Page 29 of Gabriel
I cover my face with my hands and groan. He’s infuriating.
Gabriel coughs to clear his throat and I snap my gaze toward him with a glare. He shifts uncomfortably in his seat.
“What?”
“That noise—“ He shakes his head. “Don’t make noises like that.”
My brows draw tight. “What?”
He coughs again, but whatever point he’s trying to make must not be important because after a curt, “just don’t,” he drops it and changes directions. “Are you going to answer me or do I get to keep this spiffy pen?” He twirls it between his thumb and index finger. “Bare, all natural, or groomed?”
I give him a withering glare, not that he seems affected by it, before I mutter a single word under my breath. “Bare.”
He leans toward me, hand cupping his ear. “What was that?”
I bite my lower lip as heat crawls up my neck. “Bare,” I repeat, this time a little louder.
“Huh? Still didn’t hear you.”
People are looking now and I want nothing more than to reach across the gap and punch him square in the jaw. But, I can tell he isn’t going to let up. “Bare,” I grind out for the third and final time as I try and fail to ignore the curious stares in our direction.
Gabriel smiles and tosses my pen onto my desk. Snatching it from the surface, I drop it into the front zipper pouch on my bag and trade it for a different one I like considerably less. Just in case he gets any ideas again.
“Was that so hard?”
“You are incorrigible,” I tell him. “And you still never explained why you shave.” I fold my arms over my chest and slink lower in my seat. That was the point of this little Q&A, right?
“You wanna do this again? I tell you mine and you tell me yours?”
I know without needing a mirror that my neck and cheeks are a mottled mess of crimson, and I’d like to save myself from further embarrassment so I shake my head.
“Pass.”
He chuckles and answers me anyway.
“I shave for three reasons.” He holds up three fingers and ticks them off one by one. “I tape my ankles and wrists during games. The tape pulls your hair out when you remove it and no lie, that shit hurts like a bitch.”
Reasonable, though shaving your entire arm seems a bit extreme in that case.
“Sometimes, an opposing player is an asshole who likes to rip on your hair to get a rise out of you. Instigate a fight so you throw hands and earn a penalty. That’s reason number two.”
Alright. That one seems more practical.
“And third, injuries happen in any sport, but muscle strain is pretty common in soccer. We have a massage therapist onstaff for the team who helps us out and it’s just easier this way. Reduces friction.” He shrugs. “No one wants their hair pulled on when they’re already in pain.”
That makes sense.
“Okay, one more question.” I flick my eyes to the clock. Class should have started already which means our professor is running behind, but even late, there’s no way he’ll miss Gabriel in his classroom.
And I sincerely doubt Mr. Arndt will appreciate him interloping. He’s a no-nonsense, by-the-book kind of professor, and it’s no secret that he isn’t a fan of athletes on campus.
During more than one lecture, he’s reminded the class no one receives preferential treatment from him. Any quizzes or assignments missed due to games or training will still have to be made up and for each day work is submitted late, he’ll dock points.
He doesn’t believe in excusing tests or assignments on the basis of being an athlete. It’s actually one of the things that makes me like him as an instructor.
“Why are you here? You’re not in this class.” My words come out accusatory which isn’t what I intended, but Gabriel doesn’t seem bothered by it.
“I transferred in.”
