Too much. Abort. Abort.
He says, “I just want you to know that I get it. I get why you want nothing to do with me or football. I’ve seen enough from guys like Abrams and Moore to get your hesitance.” I lift my chin to show their names don’t bother me. “So anyway, I just wanted to let you off the hook. I understand, and . . . it’s cool.”
He pauses for a few moments, then nods his head and walks away. It’s not until he’s completely out of my sight that I let myself acknowledge the disappointment weighing heavy on my chest. A part of me had wanted him to push again, to poke and prod my reasoning until I had a decent excuse to give in.
When Katelyn’s eyes meet mine as I cross the library toward the exit, I straighten my shoulders because, disappointment or not . . . this is for the best.
I SPENT AN hour whining to Stella about how boring my first day at the Learning Lab was, only to find myself wishing for more boring when Carson McClain walks in on my second day. It’s late, with only an hour left before we close for the night, and there are only three tutors working. I’m the only one not already with another student. He’s wearing university sweats and a Rusk T-shirt. His hair is wet, and I’m willing to bet he just came straight from the practice. I don’t think he sees me. He just checks in at the front, stalks through the room, takes a seat at the station in the far corner of the lab, and starts pulling out his books and things.
I hesitate . . . just for a moment. Then I suck it up and go do my job.
“Can I help you?”
He doesn’t look up as he opens an English textbook and flips through a spiral covered in chicken-scratch writing. He smells fresh and clean and masculine, and I tell myself I should take a step back. I don’t.
“Yeah, I have to do an outline for my . . .”
He looks up and trails off.
He doesn’t say anything, but his expression tightens and his light blue eyes don’t dance the way they usually do.
“Hi,” I say, since he doesn’t seem too keen to begin the conversation.
“Never mind,” he says. “I think I’ve got it on my own.”
He looks down, and those words are like a punch to the chest. So much for him being “cool” with it. I look down at the page he’s turned to in his textbook.
“Working on an outline?” That’s right up my alley. If he’d been doing math, I’d have a good reason to walk away. “What kind of paper is it? Persuasive? Informative?” He doesn’t answer. “Did the professor say if the outline required complete sentences or just subjects?”
He stops writing whatever illegible thing he’s been scratching out in his notebook. “Dallas. I’ve got this. I don’t need your help.”
Stupid stubborn boy.
“Yeah. Riiiight. That’s why you came to the Learning Lab instead of just going to the library. Listen, we’re only open for another”—I checked my watch—“fifty minutes. And both Elizabeths are busy helping other students. You can wait, but there’s no guarantee either will be done in time to help you.”
“Both Elizabeths?”
I point to the other tutor closest to us, a pretty Latina girl with the longest eyelashes I’ve ever seen in my life. “Elizabeth A.” Then I gesture to the petite blonde on the other side of the room. “Elizabeth B.”
“How did you decide which one is A and which one is B? That seems a little unfair.”
I raise an eyebrow and point at the girls again. “Elizabeth Alvarez. Elizabeth Banner.” Then I cross my arms over my chest and give him my best smirk.
The corners of his lips tug up toward a smile for half a second before his mouth goes flat again.
He closes his spiral and his textbook and says, “I’ll just head home.”
“Seriously?”
“I’m pretty tired from practice.” He emphasizes the word, and I know he’s trying to get me to back off.
But . . . well . . . I do stubborn like Lady Gaga does weird, and the fact that he wants me to leave him alone makes me even less inclined to do it.
“Don’t be stupid, Carson.”
His jaw tightens, and he begins stuffing his things back into his bag.
Okay . . . so maybe calling him stupid when he came for tutoring help wasn’t the best word choice, but I’m not exactly known for being sensitive and polite.
“I’m sorry. That came out wrong. Just . . . stay.”
“It’s fine, Dallas. I’ll see you around.”
Then he’s gone.
And I want to punch myself in the jugular.
Chapter 12
Carson
I’m fine with my decision to walk out, right up until the moment I sit down on my couch and attempt to resume working on my outline by myself.
The professor has us doing outlines for an informative paper on a current event of our choice. I picked a random headline off CNN.com, and after I type up all the notes I’d scribbled down by hand, I’m left with a bare-bones outline that I may or may not have done correctly. I still have no idea what to put for all the A and B and C lines, let alone the i’s below those.
And it’s due tomorrow.
That’s a big giant f**k if there ever was one.
I pick up my phone and dial Ryan. He’s taken to showing up during most of my extra workouts, and we talk during those. I’m not sure I would really qualify us as friends yet. But he’s my only choice, really.
It rings and rings, and I’m left with his voice mail.