Page 10 of Unloved

It’s the same response I’ve given him every time we’ve had this conversation in the last three years. I’ve made it to senior year by the skin of my fucking teeth—at this point, I need to prove to everyone that I can do this.

“All right,” he sighs. “I’ve got two freshman wingers for you to keep an eye on. And as long as you and Dougherty do your usual bullshit, I think we’re in for a good year.”

The slight praise is enough to have a real smile etching its way across my face.

“Happy to be as disruptive as possible.”

Coach Harris shakes his head at me as I stand, but I see the beginnings of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

CHAPTER 3Ro

I’ve changed my outfit an embarrassing number of times, and yet I still feel ridiculous andwrongas I step out of the elevator onto the third floor of the library.

White pleated tennis skirt and a lavender short sleeve, a matching bow in my hair—it’s exactlyme, but for some reasonthat’sharder to be confident in these days.

I find a study table easily. Summer B semester is usually empty anyway, but it’s the middle of finals week for them, so there’s a few people settled around the floor in groups.

The air-conditioning is loud, echoing in the large space to combat the rampant heat pouring through the wall-to-wall windows and poorly insulated walls, so I toss my headphones on and turn to Sadie’s Spotify page, spotting one playlist labeled Amped Up.

A loud song by a band I’ve never heard of kicks on, and I wince.

Skipping to the next track, I bounce my knee to the quick beat as Wet Leg starts up in my headphones.

And, like a scene out of a movie, or one of my dreams from freshman year, Matt Fredderic exits from the sliding elevator doors.

He’s as tall and well built as I remember, resembling some type of clean-cut supermodel with that slight mischief burning like green embers in his eyes. It’s his personality, the raw sex appeal that seems to drip off him, on and off the ice. He’s always dressedheart-stoppingly perfectly, somehow annoyingly never in just joggers and a T-shirt like most of the other sporty boys.

In the summer, though, he’s dressed indecently. A baby-blue linen button-down hangs off his broad shoulders, the buttons undone one below what most guys would wear so his shining tanned chest glows even in the fluorescent light of the library. His shorts are short, arguably shorter than the hem of my skirt, with muscular legs on display, one sporting a tattoo that I haven’t seen before—a butterfly of all things—on his upper thigh.

There’s so much tanned skin showing that my mouth goes dry and I grab my water bottle. Looking like he does shouldn’t be legal, all sharp lines softened by boyish charms.

He grasps one girl’s swivel chair, spinning her as he walks by with a wink. She giggles and halfheartedly chides him, which he takes like a well-loved class clown. For a moment, his eyes move across the room like he’s looking for where he’s supposed to be.

But they catch on someone else, a girl arching on her tiptoes for a book off the shelf, the frayed hem of her shorts cutting into her dark thighs. He leans over her and grabs the book she was reaching for. She sinks against the bookcase behind her, while his hand stays planted over her.

And… I’m a little worried I’m drooling.

“Hey,” Rodger says, and I nearly jump out of my seat, realizing I was so focused on Freddy that I didn’t see or hear my coworkers’ approach.

“Oh, wonderful,” Tyler mutters, sliding into the seat next to me. “He’s here.”

I feel a little sick, the guilt of mooning over Freddy when I have a semi-maybe-boyfriend mixing with the thrilling lust of being in his presence. Nothing he’s doing is inherently sexual, but I’ve been plagued with dreams about Freddy for years.

“I told you that I didn’t need you here,” I mumble, still a littlefrustrated with Tyler’s inability to do what I ask. But I’m borderline used to it now.

Rodger has to be here, to officially hand over files and go through the plan change with Freddy present. Tyler most definitely doesnotneed to be here. In fact, he shouldn’t be. It’s a violation of student academic privacy.

Instead, he laughs. “What? Don’t want me here so you can pant over Matt Fredderic?”

I roll my eyes and shove him with my shoulder a little.

“C’mon, Ro. Don’t tell me you still think he’s hot. The guy couldn’t pass an STD test, let alone freshman-level bio.”

“Stop it.”

Tyler’s not wrong; Freddy does have a reputation. But it’s more complicated than that. I’ve overheard enough stories about him to last me a lifetime—and not one of them is negative. Girls fawn over him, but I’ve never heard a single crazy story about him breaking anyone’s heart. They have a good time, then they move on. Everyone seems to leave happy.

Freddy is still chatting up the girl at the bookshelf, his hand tracing patterns beneath the hem of her shirt, and she looks mesmerized, like his beauty and aura are a swinging pocket watch and she’s the hypnotist’s willing subject.

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