Page 49 of Unloved

“As you can see.” He clears his throat and waggles his eyebrows as he slumps self-satisfied against the back of the booth. “I’mamazing.”

The wide smile that mirrors his is immediate, impossible to contain even if I wanted to—and I don’t want to. He’s joyous aboutmath, and I want to do a little dance in my seat that my hockey statistics-related questions are what caused this change in his demeanor, but I manage to hold in the urge.

“You are,” I say, laughing at how his smile somehow grows, the lines around his face digging deeper. “And you did that one right. I have more.”

As he starts in on the next one, reading and rereading the paragraph as I look over his file and fill in a few notes on his usual accommodations, a slight plan forms in my head. Today is a good dayfor math with Freddy, but that is very abnormal. Biology might be a big strain for him, but it’s math that is destroying his GPA. And his self-confidence.

“Hey, Freddy?”

His eyes dart up to mine before dropping to the pencil in my mouth and hooding slightly. Enough that I flush and pull it away from my lips.

“Yes,Rosalie?”

It’s embarrassing how much of an effect my full name from his mouth has over my body. I shiver slightly, but continue. “It’s okay if you don’t want to talk about it, but are you—do you not take any medication?”

His brow wrinkles.

“For ADHD, I mean.”

A grin pulls at the corner of his mouth. “I figured,” he answers a little sarcastically. “But I don’t—I tried it when I was younger, and it didn’t work for me. I could focus, but it made me crash and messed with hockey for me. I could barely eat and I hardly even wanted to play I was so tired. Worn out.” His cheeks heat and he avoids my gaze. “It’s stupid, I know. Picking hockey over being smart.”

“Medicine doesn’t make someone smart. And ADHD doesn’t make you not smart.” My voice is a little harsher than I intend, but I roll with it. I need him tohearme. “Neither does dyslexia or dyscalculia. Medication is a step stool, not a cure.”

He grins and shakes his head, gazing at me with what looks like awe in his eyes.

“What?”

“My mom used to say that.”

I press a hand to my heart to soften the deep bittersweet ache those words incite. “She must’ve been a genius, then.”

Laughter spills from his mouth. “Yeah. She definitely—”

“Freddy,” a delighted voice beckons. A tall brown-haired boysidles up to the table wearing a Waterfell Basketball shirt with his number emblazoned underneath. He smiles brightly and flips his hat around backward. “What the hell, man? I figured you’d be at the hockey dorms tonight.”

“Brandon.” Freddy smiles tightly, tapping his pencil on the table more rapidly with a new tenseness in his shoulders. “Not tonight. I’ve got too much to work on.”

“Damn, that sucks,” Brandon says in a way that does not sound sympathetic at all.

As if he’s only noticed my presence now, Brandon runs his gaze over me—in a way that’s too similar to how most people look at Freddy, like he’s half naked. I cross my arms over my chest self-consciously. “Sorry, I’m Brandon.”

“Ro,” I say, reaching to shake the hand he’s offered. He holds it longer than necessary, turning my wrist over and petting the skin below my bracelets. “These are cute.”

“Thanks. I made them.” My cheeks burn hotly with his intense stare.

“Really?” he says, seeming genuinely interested, still holding my hand. “That’s so fucking cool—”

“We should get back to studying,” Freddy snaps, sounding more irritated than I think I’ve ever heard him.

I yank my hand back from Brandon’s grip, holding back the apology I want to give Freddy.

“C’mon.” Brandon laughs, planting his hands on our table and leaning over. “What the hell do you need to study for anyway? Last I heard you’re sitting pretty with an NHL contract.”

Freddy nods. “Yeah, postgraduation.”

As if he didn’t even hear him, Brandon continues, “And besides, aren’t you still making bank with the OnlyFans shit?”

My eyebrows might as well be plastered to the ceiling, unable to hide my reaction.

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