Page 6 of Overtime
Where’s my own bottle? In the middle of a bad coughing fit, I knock my pen down the table as I paw around my things. Now the whole table looks at me, including the subject of my research.
I squeeze my eyes shut as I down half of my water bottle in one go. At least it means that a) I definitely stopped staring at him, and b) I don’t have to apologize for staring if I can’t freaking talk.
When I dare open my eyes, I find that he’s already moved on and is reading something on his laptop. I’m tempted by the sharp, square-cut of his jaw to keep staring, but I can’t possibly endure those deep-set eyes on me again.
I should retreat. I can do the rest of my research from a safer distance. A few coughs escape from my chest while I start packing up, and my phone buzzes again right as I reach for it.
Boss who is NOT a lady
The student agreed to the swap. I’m sending you his profile right now.
He’s already waiting at the library, and we’re about 15min late.
Yikes. That means I’ll have to finesse this guy into extending the first lesson for an extra fifteen minutes so I get paid for the full session, but I’m not above begging. It should be fine as long as I locate him quickly. I switch over to the email app and findthe student’s profile from Melinda sitting pretty at the top of my inbox. I click on it and my phone nearly slips from my grasp.
Aran Rodriguez’s picture looks up at me from the screen.
I squeeze my eyes shut and shake my head. But no matter how hard I blink, that’s his face and name on the student profile, all right. Wyatt was supposed to tutor him on essay writing starting fifteen minutes ago. And now…
Oh, no. No.No. He lifts his head up from his laptop screen, and those deep-set eyes, dark as an abyss, meet mine once more.
I’m rooted to my chair as the Bolts’ captain pushes his chair back. The scrape against the floor catches the attention of the other students again. We all watch as he slowly stands to his full height—the whole six-foot-four-inches of it, according to his player profile. He doesn’t break eye contact even as he sweeps all his stuff on the table in my direction with one hand and takes the seat right across the table from me.
I open my mouth to say something. Nothing but air comes out.
That’s what happens to awkward turtles like me when the number one hottest guy on campus—as voted by students on the student portal over the summer—pays a modicum of attention to them.
He tilts his head to the side. A deep, husky voice that feels like velvet comes out of his mouth.
“Were you staring because you’re my new tutor, or was it something else?”
And I proceed to die.
CHAPTER 3
ARAN
This time Strawberry doesn’t choke. She does open and close her mouth as if she’s forgotten how to use it.
After clearing her throat, she finally says, “Something else. And I’m sorry. That was rude of me.”
I lean back in my chair. That was unexpected. The usual responses to something like this would be excuses or vanishing acts. But she doesn’t bullshit her way through, nor does she leave. Rather, she takes out a few of the things she’d been packing in her backpack. A strawberry keychain hangs from the pull of its zipper, matching her earrings.
“Um.” She tucks her brown hair behind her ears, making the earrings jut out next to her cheeks. Which are just as red. “Could we please start on the right foot?” She sticks her hand out for me to shake.
“That’s a hand, though,” I say, just to be annoying. When she starts pulling away, I reach out with mine and shake it. “I’m Aran Rodriguez, your new student.”
Her eyes are wide. The brown in them looks almost translucent under the sunlight streaming in from the window. Her hand is so cold I’m tempted to lend her my gloves. But she gives a firm, strong pump to my hand and lets go. A good,professional handshake that doesn’t make her whither into a fit of giggles like it would the other stalker at the table.
That makes me curious about what the something else was. If it were related to the tutor swap, she’d have easily explained herself with that. But I’m not curious enough to ask, especially if it could make things so awkward that I end up having to find yet another tutor. And I really need to get this new essay started before the next away game.
The only problem is that she’s a she. Which goes against Step One of my plan.
“Madeline Berkley. You can call me Maddie.” She lowers her eyes to her phone screen. “So, Aran?—”
She mispronounces it, so I interrupt. “It’s not pronounced Aaron. It’s Ah-ran, with emphasis on theranpart.”
“Oh.” She tests it on her tongue without spewing a sound for a moment, then attempts it. “Aran? Is that correct?”
