The Goal
Page 12
“I asked my advisor for your schedule.”
My jaw falls open. “And she gave it to you?”
“He, actually. And yep, he was happy to do it.”
Disbelief and indignation mingle in my blood. What the hell? The faculty can’t just hand out students’ schedules to anyone who asks for them, right? That’s a violation of privacy. I grit my teeth and decide that the moment I pass the bar, my first order of legal business will be suing this stupid college.
“Did he give you my transcript too?” I mutter.
“No. And don’t worry, I’m sure your schedule isn’t being passed around in flier-form around campus. He only gave it to me because I play hockey.”
“That’s supposed to make me feel better? The reminder that you’re a privileged jackass who gets special treatment because you skate around on the ice and win trophies?”
I take off walking, my pace brisk, but he’s big enough that his strides eat up the ground and he’s beside me in a heartbeat.
“I’m sorry.” He sounds genuinely regretful. “If it helps, I don’t normally play the athlete card to get favors. Hell, I could’ve asked Dean for your schedule, but I figured you’d like that even less.”
He’s right about that. The thought of Tucker talking to Dean Di Laurentis about me makes my skin crawl.
“Fine. Well, you tracked me down. What do you want, Tucker?” I walk faster.
“What’s the hurry, darlin’?”
“My life,” I mumble.
“What?”
“I’m always in a hurry,” I clarify. “I’ve got twenty minutes to get some food in me before my next class.”
We reach the lobby, where I instantly get in line at the sandwich stand, scanning the menu on the wall. The student in front of us leaves the counter before Tucker can speak. I hurriedly step forward to place my order. When I reach into my bag for my wallet, Tucker’s hand drops over mine.
“I’ve got this,” he says, already drawing a twenty-dollar bill from his brown leather wallet.
I don’t know why, but that annoys me even more. “First drinks at Malone’s, and now lunch? What, you’re trying to show off? Making sure I know you’ve got cash to spare?”
Hurt flickers in his deep brown eyes.
Fuck. I don’t know why I’m antagonizing him. It’s just…him showing up here, admitting he pulled favors to find me, paying for my lunch…
It was supposed to be a one-time thing, and now he’s in my face and I don’t like it.
No, that’s not true. I love having his face near mine. He’s so sexy, and he smells so good, like sandalwood and citrus. I want to bury my nose in the strong column of his neck and inhale him until I get a contact high.
But there’s no time for that. Time is a concept that doesn’t exist in my life, and John Tucker is too big a distraction.
“I’m paying for your lunch because that’s the way my mama raised me,” he says quietly. “Call me old-fashioned if you want, but that’s how I roll.”
I gulp down another rush of guilt. “I’m sorry.” My voice shakes slightly. “Thank you for lunch. I appreciate it.”
We edge to the other end of the counter, waiting in silence as a curly-haired girl prepares my ham and Swiss sandwich. She wraps it up for me, and I tuck it under my arm while uncapping the Diet Coke I’d ordered. Then we’re on the move again. Tucker follows me out the door, watching in amusement as I try to juggle my drink and messenger bag and unwrap my sandwich at the same time.
“Let me hold this for you.” He takes the bottle from my hand. There’s a gentleness on his face as he watches me sink my teeth into the lightly toasted rye bread.
I barely chew before I’m taking a second bite, which makes him laugh. “Hungry?” he teases.
“Famished,” I admit, and I don’t even care that I’m being rude by talking with my mouth full.
I quickly descend the wide steps. Again, he keeps up with me.
“You shouldn’t eat while you walk,” he advises.
“No time. My next class is all the way across campus, so—hey!” I exclaim when he takes my arm and drags me away from the path. “What are you doing?”
Ignoring my protests, he leads me to one of the wrought-iron benches on the lawn. It hasn’t snowed yet this winter, but the grass is covered with a silver layer of frost. Tucker forces me to sit, then drops down beside me and plants one hand on my knee, as if he’s afraid I might bolt. Which I was totally considering doing before that big hand made contact. The heat of it sears through my tights and warms my core.
“Eat,” he says gently. “You’re allowed to give yourself two minutes to recharge, darlin’.”
I find myself obeying, same way I obeyed the other night when he told me to ride his face, when he ordered me to come. A shiver shimmies up my spine. God, why can’t I get this guy out of my head?
“What did you text me?” I blurt out.
He gives a mysterious smile. “Guess you’ll never know.”
Despite myself, I smile back. “It was something sexy, wasn’t it?”
He whistles innocently.
“It was!” I accuse, and then experience a jolt of self-directed recrimination, because, damn it, I bet it was filthy and delicious and wonderful.
“Listen, I’m not going to take up much of your time,” he says. “I know you’re busy. I know you commute from Boston. I know you have a few jobs—”
“Two,” I correct. My head tips in challenge. “And how would you know that?”
He shrugs. “I’ve been asking around.”
He has? Crap. As flattering as that is, I’m kind of scared to know who he’s been asking and what they’ve been telling him. Aside from Hope and Carin, I don’t spend much time with my peers. I know I come off as aloof at times—
Fine, bitchy. Aloof is just a nice word for bitchy. And while I’m not thrilled that my classmates think I’m a bitch, there’s not much I can do about that. I don’t have the time or energy to make small talk, or to grab coffee after class, or to pretend that I have anything in common with the wealthy, elitist kids that comprise most of this college.
“The point,” he finishes, “is that I get it, okay? You’re swamped, and I’m not asking you to wear my varsity jacket and my class ring and be my steady girl.”
