All big smiles, and warm eyes, and the kind of stare that twists my gut.
We might not know each other well, but over the last few years I’ve become very aware of the fact that when Foster’s around, I’m powerless to stop my gaze from finding him over and over again.
After a late lunch on Thursday, I head to the library to research. Professor Lawrence said to start thinking about my thesis now, which was admittedly a good prompt as I still have no idea what my hypothesis should be.
Still, I have plenty of time to prepare. What I don’t have time to do is become an expert on sports psychology.
Sports.
When I walked into that classroom and saw a wall of jocks—and yes, other people obviously, but mostly jocks—staring back at me I’d been so distracted I’d slammed right into Foster. Pretty Foster. With the big shoulders and easy smile and hair that seems to always look perfect.
If you need help …
I shake my head again, and if I keep it up, people are going to assume I have a behavioral tic. Patronizing Foster is a more apt descriptor. I mean, did he have to be so distracting and smug during the class? Couldn’t he tell I was trying to concentrate?
I drop my laptop onto the table a little louder than I intend, and the girl a few seats down jumps. I shoot her an apologetic smile at my miscalculation, feeling my cheeks heat. She doesn’t smile back or nod, only stares at me, her expression unchanged, and I quickly drop my messenger bag and take a seat before I cause her any more annoyance.
Don’t mind me. I’m over here, attempting to be invisible.
I log onto the CU intranet. The first sports psychology assessment of the year is focused on an area of discipline I understand the least. Different people working together—different testosterone-driven alpha males—attempting to comply with a common goal. The pieces aren’t sitting right in my brain.
Theoretically it all makes sense, but how that translates to a practical environment …
As I’m searching the library database for anything I can find about team mentality, the girl moves one chair closer. I’m not sure if I’m meant to notice or not so I keep my attention on my screen.
“You seem nice.”
I blink and glance over. Her scowl hasn’t lessened, and her tufts of short black hair give the impression she cut it herself. “I am nice.”
She chews on her thumb nail, and I tilt my head.
“You don’t look very nice. Is it an intimidation technique?”
Her eyebrows jump up and I stop and think about the words I just said. I think this is one of those times where stating my observations out loud is not considered socially acceptable conversation.
She responds anyway. “Resting bitch face.”
“Oh. Why?”
“I can’t help it.”
“I think an expression is a reflection of our thoughts.”
“So you’re saying I can help it?”
“I don’t know.” I frown. “Can you?”
“Can you? You look like you’re thinking about baby unicorns. Your face is so sweet I could gag.”
Her voice hasn’t changed from the flat monotone, but something about her feels like a challenge. Even I know you’re not supposed to tell people their face makes you want to barf, so what does it say about me that her comment gets a smile? “And your face looks like it scares small children.”
For the first time her down-turned lips twitch. “I like you.”
“Okay,” I say, not sure where that came from.
“Okay.”
She turns back to the book she’s reading and apparently that’s that.
I puzzle over her for a minute, wondering what that was.
She slides a chair closer, leaving only three between us. “You can stop looking at me now.”
I quickly turn back to my laptop and smile. “You’re very odd,” I whisper.
“I should hope so.”
She doesn’t talk to me again, and it’s not until an hour later when my phone vibrates on the desk that I look up and realize she’s gone. I’m not sure I can classify what happened as a friendly conversation, but I managed to talk to someone new and not completely screw it up.
I will take that as an excellent sign.
Professor Lawrence’s name shows on the display. I scramble to shove everything into my laptop bag and hurry out of the library. The call drops out before I clear the doors so I hurry to call him back.
“This is Zach,” I say as soon as he answers.
“Good, I was hoping to catch you.” His voice is kind like always, and it’s