Page 21 of Secret Obsession
“Are you on the dance team?”
She nods once.
“Do you like it?”
Her smile is quick. “You ask a lot of questions, Whiteshaw.”
“How—”
“It’s on the back of your jersey.” She holds out her hand for me. “But maybe I know it because everyone knows who the goalies are.”
“I’m famous already?” I joke. I’m a freshman. Hardly deserving of any fame. Or infamy.
“Not as famous as you will be, I bet.”
I admire her confidence in me, even if it’s false. She doesn’t really know me, after all. No more than I know her.
I take her hands, but her feet slip out from under her as soon as she touches the ice. She drags me down with her, her yelp loud—but strangely, endearing. Still, my balance only goes so far, and I land on top of her. My chest pressed to her chest, my forearms keeping some of my weight off her, braced on either side of her head.
She stares up at me, and I freeze.
Like an idiot.
“Willow,” she finally whispers.
“What?”
“My name. Willow.”
“Jesus, Miles,” my brother barks, skating to a stop beside us.
He hauls me up, then reaches for Willow’s hand. He helps her to her feet. He gives me an admonishing look, then focuses on her again. Because girls always get his attention—and the two he had on his arms a moment ago are mysteriously gone.
He’s positioned her back to me. I climb to my feet slower, and I catch the shit-eating grin that flashes across his face. The challenge is just for me. My jaw sets. Game fucking on.
And then he’s focusing on Willow again—the girl I barely had a chance to talk to. He’s got her arm looped around his in no time at all, and he helps her move across the ice toward the doors at the far end of the rink.
She doesn’t look back.
8
WILLOW
Admittedly, I made alittlemistake with my schedule.
I thought it would be better to front-load my week, and thus, my Monday starts bright and early at eight a.m., with two back-to-back classes and a third after lunch. Wednesday will be the same, and Friday will only have the third. Two classes on Tuesdays and Thursdays.
But after I get through the first two, I have to stop and get a second coffee from the cart that parks near the library. It wakes me up enough to enjoy my third class, one of twofunelectives I was able to choose. Crime Fiction requires reading—but the syllabus contains books that are actually pleasurable.
So that one should be a mental break from the math and engineering classes.
When I picked my major, I really should’ve thought more about how many freaking math classes computer science degrees require. The answer is too many. Luckily, I’m good at math. Numbers come easily.
Doesn’t help when I’m dragging after what felt like an all-nighter, and the professor acts like we’ve already been studying this shit for weeks.
And it’s on my way to Crime Fiction that I spot a dance team girl. A freshman in her second semester. She doesn’t look at me until she’s right on top of me, and she slams her shoulder into mine. Her arm jerks, catching my wrist.
Coffee goes everywhere.
