Rusk University: All Lined Up Part 12

"Oh, that. I just had a question, but I worked it out."

"Okay," he says, but doesn't comment further as I finish out my set. When I rack the bar and take a quick breather he adds, "I hope you're coming during your lunch break today."

I had been thinking of trying to catch Dallas after environmental science to thank her again for her help, but that will just take a few minutes.

"I'll be here."

"Good. Otherwise I would have two p.i.s.sed-off receivers on my hands."

I take the bar again, readjust my grip for a second, my hands burning slightly where some new calluses are forming. Then I start another set.

"What do you mean?"

"Torres and Brookes are meeting us at one. Thought we could spend some time throwing today. Work on that arm. It will give you a chance to get to know them, too. Build a rapport."

Torres and Brookes? They're both first string.

Ryan sees my expression. "They're good guys. And they're taking s.h.i.t from Abrams about not being able to get open, so they've been hanging around, putting in some extra work. Seems stupid not to take advantage and let you guys work each other."

"Yeah. It does. Thanks, man."

"Don't mention it. Now tell me what was so important that you broke your strict schedule for a late night."

"Eh." My hesitation turns into a groan as I struggle with my next to last rep. Ryan touches two fingers to the bottom of the bar, letting me know he's there.

"One more."

I take a few ragged breaths, and then I let my shaking arms lower toward my chest.

"Tell me this," he says. "Was it more important than outplaying Abrams? Because that's what all this is for, right? No one works this hard to ride the bench."

Sweat runs in my eyes as I began to push up one last time. Ryan's two fingers under the bar disappear and now both his hands grip the bar, pushing down just enough to add resistance.

I growl as I try to push past him.

"Was it more important?" he asks slowly, enunciating each word by letting me gain just a centimeter. My arms are shaking badly now, and the ache extends from my wrists to my shoulders.

I think about Dallas, and rather than answering, I grit my teeth and push up as hard as I can, dislodging Ryan and depositing the bar on the rack. I sit up, and my arm screams with the effort to even just lift up the hem of my shirt and wipe at the sweat on my face.

"Anyone ever tell you that you're a b.a.s.t.a.r.d?" I say.

"Once or twice. Who is she?"

I stiffen and stand up, stretching my arms above my head. "What do you mean?"

"If it were anything else, you would have just said yes or no. When guys start having trouble giving straight answers, I find that it's usually about a girl."

"For your information, I was up doing homework."

"Riiiight." He raises his hands does those lame air-quote things. "Homework."

I shake my head, pushing the sweaty hair off my forehead. "Doesn't matter. We're just friends."

"I knew it!"

"Watch it, Blake. Don't make me shove that dumbbell up your a.s.s to keep your head company."

"Fine. Fine. Go shower. Rest up so you don't embarra.s.s yourself in front of Torres and Brookes this afternoon. Then you can just concentrate on the friend zone . . . I mean end zone."

I shove him, and he just laughs in response.

"b.a.s.t.a.r.d."

"Yeah, well. Let's both get our heads out of our a.s.ses before this afternoon, hmm?"

Chapter 13.

Dallas I'm heading out when Stella comes home that evening.

"You going to the cafeteria? I'm starving!"

"Uh . . . no. I already ate. Sorry."

She nods, stripping off a paint-covered T-shirt. "Dance cla.s.s or work?"

G.o.d, why couldn't I have just left five minutes earlier?

"Neither. Studying."

She gives an exaggerated snore. If she knows where I'm actually going, she'll never let me hear the end of it.

"Fine. Go do your thing. But first . . . I made something for you." She drags her large portfolio bag that she uses to carry her artwork onto the bed. She unzips the top and reaches inside. "Ta-da!"

She thrusts a small canvas painting in my direction. In the center in thick, deep red is a heart (the metaphorical, not anatomical, kind). It's painted so that it looks three-dimensional, like I could pick it up off the page. And down the center of the heart are black, string laces, pulled tight, and squeezing the heart, exaggerating its shape.

"It's your corset heart. Remember?"

I remembered our discussion in the library before Carson had interrupted us, the one all about how I am laced too tightly to ever let myself fall in love. When I really think about it, that oppressed heart is a pretty d.a.m.n accurate depiction, but as I hold it in my hands, I feel my stomach toss. I might be sick.

"You hate it," Stella says.

"No, it's really pretty. I love the colors."

"But you're not exactly a hearts-and-flowers kinda girl. I know. It's fine." She moves to take it back. "I'll just paint over it. Try something new."

"No!" I jump back, holding the small painting away from her. I clear my throat. "No. I'd like to keep it . . . if that's okay with you."

Stella looks even more shocked than I feel. "Really?"

I nod.

"Yeah. It's all yours."

