Page 8 of Lovefool

I don’t know how I’ll be able to contact her again. I could follow her on Instagram, sure, but that might raise some suspicion from my friends. I love my inner hockey circle to death, but if I give them even the slightest impression that I’m interested in someone, they’ll start sticking their noses in places they don’t belong.

I mean, I have to run into Lake on campus at some point, right? Minnesota University isn’t that big. Just, like, twenty thousand acres and then some.

The attraction was definitely there. It took everything in my power not to pop a boner while she was standing in front of me, half-naked, with curves that I could only fantasize about running my hands over. Did I mention she has the cutest cluster of stars tattooed right over her left ribcage?

Lake Capitano is the epitome of perfection. If I don’t get these feelings of infatuation under control, I’m going to end up blindly clawing my way through this semester.

I really hope I see her again. My sanity depends on it.

Making my way over to the rink for early morning practice, I slog along with my twenty-pound duffel hanging off my shoulder, unwrapping an overly expensive breakfast sandwich from the quad’s main building. Usually, a protein shake is all I need to get the day started, but I was too busy spending the better half of my morning poring over Lake’s well-tailored Instagram to make one.

Lots of thrift store pictures, the occasional selfie, one or two photos of her with some of her friends; thankfully no retina-scorching images of her ex-boyfriend. Unlike a lot of the students here, it seems like she only posts when she wants to—not when it’s expected of her. She’s not trying to be some internet celebrity that everyone else emulates. And that may sound depressing, but Minnesota University is a flashy school. Façades are currency, and deceit is a concealed undercurrent.

I break off a piece of my steaming English muffin before squishing it into my mouth. I continue to trudge across campus, parting a wave of students with the silent supplication of my body. People tend to do that when you’re a whopping six foot five and two hundred fifty pounds.

It takes me a second to register the slight tug on my backpack, but when I do, I whip around to find Lake standing before me, offering me my folded clothes. I forgot how small she is. I mean, realistically, she’s average height, but I’m kind of used to being the most gargantuan person in the room.

She’s here. Am I dreaming? Fuck, I don’t care if I am. Don’t wake me up.

“Hi,” she greets, nestled in a black-and-white-striped sweater, complete with tiny, deliberate tears in the thread. The tip of her nose is red and windbitten, and her minty breath spiders into the atmosphere in a tendril of semitranslucent white.

Maple Grove is going through a cold winter. As attested by my T-shirt and shorts, obviously.

“You’re—I—hi.” A warm and fuzzy feeling blossoms in the pit of my belly, where my half-digested breakfast sits like a brick. I feel super clammy. My heart won’t stop body-slamming against my ribs. My synapses are misfiring on every front.

Why do I get so twisted up when I’m around her? We barely know each other.

“Sorry to ambush you like this. I wanted to return your clothes as soon as possible. I, uh, washed them and everything,” she says, nudging the cotton olive branch closer to me.

A smile tugs at the corners of my mouth. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“I wanted to. Plus, it was the least I could do to repay you.”

When I reach out to reclaim possession of my clothes, our hands brush on accident, and a lance of electricity zaps up my arm. These sparks are waiting to burst into flames, and I fear for the hellfire that I’m about to unleash if I give in to my basal desires. Stomping them out would be as fruitless as a sinner’s prayer. Blasphemous, even.

A croak fizzles in my throat. “It’s no big deal, really. How did you find me?”

“Sutton, I could see the top of your head all the way from the science building. You’re not hard to track down.” She chuckles, and fuck, does that sweet timbre do something terrible to my self-control. Buffs it down until there’s no fortified barrier standing between me and animalistic impulse.

“Oh.”

“Mm-hm. I have a pretty full class schedule today, so I didn’t think I’d get another chance to speak with you.”

I arch one of my brows in confusion. “What class do you have this early in the morning?”

She ascends on her tiptoes, and maybe it’s the fifty-degree weather or my lack of sustenance or an unfortunate amalgamation of both, but I foolishly think she’s about to kiss me when she swats at the crumbs in my beard. She doesn’t seem to be disgusted though.

Blood deluges my cheeks with the ferocity of water rushing through a broken dam.

“Gender and Sexuality with Mrs. Kaminsky.”

“That sounds like a pretty calm way to start off the day,” I comment.

Ugh. Am I seriously making small talk right now? I’m going to bore this girl to death. She has every opportunity to turn and run now that there’s no debt between us. Not that…not that returning my clothes was something she had to do. I was kind of hoping she’d keep them and condition herself to associate my smell with all those warm, fuzzy feelings. Pavlov-style.

“Things actually get pretty heated during discussion time. Lots of pent-up rage over the continuous mistreatment of women in society.”

My spine goes ramrod straight. “Oh, that’s…right…”