Page 35 of Blocked Score

“Math.” Right now, the word alone is enough to douse some of the flames flickering inside me. Some of them.

“Hm. My favorite subject.”

I narrow my eyes at him and bunch up my mouth at the side. “I’m waiting for you to say something to indicate your sarcasm.”

His lips tilt. “No, I mean it. I love math. I know a lot of people hate it, but I just don’t think they approach it right.”

“I’d like to approach it with a serrated knife,” I grouse, giving the textbook and papers gathered at my knees the stink eye.

“I’ll tutor you,” he says.

“Now?” I ask. With desire still winding through me, I don’t think that sitting next to Lane at a desk—or even worse, on my bed—is a wise decision.

“I have a late afternoon class I have to get to right now,” he says, “but what about tomorrow? We can meet at the library or a restaurant in town or something.”

I nod. “It’s a date.”

He tilts a wry grin at my choice of words, and my conscience whispers at me,be careful.

Too bad being careful isn’t something I’ve ever been good at.

18

SCARLETT

When I showed up at the ramen place in downtown Cedar Shade that Lane suggested we meet at, I was sure from the surly look on the owner’s face that he was going to literally toss me out the door when I sat down without ordering anything.

Even though I’ve only been in town for about a week, I’ve already heard about this place through small talk with classmates. The misanthropic reputation of the proprietor precedes him.

Which made me surprised when Lane chose this place to meet and spend an extended period of time. I was especially surprised when Lane showed up, greeted the owner by name—Kazu—and when Kazu dipped his chin a fraction of a centimeter in acknowledgement, something he certainly didn’t spare for me.

Lane explained that he and the guys are regulars at this place, and that two of his teammates in particular, Tuck McCoy and Hudson Voss, are actually friendly with the owner.

We ordered some appetizer dumplings to tide us over as we cracked open my calculus book, and they were so good that I cansee how this place stays in business despite the lack of personal touch.

After an hour and a half of studying, my brain is filled to the bursting point.

My professor doesn’t seem to buy into the idea of gradually easing into the semester. Our first homework assignment is based on material that would normally be two whole weeks’ worth of instruction in any math class I’ve had in the past.

It doesn’t help that all the calculus material requires background concepts that I haven’t worked with since the last time I had a math class, almost four years ago now.

Senior year high school Precalculus. I can’t even remember the teacher’s name, let alone how to do any of it.

As we get up from our booth in the corner of the ramen place, my head feels so full of math that I’m surprised my flimsy neck can hold it upright.

When I bid Kazu goodbye on our way out, he returns it with the slightest twitch of acknowledgment. I guess I’m on the in with him now that I’m a confirmed Lane Associate.

“I think I’m going to need to develop a test-day superstition for this class,” I say to Lane when we step outside. The temperature is still low today, but there’s hardly any wind. It’s great walking weather. The low sun colors the sky in pink and purple pastels, and the crisp winter air feels fresh in my lungs. “You know, like you hockey players have on game day.”

Lane shrugs. “I don’t have any superstitions.”

I gasp. “You’re lying.”

He chuckles. “Why? Do I seem like the superstitious type?”

“No, you seem like the killjoy who tells everyone else that the superstitions they enjoy and get comfort from don’t matter type,” I snark. “But come on,everyathlete has superstitions! Even the stuck-up ones!”

“Well, I must be the most stuck-up of all, then. Because I don’t.”

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