Page 11 of Forging Chaos

He shrugs. “Never had to worry about it before this.” He waves a hand at his foot. I think about how close his apartmentis to campus and remember again that I’ve had an unconventional education. That’s why I usually only hang out with Fern. She gets it. She lived at home all four years, too, and we were queens of finding library space to camp out on long stretches between classes. We know where all the free food is around campus and the best places to nap without worrying that anyone will snatch our bags.

“Come on, big guy.” I start walking up the hill toward Penn Ave. “I’ll show you the splendors of the 93 bus.” He rolls alongside me quietly, grunting a bit at the rough spots in the sidewalk. I slow my stride and absolutely do not stare at his ass in his gray sweatpants. I also don’t admire his shoulder muscles, obvious and visible even in his hoodie. “You’ve got to be six feet tall,” I mutter, and he laughs.

“That’s what you’re thinking about right now?” Odin growls as his roller catches on a tree root. He hoists the device up and over the uneven surface and says, “I’m six-four. And before you ask, so is my dad, and all my brothers are right around that range. We grow ‘em big in the Stag family.” I’m treated to a wink that sets my pants on fire, and I know this guy knows exactly how good he looks, but I am swooning like a jersey-chasing fan regardless. If I were the sort of person who went to sporting events, I’d be screaming over the railing right now at half-time, begging Odin to fire a t-shirt cannon my way.

I try to cover my ogling by explaining, “I was just thinking about how we will get you inside the bus. Some of them have a ramp that flips out, but some just…” I try to demonstrate how the buses sort of squat to let old ladies step aboard.

“Don’t worry about me,” he says. I nod and point at the bench inside the bus shelter. He shakes his head. “We can stand. I’m serious. I have enough people worrying about me and treating me like an invalid. Talk to me about our sources for class.”

I’m about to tell him about conference proceedings Idownloaded from some university in Portugal when I spot a bright red bus chugging up Penn Ave from the Strip District. I wave at the driver, who stops and stares at Odin. Does the driver recognize him? I guess so in this sports-obsessed town. The bus beeps and squats down, and I don’t know if I should get in first and help him or…actually, I have no idea what to do because there’s no way I could lift him or anything. He gestures for me to get on, and I do.

He heaves his knee roller in the door, and I grab it with one hand as he muscles the rest of himself into the bus. He’s not even breathing heavily. The driver and I both look at him, impressed. I shake myself out of my stupor and tap my student ID on the fare box. Odin arches a brow and fishes in his pocket for his wallet, clearly unused to having his ID at the ready to gain access to buses and, probably, dining halls.

Everyone on board watches as he rolls down the aisle to the accessible seating. I stand in front of him, and he scowls, clearly grappling with some sense of chivalry and the dueling reality of his temporary impairment. I cross my arms over my chest and frown at him until he sinks into the seat, tucking the roller in between his enormously long legs. I consider sitting on his lap, on his good leg, obviously. Would he even notice my weight? I shake my head as the bus chugs forward. I steady myself on the pole by Odin’s head, and he glances up at the strap hanging from the bar far above my reach. “Neither of us is well-suited for this,” he says with a shake of his head.

I shrug. “Beats walking, I guess.”

Once on campus, the sidewalks are better maintained, and the buildings have ramps and elevators. We get to class a little bit early and settle into seats in the back of the room. I pull outmy ancient laptop and open my mouth to tell Odin about the new source.

“What the hell is that thing?” Odin points at my laptop, which whirs noisily. I glare at him. “Is that a telegraph machine? Why is it so big?”

I punch him in the arm, which stings because his body is pure muscle. He shakes his head and removes a shiny, lightweight laptop from his bag. “You said something about Portugal?”

I can smell him seated this close together. His laundry detergent smells expensive, and there’s a whiff of either hair gel or deodorant or maybe cologne with an alpine scent. I like it…too much. I guess it’s fine that I’m attracted to him. What straight girl in Pittsburgh wouldn’t be? I can give him a huff and work on this project and still achieve what I need to get out of here in a few months.

“Did you just sniff me?” He leans close to my ear to ask this, and his breath melts over my cheek and neck like honey. Shit, this is bad.

“Yes.” I turn to face him, meeting his blue eyes with my dark gaze. “You stink.”

A laugh rumbles out of him as the professor walks into the room. “You lie, Thora.”

CHAPTER 9

ODIN

My tiny littleresearch partner is into me, which is great because she’s hot. I don’t see an issue, apart from the fact that my life is ruined and my foot is in a giant cast. And, also, I can’t move very well. I pay minimal attention to the teacher through the rest of class, demand that Thora come to my house whenever she’s done with her shit today, and I wheel myself toward home.

Only I don’t get very far because my athletic advisor appears out of nowhere, jogging toward me on Forbes Avenue. “Odin! Hold up, please.”

I squint at him, backlit by the sun. Behind him, construction cranes work on new classroom buildings, likely partly funded by revenue from television contracts for my football team. Meech looks pissed, which is fair. I’ve been blowing him off for a few weeks. “Hey, Meech.”

Demetrius Thomas is in charge of keeping the entire football team in line—academically, behaviorally, you name it. Most of the time, he’s worried about our academic eligibility to play ball, but I suspect his vigorous chase down the city streets today is more related to scholarship shit. He wheezes a bit, holding his hand on his chest as he catches his breath. “Been trailing you since the Cathedral of Learning, kid. Your brother tell you I came by your house?”

“He might have said that. A lot of people have been stopping by.” This is always true—girls with flowers. Football fans wanting to know what my injury means for their fantasy draft. My coaches.

Meech leans against the window of the Seven-11. “You’re supposed to be withdrawn from school, Stag. Medical withdrawal. What are you doing going to class?”

I sniff. This guy is still acting like I will play football in the fall for my final year of eligibility. Meanwhile, I’m months away from even walking again. Exactly one running back has ever come back from a ruptured Achilles tendon, and he was already on a pro team when he got injured. I stare at Meech and lean on my knee roller. “I have something I need to do next week, then I’ll sign the forms.”

Meech arches a dark brow above an angry set of eyes. “You need to address this before finals. You haven’t been going to class, Odin. Failing out is different from a legitimate withdrawal for an injury.”

There’s no way I’m pulling from this final presentation now. Thora would be smug about doing it all herself, and she’d fuck it all up, trying to argue the entire internet. I’m not sure why I care so much about this stupid assignment, but I also know she’s got a lot riding on her perfect grade point average. “I don’t know what to tell you, man. I have a presentation I have to do next week. I will roll directly from there to the registrar’s office. Or yours, if you can handle that stuff.”

“What day next week?” He crosses his arms over his chest, standing over me. Meech played ball back in college, too. Didn’t go pro. Now spends his days wrangling assholes like me. I’m actually pretty good. I don’t get my girlfriends pregnant. I don’t blow my rent money on tattoos. My big annoying flaw is staying enrolled in school when I ought to bow out.

“Tuesday,” I tell him. “I’ll be done by ten.” I turn around and roll toward my house before he can shout after me. I don’t think he follows me, but I don’t check.

It’s obvious my parents were at the apartment. By the time I get myself back up the stairs, the fridge has been stocked with soup and grilled chicken. There’s a bowl on the coffee table full of little baggies of roasted almonds, and approximately 700 bananas teeter on a rack on the counter. I cram almonds into my mouth and play video games until a tap on the door announces the arrival of Thora Janssen. I look at my watch. I’ve been ignoring the world for hours. I guess my brothers and my cousin Stellan all went straight from class to workouts.

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