My jaw falls open. “And she gave it to you?”
“He, actually. And yep, he was happy to do it.”
Disbelief and indignation mingle in my blood. What the hell? The faculty can’t just hand out students’ schedules to anyone who asks for them, right? That’s a violation of privacy. I grit my teeth and decide that the moment I pass the bar, my first order of legal business will be suing this stupid college.
“Did he give you my transcript too?” I mutter.
“No. And don’t worry, I’m sure your schedule isn’t being passed around in flier-form around campus. He only gave it to me because I play hockey.”
“That’s supposed to make me feel better? The reminder that you’re a privileged jackass who gets special treatment because you skate around on the ice and win trophies?”
I take off walking, my pace brisk, but he’s big enough that his strides eat up the ground and he’s beside me in a heartbeat.
“I’m sorry.” He sounds genuinely regretful. “If it helps, I don’t normally play the athlete card to get favors. Hell, I could’ve asked Dean for your schedule, but I figured you’d like that even less.”
He’s right about that. The thought of Tucker talking to Dean Di Laurentis about me makes my skin crawl.
“Fine. Well, you tracked me down. What do you want, Tucker?” I walk faster.
“What’s the hurry, darlin’?”
“My life,” I mumble.
“What?”
“I’m always in a hurry,” I clarify. “I’ve got twenty minutes to get some food in me before my next class.”
We reach the lobby, where I instantly get in line at the sandwich stand, scanning the menu on the wall. The student in front of us leaves the counter before Tucker can speak. I hurriedly step forward to place my order. When I reach into my bag for my wallet, Tucker’s hand drops over mine.
“I’ve got this,” he says, already drawing a twenty-dollar bill from his brown leather wallet.
I don’t know why, but that annoys me even more. “First drinks at Malone’s, and now lunch? What, you’re trying to show off? Making sure I know you’ve got cash to spare?”
Hurt flickers in his deep brown eyes.
Fuck. I don’t know why I’m antagonizing him. It’s just…him showing up here, admitting he pulled favors to find me, paying for my lunch…
It was supposed to be a one-time thing, and now he’s in my face and I don’t like it.
No, that’s not true. I love having his face near mine. He’s so sexy, and he smells so good, like sandalwood and citrus. I want to bury my nose in the strong column of his neck and inhale him until I get a contact high.
But there’s no time for that. Time is a concept that doesn’t exist in my life, and John Tucker is too big a distraction.
“I’m paying for your lunch because that’s the way my mama raised me,” he says quietly. “Call me old-fashioned if you want, but that’s how I roll.”
I gulp down another rush of guilt. “I’m sorry.” My voice shakes slightly. “Thank you for lunch. I appreciate it.”
We edge to the other end of the counter, waiting in silence as a curly-haired girl prepares my ham and Swiss sandwich. She wraps it up for me, and I tuck it under my arm while uncapping the Diet Coke I’d ordered. Then we’re on the move again. Tucker follows me out the door, watching in amusement as I try to juggle my drink and messenger bag and unwrap my sandwich at the same time.
“Let me hold this for you.” He takes the bottle from my hand. There’s a gentleness on his face as he watches me sink my teeth into the lightly toasted rye bread.
I barely chew before I’m taking a second bite, which makes him laugh. “Hungry?” he teases.
“Famished,” I admit, and I don’t even care that I’m being rude by talking with my mouth full.
I quickly descend the wide steps. Again, he keeps up with me.
“You shouldn’t eat while you walk,” he advises.
“No time. My next class is all the way across campus, so—hey!” I exclaim when he takes my arm and drags me away from the path. “What are you doing?”
Ignoring my protests, he leads me to one of the wrought-iron benches on the lawn. It hasn’t snowed yet this winter, but the grass is covered with a silver layer of frost. Tucker forces me to sit, then drops down beside me and plants one hand on my knee, as if he’s afraid I might bolt. Which I was totally considering doing before that big hand made contact. The heat of it sears through my tights and warms my core.
“Eat,” he says gently. “You’re allowed to give yourself two minutes to recharge, darlin’.”
I find myself obeying, same way I obeyed the other night when he told me to ride his face, when he ordered me to come. A shiver shimmies up my spine. God, why can’t I get this guy out of my head?
“What did you text me?” I blurt out.
He gives a mysterious smile. “Guess you’ll never know.”
Despite myself, I smile back. “It was something sexy, wasn’t it?”
He whistles innocently.
“It was!” I accuse, and then experience a jolt of self-directed recrimination, because, damn it, I bet it was filthy and delicious and wonderful.
“Listen, I’m not going to take up much of your time,” he says. “I know you’re busy. I know you commute from Boston. I know you have a few jobs—”
“Two,” I correct. My head tips in challenge. “And how would you know that?”
He shrugs. “I’ve been asking around.”
He has? Crap. As flattering as that is, I’m kind of scared to know who he’s been asking and what they’ve been telling him. Aside from Hope and Carin, I don’t spend much time with my peers. I know I come off as aloof at times—
Fine, bitchy. Aloof is just a nice word for bitchy. And while I’m not thrilled that my classmates think I’m a bitch, there’s not much I can do about that. I don’t have the time or energy to make small talk, or to grab coffee after class, or to pretend that I have anything in common with the wealthy, elitist kids that comprise most of this college.
“The point,” he finishes, “is that I get it, okay? You’re swamped, and I’m not asking you to wear my varsity jacket and my class ring and be my steady girl.”
