Page 8 of What Are The Odds?
“Won’t work. My guys all have different class schedules and commitments.”
Just like this group assignment, there was no way Ryker and I could come to a unanimous decision. Which only left one option.
“Let’s bet on it. Set some stakes.”
He held my gaze. “Like?”
“I don’t know. You choose.”
He was quiet while he thought. “Can’t be related to this year’s season. The end’s too far away and this needs to stop now.”
“Agreed.”
“And I’m not condoning any type of competition that puts any of our guys at risk of injury.”
“Of course.”
When Ryker and I were freshmen, the captains of our teams had planned an event which was, effectively, a pissing contest. The day had been hyped up, sold to students on the premise the hockey and football teams were hosting a friendly competition. But the players had known the real stakes. It’d been an egotistical show of strength. And it’d cost each team. Our centre and most promising NHL draft had done an ankle injury running to a keg, and their starting quarterback had broken his arm falling off a table. The conversation halted when Grace returned and set down her phone and another coffee with a number scrawled on it.
“Courtesy of the barista.”
Both Ryker and I looked towards the counter. Sure enough, the barista hurriedly averted her gaze, knocking over a stack of cups in the process.
Grace sighed. “Maybe we should compare the stats how often you each get hit on.”
“Pointless,” I returned. “There’d be no stats to analyse for Richardson.”
I braced for the rebuttal, but none came.
“Who wants it?” Grace asked.
“While I’m sure it’s intended for me, give it to Richardson. He needs all the help he can get.”
“Cute, Holloway,” Ryker grit. “But that’s my order.”
Damn. He was drinking a hot coffee. I was drinking an iced one. And steam was rising from that cup. Grace’s phone began to ring again. Seth, whoever he was, was ready to go round two. Grace jumped straight back up.
“I’ll let you fight over her while I take this.”
Ryker waited until Grace was out of earshot before murmuring, “We all know I have more game than you, Holloway.”
“Having zero standards doesn’t define game,” I volleyed back.
Ryker snickered. “Any girl here, hell on campus, would choose to give me her number over you.”
“Yeah? Wanna bet?”
Ryker sat up straighter, his eyebrows raising in question. I rolled my eyes back. I hadn’t meant it literally.
“You want to gamble your team’s rights to the gym on the ability to get a girl’s number?” I asked, bewilderment leaking into my voice.
“Nah. It has to be bigger than that.” He picked up the cup with the scrawled-on-number and took a sip. “I know what the wager can be.” His eyes moved to the far side of the coffee shop, where Grace was staring out the window. “Her.”
“Grace?”
He nodded.
“And what?” I challenged. “What would the rules be?”
