Page 13 of Heart Check
A girl perches on the desk across the aisle from him, rubbing her arms in a theatrical shiver. “Is it freezing in here, or is it just me?”
Her bottom lip protrudes in a pout as she stares longingly at Dawson.
My eyes roll of their own accord. Come on, what an obvious—
But Dawson’s already shucking off his gigantic navy-blue hoodie. His T-shirt gets tugged slightly upward as he does, exposing a smooth ripple of abs that are impossiblenotto stare at. Even my eyeballs are stuck to them like they’re magnetized. How does one getridgeslike that?
“Go ahead,” he says, not showing a glimmer of awareness that he’s currently the number one show in the classroom. “I run hot.”
“I bet you do,” she murmurs, all but licking her lips as she accepts the sweatshirt greedily.
A snort escapes me before I can hold it in, and her eyes flick over to mine. Her whole expression darkens, and as everyone’s gaze follows hers, the temperature in the room drops at least twenty degrees.
I hold up my hands as I slide by to my seat in the back, signaling my bestnone of my business, nothing to see herevibes. I know I’m not the most popular person in this room, but jeez, usually I don’t getthatcold of a welcome. Sometimes people even say hi!
Luckily, the girl’s quickly distracted by snuggling into Dawson’s hoodie. Itdoeslook very soft and warm. But Dawson keeps watching me, shooting me a weird look. I ignore him and his abs, setting up my stuff for today’s lesson. Liv’s the only person I’m friendly with in this class, but her lips are moving silently, head bent over a packet of paper. Must be memorizing lines. I give her a quick wave and do my best to enjoy my bubble of solitude.
After a few minutes, Ms. Moore projects a word problem on the screen with a smile, and I reluctantly pause my podcast on shady wellness MLMs to tune in. “Since hockey season is starting up, I thought I’d get creative today!”
A ripple goes through the classroom. She must not know there’s currently Peak Hockey Drama afoot. Seriously, Ms. Moore? I thought you were cool. I thought this was a safe space. Don’t we get enough of the jock discourse in the halls?
A few people turn to look my way with murder in their eyes, so I must’ve let out an audible groan. I duck my head to my notebook to scribble down the problem as she reads it out. Whatever. I’m not letting hockey get the best of me in math class, too.
“In how many ways can six hockey players be chosen from a group of twenty if the playing positions are (a) considered? Or (b) not considered?”
“What about if (c), you can’t tell them apart?” I mutter.
Desks creak as twenty students shift in their seats. When I look up, half of them are turning around to stare at me.
“Sorry.” I wince. I didn’t mean to say it so loudly, and for a minute, I feel guilty.
Until Dawson glowers at me from the front row. “Kinda poor taste, given… well, everything.” The students around him nod their support, one girl even shaking her head my way in disappointment.
I frown. Never mind about that guilt. “Sorry my sense of humor is that offensive?”
“Nah.” Dawson shakes his head. “It’s more your destruction of people’s livelihood.”
I’m left blinking, stunned. The air’s been sucked out of the classroom. Even Ms. Moore’s wide-eyed, glancing back and forth between us, notes dangling in her hand.
My stomach drops as I connect the dots between today’s cold shoulder and Dawson’s aggression. Surely he’s not…
I straighten up and narrow my eyes at him. “Is this about Coach Red?”
His gaze bores into me. “Do you even have to ask? Listen, Harper, hockey might not mean anything to you, but it means a lot to the rest of us.”
I shake my head, cheeks burning. How dare he? He’s convinced Noah’s unfounded conspiracy theory is accurateandhe’s confident enough to accuse me in front of everyone? He doesn’t even have enough decency to hold this conversationin private. One girl has her hand over her mouth, and I swear some guy is filming the exchange.
Maybe this is what all those weird looks were about. Is everyone talking behind my back, speculating about my alleged sabotage?
My vision tunnels in on Dawson. Maybe it’s the outrage flooding my veins, but I snap back, “I don’t get it. If your team’s as good as you think you are—as good as everyone says—why does it even matter who’s coaching?”
Dawson’s jaw drops, and I take momentary pleasure in finally stunning him speechless. Everyone else is watching with wide eyes. “Wow,” a girl whispers from the back. “That’s cold.”
It’s only then that I realize what I said might be taken as an admission of guilt.
Ms. Moore claps once for our attention, seemingly snapping back to her senses at last. “Enough! Now, if you don’t mind, I’dliketo talk about permutations and combinations today. Unless you’d prefer a pop quiz?”
Dawson slowly turns around to face the front. I do my best to refocus, but I don’t take a single coherent note for the rest of class. I’m too busy ignoring the death glares people are sending my way, pretending I don’t notice them texting each other under their desks. Texting aboutme? All because of the fight Dawson picked and his ridiculous, unfounded accusations in defense of his criminal coach?
