After my routine with Marcia, I head to the changing rooms where I remove my makeup and change into a short athletic skirt and a hoodie. I brush my hair up into a high ponytail, then check my phone, but there’s no reply from Channing.
I sigh and scroll on Instagram, stopping when I see that Hawthorne blew out Boston College, 5 to 0. Eric scored four of the goals. A slow smile curls my lips as I text him.
U have a new nickname. They’re calling u The Miracle on Twitter. Don’t let it go 2 ur head.
His reply is immediate. U r welcome. I’m awesome.
I snort, then send him a selfie of me smirking at him with a thumb’s up sign.
We had coffee together in the student center last week. It was awkward at first but lessened the more we chatted. We talked about hockey, law school, and my seminar about Sparrow Lake. Light and easy. He bought me a cinnamon bun I swore I didn’t want, but he insisted I have it.
Before we realized it, two hours had passed, and we’d missed our next classes.
He sends me a pic of him in the locker room, sans shirt.
Holy shit. Alrighty then.
I blink at the bulging pecs, the defined six-pack, the luscious golden skin of his chest. As a redhead, you think he’d be pale, but he isn’t. Nope. He’s tawny like the Lion he is.
There’s a low-lidded, sexy look in his eyes as he looks at the camera.
I let out a soft whistle.
U got a puck bunny waiting 4 u? Tillie?
Three dots appear, then disappear, until a text comes through. No.
Interesting.
I send him a row of sad emojis.
My phone rings, startling me, and I answer it. “Eric? Hey!” Laughter comes from me as a thrill zips down my spine.
“Yeah, hey.” I hear the muffled sound of male voices in the background, yelling and talking over each other.
“Congrats on the win. Did your parents come in?”
“Nah, my dad is out of town and Mom isn’t feeling well.”
I hear the disappointment in his voice, and my heart does a fluttering thing, hurting for him.
“You’re the first non-hockey person to congratulate me,” he continues. “I just wanted to call and say I appreciate it.”
“Well, I’m going to catch the game on ESPN later. You scored 4 points!”
“Yeah, I’m in a groove. I feel focused. For once.” He laughs.
“Your mind is all kittens and unicorns, huh?”
“Hardly.” He pauses. “So, you’re working tonight?”
I guess he saw where I was in the pic I sent. “I’m getting off early. We’re dead because of the game.”
Marcia starts to change for her next routine. She’s been sitting next to me doing her makeup. “Tell college boy hello for me,” she says. “Also he’s sexy. You banging him?”
“No,” I whisper to her under my breath. “Stop.”
“Mm-hmm,” she replies.
Eric laughs. “I heard her. Tell her hi. We could do something if you’re free.”
I chew my lips, wishing I hadn’t already texted Channing. “Oh, dang. I have plans.”
“Ah. Not surprised. Maybe next time, yeah?”
I clench the phone tight, not wanting to let him go. “Yeah. For sure.”
We say goodbye and get off.
Later, I’m mulling about missing out on seeing Eric as I sit in the kitchen area for the staff at the club. The TV is on and I watch highlights of the game as I eat pizza one of the cooks made. Earlier, I gabbed with Eddie and talked to Marcia when she took her break. When I check the time, I gasp. It’s been two hours since I texted Channing.
I step outside in my Converse, shivering in the autumn chill. It’s a little before midnight, which means the Kappas are waist-deep in beer and women.
I head down the street and type out a text to Channing.
R u okay? Never mind getting me.
I walk the few blocks to Frat Row and head to the Kappa house, stopping in front of it.
Hovering on the sidewalk, I weigh my options. There’s nothing stopping me from going in. Sure, it’ll suck, because most of them don’t like me. Plus, I might see Parker or Scott. They might toss me out.
A prickle tiptoes down my spine. A tug, or an inkling, tells me to go inside.
I flip up the hoodie and keep my head low as I take the steps up to the porch and enter the house.
The first floor of the mansion is beautiful with mahogany paneling and a dust-covered chandelier that looks like something out of Victorian England—except for the drunk partiers dancing beneath it.
A fog machine puffs out smoke, reminding me of the strip club. A strobe light flashes, and I squint between each mad blink to check out the people. The party has dissolved into chaos. I catch a guy in the corner, eyes rolling back as some girl bobs her mouth on his cock. Another girl dances in her bra and panties, Red’s brunette friend. My mouth compresses.