Page 84 of The Cheerleader

“Are you crazy? We’re on a plane. And besides, you have no right to say things like that to me⁠—”

He laughs. “You said it, princess.”

I’m stunned that he’s laughing—at me—and horrified that he’s right. Sort of.

I pull away from him and walk back down the aisle, wishing I could run, and take my seat next to Liz.

“What did Bryan have to say?” she asks.

Shit. She knows he followed me back there. My conscience rears up, threatening to strangle me, making it hard to speak. There’s no accusation in her voice, no hint of anything but curiosity. I take a deep breath.

“Nothing. He was asking about the gorilla and the Superman, making some kind of wisecrack.” I totally make up a wild fib with too little trouble, and that makes my conscience double up on twisting my gut into a knot that lasts the entire way home.

When we get off the plane, I don’t look back, swearing I’m going to avoid Bryan Granger for the rest of this trip. For the rest of the season and the semester and the whole year.

Except for English comp class and tutoring. Shit.

Chapter Twenty-One

Bryan

Is it strange that I can forget about the lopsided loss to Navy, but I can’t get the picture of Susie being hauled across the field by a couple of their mascots, with that panicked look on her face, out of my head?

She nudges me as she sits down next to me, wearing her usual unperturbed smile as if nothing ever happened between us. Professor Yardley walked into the room about ten seconds ago with a pile of papers, and I’m waiting for the bad news.

Susie’s scent tickles my nose and tension uncoils inside me with a snap, like she controls the spring, like her presence is responsible for my ability to relax, like she’s the reason and the target for my energy once it’s sprung. I breathe in the fresh air that surrounds her, mixed with her sweetness—and before I need to do more than breathe her in, I turn away and separate myself from the light touch of her elbow against my bicep.

With a monumental effort to ignore her pull, I coil my self-control back up into a tight ball and tuck it all away, leaving the surface comfort intact. Leaving me to anticipate the grade on my paper.

“You’re late again.” I enjoy teasing her too much.

She elbows me again like it’s her version of batting her eyelashes, but I’m ready for it this time and I suppress a smile and everything else that flickers inside me with the contact. Even brooding about my grade is preferable to losing my cool with Susie.

Yardly starts class by handing our papers back, and I realize my heart is pumping like I care more about my grade than I do. Why should I care? Farmers don’t need to write essays, do they? Football players don’t need to write essays either, but Coach might really kick me off the team if I fail. I lean in Susie’s direction and take in a long whiff of her essence.

“What?” she says.

I shake my head, calmer, even though my heart hammers faster. The purpose of all the pulsing blood is different now, not the kind of rush that makes me want to run. It’s the kind of rush that makes me want to pick her up, throw her over my shoulder, and then run.

Distinctly different.

Holding in the smile, I wonder how long I’ll be able to control my attraction, when she’ll figure out how much power she has if she hasn’t already. I’ve been bad about teasing her.

Best to keep my mouth shut and ignore her. But tell my dreams that, because she’s there every night, morphing from that little girl, the innocent angel, into the sexy princess she is today.

I take my paper from the TA and slap it down on my desk without looking at it. I’m watching Susie take her paper. There’s a big red A+ printed at the top like a brand, and some frantic writing scrawled under it. A whole paragraph full of comments, and I watch her scan the words impossibly fast.

When she looks up at me, she tries to squash her grin and turns her paper over as if to hide the fact that she’s a smart girl. She asks, “How did you do?”

I snort. “Not as well as you.”

Pink rises up her cheeks, and she looks away. I turn my paper over, but I’m watching her. Not because I’m avoiding my grade, but because I can’t help myself. Her eyes dart to my paper, and she emits a small gasp, then looks up at me, pleased and proud.

“You got a B-, Bryan.” She touches my forearm with her hand, burning me with her pleasure and enthusiasm. I glance down at my paper, and the grade registers. It’s an impossible grade.

“You’re a miracle worker.” I mean it, though I hide my confusing mixed emotions behind a careless tone. I should be proud and happy, but I feel like a fraud, like the grade belongs to her more than me.

Not that I didn’t write the paper, but she worked hard to help me improve it, to make sense of my jumbled words.