Page 32 of Patrick

CHAPTER 8

FIFI

Trick is late for class when I spot him with his hair tousled and wet. As he walks toward me, my belly floats, reacting like I’m riding a rollercoaster about to plunge into nowhere. Apparently, my body hasn’t forgotten what he did to me last night. The inspirational orgasm he gave me was as powerful a gift as reciting the Emerson poem to me, sounding like he meant every word.

“Sorry I’m late. Early morning skate.” He sits next to me at the end of the middle front row, ignoring the professor’s scowl.

“Mr. Jennings, I don’t know what you get away with in other classes, but in Statistics 103, you’re either on time or you sit in the back of the room.”

Guilt immediately tightens my chest and heats my face, but in no time, it is taken over by indignation at the professor singling him out because he’s a student athlete.

“I apologize, Professor Gringely.” He smiles at the man as if they’re sharing a joke, and I’m confused. But I don’t dare ask him about it, taking out my tablet as the professor jumps right into the syllabus.

Concentrating while Trick’s thigh rests against mine, hard and massive, and his scent invades every breath I take, soapy and tantalizing with an undertone of something indescribable, and so singular it must be the essence of Trick, is next to impossible. I might need to rethink sitting with him in class, especially in the front row where I feel stiff and self-conscious, like everyone knows I want to jump him as my body leans in his direction as if propelled by a super magnet.

I barely hear the professor’s question as he stares in my direction. But Trick answers.

“That we’ll beat B.C. is three to two based on our winning percentages against common opponents, goals scored, and goals against averages.”

“Yes, though predicting future results is not a perfect science, calculating betting odds on a sporting event is a perfect real-life example of the application of statistics.” He pauses and zeroes in on me while I try to absorb the fact that Trick was perfectly prepared with his answer and more than confident.

“Ms….” He pauses while he consults his computer screen. “Enlighten me what your name is?”

“Sofia Rossi.” I make my voice as confident and proud as possible, without being obnoxious.

“Yes, Ms. Rossi.” He nods as if he recognizes my name, and maybe he does. The Rossi fish empire is well known in the region and not without massive efforts on my father’s part. “Tell me why the odds of UNH’s hockey team defeating B.C. in their upcoming game are no more than an educated guess, albeit very well educated.”

“Because the information used to calculate those odds is imperfect and, more importantly, incomplete,” I say. “There are many factors that are impossible to quantify.”

“Such as?” Professor Gringely asks.

Trick grins at me like he’s proud, and my mind blanks. He whispers under his breath like a ventriloquist, “Someone getting hurt in the game.”

“For instance, someone could get hurt during the game… by a random shot.”

Some guy behind me says, “More likely hurt by a purposeful check to the boards. Watch your back, Trick.”

The class seems to chime in all at once on this point, and though the professor calls for everyone to simmer down, he’s smiling. The prof gets a grade of A+ from me for getting the class engaged in statistics. While students weigh in on possible random events, I take the opportunity to lean into Trick and ask him what I’m dying to know.

“You know Professor Gringely, don’t you?”

“Sure. He’s a big fan, in case you didn’t notice.”

Stifling my urge to kiss his smirking, confident mouth, I laugh and relax into my seat for the duration, enjoying the sizzling point of contact of my thigh against his every second, letting it stimulate every part of me, including my brain.

After class, he offers to walk me to my next class where we’ll part ways.

“Isn’t it out of your way? You’ll be late for your next class too.”

He shrugs. “I’ll run. It’s good for me.”

“I’m getting winded thinking about all the running and skating and working out you do.”

“These abs don’t come cheap.” His lids lower, and I know what he’s thinking because I’m thinking the same thing—about last night and the way I ran my hands over those washboard abs.

I shiver reflexively, and he wraps an arm around my shoulders, pulling me to his side. The closeness out in the open unnerves me. I can’t seem to get the notion that we’re hiding our relationship, such as it is, even if we’re away from home and our families.

“What did you tell your parents last night?”