I slip it in my oversized purse, say goodbye, and walk out the door.

I'll keep the painting because it's pretty, because Stella made it and against all odds, I love her. I'll also keep it as a reminder of the person I've let myself become.

I DIDN'T LIE to Stella, not really. I just didn't elaborate on what studying meant. Or more specifically, with whom I'll be studying. I ran into Carson earlier today on my way to my geology cla.s.s as he was leaving. He asked what I was doing tonight, I said homework. I asked him, and he answered the same. And when he suggested we do our homework together . . . at the same time . . . in the same place . . .

I agreed.

I volunteered to meet him at his apartment again because I still am not ready for the ramifications of hanging out with him in public. It seemed like a reasonable, harmless way to spend the evening.

Wrong. Oh so very wrong. In fact, I keep hearing that word, echoing like a gong in my head. I changed probably half a dozen times before settling on a simple pair of shorts (the longest pair I owned) and a V-neck tee.

And as I pull up outside his apartment, I am a mess. A hot mess. A steaming pile of . . . mess.

I know how dangerous this is. The potential stupidity of this night is epic in nature, but I still don't turn around and get back into my car (even though I really should).

Between our interactions so far and the unfamiliar rawness in my chest that's been chafing at me since Stella gave me that painting, I am not at all in control.

I should walk away. That's what I do when I find myself in an unpredictable situation with immense potential for pain.

Most of the issues in my relationship with Levi had stemmed from the fact that I was always willing to be the one who walked away. We'd get in these awful fights (not unlike Dad and me), and they only ever ended in one of two ways-Levi backed down or we broke up.

Not normal, I know. But we always got back together. It had always felt like a given, until suddenly it stopped feeling that way. He set a state record for our conference; he and my dad started talking about playing college ball, and suddenly it felt like I wasn't the only one willing to walk away if I didn't get what I wanted.

So rather than walking away after our last fight, I gave him what he wanted. In the back of his pickup truck, parked in the lot at the football field of all places.

He walked away anyway.

I will never be in that position again. I will never be the person who cares more, because that person is always the one who hurts more.

And yet here I am, knocking on Carson's door, telling myself that my heart is only in my throat because I'm out of practice at making new friends.

Yeah right.

"Just a second!"

I almost run. But then I imagine how ridiculous it will look when he opens his door and I'm sprinting down the stairs and across the parking lot like the crazies on Black Friday.

He opens the door, and if I hadn't already sucked in a breath, I would have had to do it again. He's wearing university sweatpants, hung low on his hips, with a thin white cotton T-shirt. His hair is wet like he's fresh from a shower, and in a few places his shirt is damp and see-through, stuck to his skin.

I can smell him. Over the sticky September air, over the chlorine from the pool that his apartment overlooks, over everything.

"Hey. Come on in."

This is such a bad idea.

But when I peek inside, his coffee table is covered in papers and books, and the pencil in his hand tells me he was working when I knocked on the door.

He really does just want to study. I can do this. I can. And if at any point it gets to be too much, I always have my trusty backup plan.

Walk away.

I step just far enough inside for him to close the door, but when he heads to the couch, I stay where I am. He has the overhead light on tonight, so the room is brighter, less intimidating. He looks up and in the well-lit room his blue eyes look almost electric.

"If we're really going to be friends, I need some ground rules first," I say.

When I was just stopping by for a few minutes to help him with homework, it wasn't a problem. But hanging out two nights in a row is definitely a big deal. And big deals require rules.

His head tilts to the side, but he puts down his pencil and leans back on the couch.

"Okay. Whatcha got?"

"We don't tell anyone we're hanging out. Not yet." Not until I know for sure this is something I can do without getting in over my head.

After a moment, he nods. "Okay. I won't mention it to a soul until you're ready to come out of the closet as my friend."

I wince. "It's not like that. I just . . . I can't trust it won't get back to my dad. You know what gossip is like here. And when he finds out, it should come from me."

"Fair enough." I swallow, acutely aware that it sounds like I'm negotiating the terms of a relationship that's much more scandalous than a friendship.

"No questions about my dad. This should go without saying, but no using me to spend time with him. If you want to get on his good side, do it on the field, not through me."

His eyes soften, and I swear my heart constricts like those imaginary strings around it have been pulled tight.

"I want to get to know you, Daredevil. Not your dad."

I nod, glad to hear it, even though I've heard similar over the years from guys who turned out to be lying.

"If it gets to be too much, if it goes too far . . . either one of us just has to say the word, and it's done. We walk away, and that's that."

His eyebrows knit together in an almost-scowl.

"You have this kind of contract with all your friends?"

"No," I answer simply.

He waits, and I'm sure he's expecting an explanation, but I don't give it.

"Fine. Then I have a few stipulations of my own."