Page 18 of The Goal

His lips quirk up. “Sabrina.”

“W-what are you doing here?” Oh my God. I’m stuttering. What’s wrong with me?

Someone jostles me from behind. I hastily step away from the doorway to let the other students out. I’m not sure what to say, but I know what I want todo. I want to throw myself at this guy, wrap my arms around his neck, my legs around his waist, and maul him with my mouth.

But I don’t.

“You’re ignoring my texts,” he says frankly.

Guilt tickles my throat. I’m not ignoring his texts—I haven’t gotten them. Because I blocked his number.

Still, my heart does another silly flip at the knowledge that he’s been texting. I suddenly wish I knew what he’d said, but I’m not going to askhim. That’s just looking for trouble.

For some stupid reason, though, I find myself confessing, “I blocked you.”

Rather than look offended, he chuckles. “Yeah. I figured you might’ve. That’s why I tracked you down.”

I narrow my eyes. “And how did you do that, exactly? How’d you know I’d be here?”

“I asked my advisor for your schedule.”

My jaw falls open. “And she gave it to you?”

“He, actually. And yep, he was happy to do it.”

Disbelief and indignation mingle in my blood. What the hell? The faculty can’t just hand out students’ schedules to anyone who asks for them, right? That’s a violation of privacy. I grit my teeth and decide that the moment I pass the bar, my first order of legal business will be suing this stupid college.

“Did he give you my transcript too?” I mutter.

“No. And don’t worry, I’m sure your schedule isn’t being passed around in flyer-form around campus. He only gave it to me because I play hockey.”

“That’s supposed to make me feel better? The reminder that you’re a privileged jackass who gets special treatment because you skate around on the ice and win trophies?”

I take off walking, my pace brisk, but he’s big enough that his strides eat up the ground and he’s beside me in a heartbeat.

“I’m sorry.” He sounds genuinely regretful. “If it helps, I don’t normally play the athlete card to get favors. Hell, I could’ve asked Dean for your schedule, but I figured you’d like that even less.”

He’s right about that. The thought of Tucker talking to Dean Di Laurentis about me makes my skin crawl.

“Fine. Well, you tracked me down. What do you want, Tucker?” I walk faster.

“What’s the hurry, darlin’?”

“My life,” I mumble.

“What?”

“I’m always in a hurry,” I clarify. “I’ve got twenty minutes to get somefood in me before my next class.”

We reach the lobby, where I instantly get in line at the sandwich stand, scanning the menu on the wall. The student in front of us leaves the counter before Tucker can speak. I hurriedly step forward to place my order. When I reach into my bag for my wallet, Tucker’s hand drops over mine.

“I’ve got this,” he says, already drawing a twenty-dollar bill from his brown leather wallet.

I don’t know why, but that annoys me even more. “First drinks at Malone’s, and now lunch? What, you’re trying to show off? Making sure I know you’ve got cash to spare?”

Hurt flickers in his deep brown eyes.

Fuck. I don’t know why I’m antagonizing him. It’s just…him showing up here, admitting he pulled favors to find me, paying for my lunch…

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