First Chapter: Showstopper
Adam
My first day at a new school, and I’m going to be late for class if this fucking line doesn’t start moving.
There’s two people behind the counter at the registrar’s office, not that that’s helping things move any faster. A girl with hair that’s somewhere between pink and purple and a guy who’s currently got his back to me. Work-study drones, probably. Neither one of them seems very happy. Not that I blame them. I wouldn’t be happy if I had to handle pissed-off students who want to change their fucked-up class schedules all day, like me. There’s no way work-study pays enough to deal with that kind of crap.
Thank fuck my athletic scholarship plus the money my parents set aside for my education means I don’t have to work, on campus or off. It’s hard enough keeping up with school and hockey without the extra added pressure of having to hold down a job.
The girl finishes with the student she’s assisting, and I step up to the counter, expecting it to be my turn. Finally. But instead, she disappears through a door to who knows where, meaning I’m stuck waiting for the guy to be done with the kid he’s helping and watching my chances of getting my schedule fixed in time for me to get to class vanish as fast as pink-haired girl. Or purple-haired girl.
Whatever. Either way, I’m screwed.
I clear my throat, hoping that will get Work-Study Guy to pick up the pace. I don’t want to, but I can’t help but ogle him a little on the sly. He’s tall, at least six feet, with shaggy rust-brown hair that brushes the collar of his slim-fit, floral button-down. I can’t see his face because he’s got his back turned to me, flipping through some papers on one of the desks behind the counter that separates the general public from the employees at the registrar’s office.
But what I do see, I like. Muscular shoulders. Trim hips. An ass that fills out his jeans nicely. And don’t get me started on his forearms. The way they ripple and flex as he riffles through the papers. Damn. He may not be jacked like my teammates, but he obviously spends some time in the gym.
In short, just my type.
I squash that thought like an opposing forward against the boards. The last thing my bisexual ass needs is to be lusting after one of my fellow students on day one at my new school. Especially when that’s what got me in trouble at my last one.
“Got it.” Work-Study Guy turns and hands a paper to the kid at the counter, and holy hot shit if the full frontal view isn’t as mouthwatering as the back. His face is like one of those Roman statues we studied in the art and archaeology class I took last semester to fill one of my gen ed requirements. High cheekbones. Full lips. Strong, square jawline.
But his eyes—no cold, marble statute could capture them. Wide and deep set and a color I can’t quite describe. Sort of a blue/gray/green.
They’re hard to look away from, but I manage—eventually—if only because I want to check out the rest of the package. The shirt doesn’t hide the fact that he’s sporting some seriously developed pecs and firm, flat abs—probably a six-pack, if not an eight. And if I thought the jeans hugged his backside perfectly, that’s got nothing on what they’re doing for his thighs and, uh, groin area.
Is it possible to be hot and cold at the same time? Because that’s how I feel now. My cheeks are flushed, my palms are clammy, and my ability to form a complete sentence—or even one intelligible word—has suddenly and magically disappeared.
“You’re all set,” he says to the kid next to me, who I’m guessing is a freshman from the baby face and the peach fuzz on his chin. “Just show that transfer slip to your psych professor.”
“Thanks, man. You’re a lifesaver. I don’t know what I was thinking signing up for organic chemistry first semester.”
“Anytime. That’s what we’re here for.”
The kid leaves, and Hot Work-Study Guy turns those eyes on me. “Can I help you?”
“I have a problem,” I say, trying to sound polite and professional, not hostile. Or horny. “With my class schedule.”
“That’s what they all say. But it’s almost always user error.” He leans against the counter and looks at me like I’m smoking something funny. “I need to see that if you want my help.”
He nods at my schedule, which I’m still clutching like it’s one of Willy Wonka’s goddamn golden tickets.
“Uh, right.”
I hand it over, and he studies it for a second before he turns to the computer on the counter next to him and starts two-finger typing.
