intelligent person, but every time I’m around this guy, I’m secretly looking up words on my phone’s dictionary app under the table. There’s really no reason for a person to use the word parsimonious when they can just say frugal—unless they’re a total douche, of course. But Steve thinks of himself as a big shot. Though rumor has it, he’s still a TA because he’s failed—twice—to defend his dissertation and can’t get an associate professorship anywhere.
Once the meeting wraps up, I shove my laptop and notebook in my messenger bag and make a beeline for the door.
I’m so hungry that I’m feeling light-headed. Fortunately, there’s a sandwich place in the lobby of the building. I fly out the door, only to skid to a stop when a familiar face greets me.
My heart somersaults so hard it’s embarrassing. I’ve spent the last day and a half forcing myself not to think about this guy, and now he’s standing here, in the flesh.
My gaze eats him up eagerly. He’s wearing his hockey jacket again. His auburn hair is windblown, cheeks ruddy as if he’d just come in from the cold. Faded blue jeans encase his impossibly long legs, and he’s got his hands hooked lightly in the tops of his pockets.
“Tucker,” I squeak.
His lips quirk up. “Sabrina.”
“W-what are you doing here?” Oh my God. I’m stuttering. What’s wrong with me?
Someone jostles me from behind. I hastily step away from the doorway to let the other students out. I’m not sure what to say, but I know what I want to do. I want to throw myself at this guy, wrap my arms around his neck, my legs around his waist, and maul him with my mouth.
But I don’t.
“You’re ignoring my texts,” he says frankly.
Guilt tickles my throat. I’m not ignoring his texts—I haven’t gotten them. Because I blocked his number.
Still, my heart does another silly flip at the knowledge that he’s been texting. I suddenly wish I knew what he’d said, but I’m not going to ask him. That’s just looking for trouble.
For some stupid reason, though, I find myself confessing, “I blocked you.”
Rather than look offended, he chuckles. “Yeah. I figured you might’ve. That’s why I tracked you down.”
I narrow my eyes. “And how did you do that, exactly? How’d you know I’d be here?”
“Sounds like a plan.” I take a seat on the bench next to him and mentally count his reps as he does them. At ten, he drops the fifty-pound kettle bell and turns to me.
“I’m doing light weights, double reps,” he explains, feeling the need to justify the two-fifty weight on the barbell.
“Should you even be lifting anything at all?” I don’t know much about the quarterback position, but it seems to me that any extra muscle could affect his throwing arm.
“Light weights only,” he reiterates.
As he lies back and reaches above him, I move to the head of the bench. With these weights, I doubt he could hurt himself, so the spotter position is sort of unnecessary. But it gives me something to do while we talk.
“Heard you hooked up with Sabrina James this fall,” I start awkwardly. “You still holding a torch for her?”
Beau tilts his head backward so he can stare at me. He’s got vivid blue eyes that I’m pretty sure half the chicks at Briar have gotten lost in. Or have dreamed about getting lost in.
“Naah, no torch here,” he finally answers. “Why? You aiming to tap that?”
Already have, dude. But I repeat what I told Sheena. “Maybe.”
“Gotcha. Well, if you’re looking for more than a hookup, she’s not your girl.”
“Yeah?”
“Oh yeah. Seriously, Tuck, she’s closed tighter than a clam. She doesn’t have time.” Beau wrinkles his forehead. “She’s got like four or five jobs and you have to fit in on her schedule. Like a doctor on call.”
“That’s good to know.”
He finishes out his reps in silence. When he’s done, he pushes upright, and I toss him a bottle of water I find next to the bench.
“Need any more help?” I ask.
“Naah, I got it.”
“See you around then.” I take a step, then glance over at him again. “Do me a favor and keep this convo between us?”
He nods. “Gotcha.”
I’m at the exit door when Beau calls out to me.
“Hey, what if I said I was still interested?”
I turn around to meet his eyes. “That’d be too bad.”
Beau chuckles. “I thought so. Well, more power to you, dude, but I’m warning you—there are easier women than Sabrina.”
“Why would I want someone easy?” I flash him a grin. “That doesn’t sound like any fun.”
5
Sabrina
I’m having one of those days. The kind of day where I’m living in a cartoon and I’m the Road Runner, speeding from one place to another without a single opportunity to sit down or breathe.
Well, technically I do a lot of sitting in my morning classes, but it’s not relaxing at all, because we’re gearing up for our con law papers which make up the entirety of my grade, and I stupidly chose one of the hardest topics—the differing legal standards applied to examine the constitutionality of laws.
Breakfast consists of a cheese croissant that I scarf down on the way from Advanced Political Theory to Media and Government. And I don’t even get to finish it, because in my haste I trip on the cobblestone path that winds through campus and end up dropping the croissant in a puddle of slush.
My stomach growls angrily during the Media lecture, then gets louder and angrier when I meet with my advisor to talk finances. I didn’t find any acceptance letters in my mailbox this morning, but I have to believe that I at least got into one of the programs I applied to. And even the second tier schools will cost a pretty penny, which means I need a scholarship. If I don’t get into a top law school, there’ll be no BigLaw job offer with its BigLaw paycheck, and that means crushing, demoralizing, endless debt.
After the meeting, I have a one-hour tutorial for my Game Theory class. It’s run by the TA, a skinny guy with Albert Einstein hair and the annoying, pretentious habit of incorporating REALLY BIG WORDS in every sentence he utters.
I’m an intelligent person, but every time I’m around this guy, I’m secretly looking up words on my phone’s dictionary app under the table. There’s really no reason for a person to use the word parsimonious when they can just say frugal—unless they’re a total douche, of course. But Steve thinks of himself as a big shot. Though rumor has it, he’s still a TA because he’s failed—twice—to defend his dissertation and can’t get an associate professorship anywhere.
Once the meeting wraps up, I shove my laptop and notebook in my messenger bag and make a beeline for the door.
I’m so hungry that I’m feeling light-headed. Fortunately, there’s a sandwich place in the lobby of the building. I fly out the door, only to skid to a stop when a familiar face greets me.
My heart somersaults so hard it’s embarrassing. I’ve spent the last day and a half forcing myself not to think about this guy, and now he’s standing here, in the flesh.
My gaze eats him up eagerly. He’s wearing his hockey jacket again. His auburn hair is windblown, cheeks ruddy as if he’d just come in from the cold. Faded blue jeans encase his impossibly long legs, and he’s got his hands hooked lightly in the tops of his pockets.
“Tucker,” I squeak.
His lips quirk up. “Sabrina.”
“W-what are you doing here?” Oh my God. I’m stuttering. What’s wrong with me?
Someone jostles me from behind. I hastily step away from the doorway to let the other students out. I’m not sure what to say, but I know what I want to do. I want to throw myself at this guy, wrap my arms around his neck, my legs around his waist, and maul him with my mouth.
But I don’t.
“You’re ignoring my texts,” he says frankly.
Guilt tickles my throat. I’m not ignoring his texts—I haven’t gotten them. Because I blocked his number.
Still, my heart does another silly flip at the knowledge that he’s been texting. I suddenly wish I knew what he’d said, but I’m not going to ask him. That’s just looking for trouble.
For some stupid reason, though, I find myself confessing, “I blocked you.”
Rather than look offended, he chuckles. “Yeah. I figured you might’ve. That’s why I tracked you down.”
I narrow my eyes. “And how did you do that, exactly? How’d you know I’d be here?”
