Page 8 of Most Valuable Players
All five feet and three inches of me stands taller. I make eye contact with each of them, trying to look friendly and not at all intimidated, which I’m not . . . nope, not at all, and then lock my gaze with the sleeper’s. He’s the shortest of the three, but the intensity of his navy blue eyes makes it hard for me to find my voice.
“I’m Blair, we have statistics class together.” I wave toward the building behind them in case they don’t even know what class they just came from. Apparently, I am still bitter about the grade.
“Wes,” he says as he shrugs his backpack up higher on one shoulder. “This is Joel and Z.”
“Nice to meet you.” I look to each of the guys and then back to Wes again, silently communicating he is the one I want to speak to. They don’t get the memo. “Wes, can I talk to you for a minute?”
“We’ll meet ya at the car,” Joel pipes in, and he and Z leave me alone with Wes. It’s only slightly easier to think without all three of them staring at me with rapt interest.
“What’s up?”
“I was wondering if you could tell me who does tutoring for the team? I noticed your test grade the other day, not that I was trying to see it or anything. Sorry, that sounds horrible. I just happened to glance down as I was walking by your desk. Honest mistake. Honestly."
Deep breath, Blair.
"Anyway, I didn’t do so well, and I really need an A in this class. Does the team have someone specifically, or do you guys use the tutor center?”
His eyebrows pull together, and he shifts his weight to his left side, making me conscious that standing here talking to me is probably causing him pain.
Join the club. This whole interaction is excruciating.
“I’m lost. You want information on the tutor center?”
The hot Arizona sun shines bright and sweat trickles down my back. “Just information on the tutor or tutors you’re using . . . for statistics.”
“You think I have a tutor?”
“I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to be rude, but it’s just you’re sleeping through class.”
He crosses his arms over his chest in a silent challenge. The neckline of his shirt pulls down, revealing a hint of tan chest underneath. Annoyed is a good look for him.
“You don’t have a tutor?” The question is no more than a mumble. Or maybe I just can’t hear it because my pulse is pounding in my ears. I open my mouth several times and then promptly close it when I can’t find the words to apologize. He smirks as he watches me grapple with the realization that I’ve made a very wrong, very humiliating assumption.
Uncrossing his arms, he takes one step in the direction his friends went. “Tutor center is on the first floor of the library.” He points in the direction of the campus library, making me feel about a foot tall. “I’m sure someone there can help.”
As I watch him walk away, admiring his gait that’s somehow sexy and confident even with the boot, I wonder—statistically speaking, of course—what are the odds that the guy sleeping at the back of the class could not only pull off an A but also manage to get that grade without help?
I have no idea, probably because I’m failing statistics. My guess, though? Not good.
* * *
I arrive backto the scene of the crime, aka statistics class, with a cup of coffee, a new pen to inspire better note taking, and a determination to hide from Wes and company. I slip in five minutes early so I can grab a seat and be wholly enthralled when they show up. I don’t fancy myself important enough that they’d seek me out, but my humiliation has big plans of cowering and hiding for the rest of the semester.
As if my body is now connected to my mortification, I feel the exact moment they enter the classroom.
Wes Reynolds, Joel Moreno, and Zeke Sweets are quite a trio. Yep, I looked them up. I'm calling it research, but in reality, I just wanted to have all the information on the guy I'd thoroughly insulted. They sit in the middle section at the very top, giving them a bird’s eye view of the entire class. If Wes’s eyes were ever open, would have been nearly impossible to be out of his line of sight. I’m not invisible, but it’s as far away as I can get.
Zeke pulls his red headphones down and rests them around his neck as he squeezes his large frame into the seat. According to everyone I asked (more research, of course), Zeke is already rumored to be going pro after this season.
Wes wears a glare that would frighten small children . . . or grown ass women because I slink down in my seat as I continue to watch him. I have a hard time looking anywhere else, glare be damned. He’s unbelievably gorgeous. Hell, they all are. Even Joel, who hasn’t looked up from his phone, is strikingly handsome with his black hair and bronzed skin.
When Wes glances around the class and his blue stare lands on me, I become very interested in my notes from the last class, reading over them with a fervor I should have tried before the last test.
When we’re dismissed, I hang back, waiting for the last row to leave before making my way up the stairs, but when the auditorium is nearly cleared out and the three musketeers haven’t made any move to leave, I’m left with no other choice but to suck it up and hope they don’t notice me.
Joel nudges him as I approach. Nothing gets past that guy. It’s as if he’s Wes’s eyes and ears. As Wes’s dark blue eyes land on me, I plaster on a big smile and decide to be the bigger person. “Hello.”
Wes stands, awkwardly making his way to the aisle and holding on to the back of the chair for support. A flash of pain crosses his handsome features as he meets me on the stairs.