“Nope,” he says after a minute, handing the schedule back to me. “No mistake.”
“There has to be. I never signed up for a class called—” I glance down at the paper that’s back in my hand. “Improv 101. I don’t even know what improv is.”
“It’s short for improvisation. It’s a form of live theater where the plot, characters, and dialogue are made up in the moment,” Hot Work-Study Guy explains.
“Okay, now I’m one hundred percent positive I didn’t register for that class.”
There’s no way in hell I’d voluntarily do any kind of theater, especially not something where I’m not sure what’s happening from one minute to the next. I’ll save my performing for the ice, where the only things that come flying at me are pucks and the occasional defenseman. Those I know how to handle.
Hot Work-Study Guy taps the computer screen, which apparently holds the secrets of the universe. “You got put in there because your first choice for your arts and humanities elective was full. As was your second choice. And your third.”
“Isn’t there anything else I can take? An English class, maybe? Or philosophy?” Hell, I’d even settle for public speaking. At least there I’d be reciting stuff I prepared in advance.
He taps a few more keys, then shakes his head. “Nope. The only other classes that would work with the rest of your schedule are filled up.”
“What about that psych class the guy who just left transferred into?”
“He got the last spot. Sorry,” Hot Work-Study Guy says, clearly not one fucking bit remorseful.
Fuck. Being a transfer student sucks. Not only do I have to try to fit in at a new school, on a new team, I get last pick of classes. Leaving me with crap like improv. I almost had the same problem with housing until a spot opened up for me in the hockey house, where most of the team lives.
“Fine. I’ll just drop it then.”
“You could do that,” Hot Work-Study Guy agrees. “But then you’d be three credits shy of full-time enrollment. Which means you can kiss any scholarships you’ve got goodbye.”
“Fuck.”
This time I say it out loud, making Hot Work-Study Guy smirk. Which, unfortunately, doesn’t make him any less attractive. He’s got the whole edgy bad boy thing going for him, a look that’s enhanced by the shiny silver hoop through the top of his left ear.
Dammit, why do I always go for the bad boys? Chase was a bad boy too. If fighting were allowed in college hockey, he’d have spent more time in the penalty box than on the ice. Once, just once, I wish my dick would stand at attention for a guy with a military-style haircut and wearing a V-neck sweater, perfectly pressed khakis, and Top-Siders.
“What have you got against improv?” Hot Work-Study Guy asks, snapping me back to my present problem.
“Nothing.” I shove my schedule back in my backpack. “For other people.”
“I get it.” Can a smirk get smirkier? If so, his does. “You’ve got performance anxiety.”
My dirty mind immediately goes to the bedroom, where I’m fairly confident in my abilities. “Performance anxiety?”
“You can’t stand the thought of getting up on stage in front of everyone.”
Oh, right. That kind of performance anxiety. Can’t argue with him there. So I do a 180 and dodge his implication. “I perform for crowds all the time. But when I do it, it’s on the ice.”
“Ah, you’re one of those.” He says the last word like it’s dog shit on the bottom of his shoe.
My familiar internal defenses slide into place like elevator doors. “One of what?”
“A hockey player.”
“Got something against hockey players?” I shoot his accusation right back at him.
“Depends.”
I take the bait. “On what?”
He leans across the counter and drops his voice to a whisper. “On whether they’re over me, under me, or trying to get me to change their class schedule even though there’s nothing available.”
Did he have to go there? Now I’m picturing us. Together. Naked. Which, I repeat, is not in the plan for this year. School and hockey. That’s all I’ve got room for.
I take a step back, needing to put some space between us even though we’re separated by four feet of Formica. “Is that psych class really full, or are you messing with me because I’m a jock?”
It wouldn’t be the first time someone’s held a grudge against me because I’m an athlete. People think we have it made, but we get our share of stereotyping and discrimination too. We’re not all dumb. We don’t only take gut classes like Mickey Mouse Math and Needlepoint 101. And most of us work our asses off, in class and on the ice. Or the field or the court or wherever.
