Page 58 of The Longest Shot
I arrange my supplies. There's a new binder with color-coded tabs, because organization is the foundation of excellence. There's a mix of pens, because God knows he won’t bring his own. I'm pretending as if all the stationery in the world couldsomehow protect me from the force of nature that is James Fitzgerald.
Everything present and ready.
Except him.
Him.
His mouth, hot against mine, his hand tangled in my hair with exactly the right amount of force, the solid wall of muscle pressing me back until the world narrowed to just us, just?—
I slam my palm down on the table hard enough to make the pens jump, becausethatsort of imagery right now is, frankly,rudeandcompletely fucking unnecessary. The sharp sting clears my head, replacing unwanted sense memory with immediate, grounding pain.
Much better.
The library is tomb-quiet at 10:00 p.m., abandoned by everyone with actual social lives. Somewhere in the distance, a printer whirs to life, spits out pages, then dies again, the mechanical manifestation of my attempts to resist thoughts ofhimandthat.
And then he enters, like a brass band at a wake.
First comes the crash, something heavy hitting the floor with prejudice a few doors down, followed by a muffled, “Shit, sorry!” directed at the universe. Then what sounds like an entire hockey bag being upended, items cascading in a symphony of chaos.
I listen, not sure if I should smirk, frown or run away. His footsteps approach, somehow both shuffling and thunderous, like he’s simultaneously trying to be quiet and completely incapable of it. And then he enters the small study room like a slap to the face.
Jesus Christ on skates.
Those jeans should be illegal, hugging his ass and clinging to thighs that could crack walnuts. His PBU Hockey t-shirt has been washed into transparency, the fabric practically paintedacross his chest. His hair is damp at the edges from a recent shower, and I can smell his fresh scent from here.
This is fine. You’re fine. You’re not considering licking the water droplet currently sliding down his neck.
“Made it!” He grins like arriving one minute late is an Olympic-worthy achievement. “And I brought nourishment!”
Thenourishmentturns out to be a family-sized bag of sour cream and onion chips that looks like it survived a war and a water bottle that’s more dent than bottle. He puts them on the table, then pulls out a sociology textbook that has at least a dozen coffee rings on the cover.
"James," I say, carefully. "Have you been using that book as a coaster for the whole semester?"
He doesn't confirm or deny it, but the grin tells me everything I need to know as he collapses into the chair across from me. His legs immediately sprawl under the table, and suddenly the area shrinks to the size of a matchbox. His knee brushes mine—barely a whisper of contact—and he doesn’t pull back.
Neither do I, because that would be admitting it affects me.
Which it doesn’t.
Ittotallydoesn't.
The artificial onion smell from his chips wages chemical warfare against the library’s usual bouquet of old paper and crushed dreams. My stomach growls, loud enough to echo, reminding me I haven’t eaten since noon because I was too busy war-gaming every possible disaster this session could become.
“Hungry?” He pushes the bag toward me with the casual intimacy of someone who shares food without thinking about it. “They’re the good kind. Extra oniony.”
“I don’t eat processed food,” I lie, even as my hand twitches toward the bag like it has its own agenda.
“Right.” His eyes dance with barely-contained laughter. “So what is it, then, organic kale and the tears of your enemies?”
A short, surprised laugh punches out of me before I can censor it, a hiccup of humanity I didn’t authorize. And in that moment I realize that James is actuallyfunny, when he's telling jokes at thenormaltime and in thenormalway people tell jokes, rather than as a crutch for anything serious.
“So,” he says, crunching a chip with what seems like deliberate volume, “how does this work? Do I get a syllabus? Office hours? A nice motivational poster?”
"You need at least a B on the next paper to lift your average to where it needs to… be…" I pause, enjoying the smirk my joke earns. "There'll be an exam after that, which I can't do for you, but I can help you prepare for it. Nail the paper and a C or better on the exam, and you're golden…"
"Easy, right?" He grins. "So what's the paper?"
I slide the laminated rubric across the table with enough force to establish dominance. “Your professor wants five pages analyzing social disintegration through a sociological lens. You’re going to deliver exactly that. Nothing more, nothing less.”