He shrugs. “Believe what you want to believe, but I can’t change your schedule.”
“Can’t or won’t?”
“Does it matter? End result’s the same.”
I glare at him, although the heat in my gaze is probably equal parts annoyance and attraction. “So you’re saying my options are drop the class and lose my scholarship or stick it out and risk public humiliation?”
“That about sums it up, Puck Boy.”
“Thanks for nothing,” I grumble, hiking my backpack up on my shoulder and heading for the door. I’m wasting my time here with Hot Work-Study Guy. He may be hot, but he’s also a jock-hating jerk. Maybe I’ll have better luck talking to Coach. I know he’s helped a couple of guys in the hockey house with schedule problems.
“Wait.”
I turn to see Hot Work-Study Guy vaulting over the counter. That can’t be in the employee manual. But I have to admit, it’s damned sexy. Like Channing Tatum and Jonah Hill doing that sick double slide across the hood of a limo in 21 Jump Street.
“What?”
For a split second, I get the feeling he’s going to ask me out. Which is ridiculous. No one at Moo U—what the students and locals call Burlington University—knows I’m bi. Although that didn’t stop him from flirting with me. He’s definitely been giving off mixed signals. One minute, I swear he can’t stand me. The next, he’s acting like he wants to take me behind the counter and fuck me. Maybe it’s both, and he’s looking for a good hate fuck. Something past me would sign right up for. But present me knows better.
I think.
He sticks his thumbs in the pockets of his painted-on jeans and rocks back and forth on the heels of his oxfords. “If you really want to switch to another class, keep checking back with us. People drop all the time. Maybe something else will open up.”
Okay, so not looking to hate fuck me, then. I may be at a new school, but clearly I’m the same old Adam. Misreading the signs. Again. Different day, same shit.
“Thanks,” I say, my emotions bouncing between disappointment and relief. Disappointed in myself for falling into the same, familiar patterns. In Hot Work-Study Guy for not feeling whatever it is I’m feeling. And at the same time, I’m relieved he’s not. No temptation for me to fuck up even further. “I’ll do that.”
“But I hope you’ll change your mind and give improv a chance,” he continues. “You might even be good at it. Hockey’s a pretty fast game, and players have to think on their feet, right? That’s what improvisation is all about.”
“You seem to know a lot about improv.” And a little about hockey, too. Wonder how that happened. Maybe a hockey player broke his heart, and that’s why he’s got it in for jocks.
He shrugs. “Some.”
“Let me guess. You’re a theater major.”
Moo U has one of the best theater departments in the Northeast. Not that that was a factor in my decision to transfer. It also has one of the top hockey teams in the country. And a pretty good business department too. That’s my major. A little on the dry side, but I figure it’ll come in handy when I’m making the big bucks in the NHL.
That’s not false pride talking. I’ve already been drafted by the Brooklyn Barons. And I want to be able to handle my own finances. Or at least know when someone’s trying to screw me over. I’ve heard too many stories about professional athletes being taken advantage of by shady agents and advisors.
Hot Work-Study Guy winks and shoots finger guns at me. “Got it in one. Brains and brawn. The total package.”
My pulse skitters. Is he flirting with me again? Or am I imagining things?
I decide it’s safest not to stick around and find out.
“I’ll think about the class,” I lie, giving him a polite nod before I turn my back on him and sprint for the door. It’s almost three. I’m already late for my accounting class, but if I hurry, I might catch Coach in his office at the arena before practice.
“You do that, Puck Boy,” Hot Work-Study Guy calls after me. “See you around.”
I shake my head as the door swings shut behind me. He’s not wrong. It’s a small campus. There’s a good chance our paths will cross on occasion. But when they do, I’ll be running the other way. Chicken? Maybe. I prefer to think of it as self-preservation.
School and skating. No room for anything—or anyone—else.