13. JT

CHAPTER 13

JT

Ok, I’m thinking about Maggie. But it’s not my fault. She’s right here in the dining hall and it’s impossible to tear my gaze away.

Fuck, she looks good today—even better than she did at the party, if that’s possible. Her hair’s up in one of those claw clips and she’s got leggings on that mold to every curve on her body. Her t-shirt’s got to be three sizes too big, but the way it slopes over her shoulder gives me the perfect view of her creamy skin and lacy bra strap. Her feet are in sneakers instead of those sky-high heels she busted and given the fact that she seems to be walking just fine, I’m guessing ice and elevation did the trick to heal her ankle.

My eyes catch hers and I give her half a smile. I’m aiming for somewhere in between a cheesy, picture-day grin and a mugshot. Damn. Either I miscalculated or Maggie hasn’t been daydreaming about our night together the way I have. She stares back at me, eyes wide. She blinks once and seems a little horrified to notice I’m still here. Granted, I’m twenty feet away, but based on her reaction, I’m thinking more distance is better.

Well, that sucks.

Shaking off the rejection, I take the hint, grab another tray, and head for the pasta line at the back of the cafe. There are at least a dozen people ahead of me, so I make quick work of my turkey wrap while I wait.

In about an hour, my team will commandeer a couple tables over by the windows, just like they did yesterday. My schedule doesn’t line up with anyone else’s on Mondays and Wednesdays, so I get a little time to myself over lunch today. Ollie was bummed, but I’m not heartbroken. I love these guys like brothers, but I need a little space every now and then, especially since we all live together. I know they think I’m antisocial and that Pete’s probably worried I’m too much of a loner, but I blame it on the way I grew up. I never had my own bedroom. I couch surfed a lot, or shared space with whatever poor relation was unlucky enough to get saddled with me for a couple months. Hell, for most of my senior year, I slept on a mattress in the hallway of my cousin’s apartment. Having a forty-five-minute stretch of time to eat and unwind by myself is not a bad thing.

For a second, my thoughts drift back to Maggie. If she’d approached me a few minutes ago or even returned my smile, I wouldn’t mind spending my lunch break with her, but?—

“Dude, the line is moving. It’s your turn.”

I look up from my plate to see a skinny guy with a mullet gesturing to the open space in front of me.

“My bad,” I answer, taking a few steps forward to put my tray on the line. Seconds later, it’s loaded up with a serving of lasagna. I nod my thanks and skip the garlic bread in favor of a plate of steamed broccoli. I catch mullet guy rolling his eyes at me, but I take no offense. Adding a plate of veggies to my laden trays must seem to him like the equivalent of ordering a diet soda with your double cheeseburger and chili fries. It’s a lot of food, yes, but I’ll burn it off later this afternoon and be back for more by dinnertime.

My eyes scan the room for a quiet place to sit, and that’s when I see her. Maggie’s looking right at me and her expression is far from horrified. I move my head, like I’m searching the space for a seat, but I’m clocking her the whole time. And she’s definitely clocking me.

Interesting.

I’m no scientist, but my hypothesis is that Maggie’s more interested in me than she’d like to admit. I could be wrong, so I’ll take my little theory for a test drive. I bypass the water dispenser to my left and head for the one closer to the entrance. This route takes me right past Maggie’s table and…yep. I turn the corner just in time to catch her staring at my ass.

Inwardly, I grin.

What can I say? My backside is a thing of beauty, or so I’ve been told. You could bounce a quarter off it. I know this because Ollie’s done it several times. The day the man finds a half-dollar, I’m gonna get a bruise.

I’ve literally gotten cat-called on the pool deck. One time, a group of PTO moms asked me if I’d pose for their charity calendar. I don’t know how they got that fundraiser past the school board, but I politely declined.

I’ve never understood the attention I’ve gotten for looking a certain way. It’s not why I work out. My job is to perform on the ice and the best way to do that is to be in peak physical condition. Given that I’m a goalie, it helps that I could probably make final callbacks for Cirque du Soleil.

I’ve never been the type to flaunt my body for a reaction. But right now, Maggie’s biting her lip, and that’s all the gratification I need. She thinks I can’t see her, but I’ll be replaying that dazed look on her face when I add ten reps to my butterfly splits tonight.

Purely for the sake of science, I drop some napkins on the floor and stoop to pick them up, all while balancing two full trays with my left hand. If I could see myself right now, I’d probably laugh my ass off. I must look like I’m auditioning for a porno called “Cakes in the Cafeteria” or some shit. But I’d gladly do a striptease on the salad bar if it meant Maggie’s eyes would stay glued on me.

She must realize I’ve caught her watching because whatever’s on her plate is suddenly the most fascinating thing she’s ever seen.

When she first spotted me and the shock registered on her face, I was fully on board to walk away. I’m no creeper.

But Maggie might be.

And I’m more than okay with that.

I may not believe in plans, but I surely believe in signs. And the few times in my life that I’ve ignored the signs in front of me are my biggest regrets.

She’s sitting at a four top and all the other seats are empty. Instead of sliding into the unoccupied chair across from hers, I choose the next table over. I’m not a fucking fool. Maggie wasn’t thrilled to see me, but she was happy as fuck to ogle me. If I want a shot at spending any more time with her—and I definitely do— then I’ve got to play this just right.

Setting my trays and water bottle down, I take a minute to toss my bag on the seat next to me before unwrapping my silverware and dousing my sweet potato fries with ranch.

I haven’t acknowledged Maggie yet, but she’s noticed me. From the corner of my eye, I can see her opening her mouth and closing it. If she finds her words and tells me to fuck off, I’ll go. But my gut says she’s not going to do that.

For now, I’ll just eat my food and wait her out.

It takes about two minutes for her to break.

“Are you expecting friends?” she asks.

That’s not what I thought she’d say, but maybe she’s still hung up on the idea of secrecy? I mean, we’re both fully clothed, and to any outside observer, we’re just two college students in a semi-crowded cafeteria.But maybe she’s really into making small talk like we’re strangers .

“No, why?” I answer, letting my curiosity get the better of me.

The reason for her question is clear when she looks at my plate—scratch that—my plates .

“Whoa, are you food-shaming me right now? I didn’t take you for the type,” I say, holding back a laugh and shaking my head. “You think you know someone.”

Her cheeks are pink from my teasing, but she volleys back, “You don’t know me.”

“Don’t I?”

We hold each other’s stare in a post-hook-up game of cat-and-mouse. I may not know Maggie’s favorite color or her birthday or even her major, but there’s no denying the fact that we know each other.

She blinks first and ducks her head like she’s checking her phone. She scrolls around for a minute then returns to her salad, picking through the lettuce to get to the good stuff. I turn my attention to my own tray and dig in. The sheer number of calories I burn in a day means that I need an obscene amount of food to fuel my body. I’m three bites into my plate of pasta when I feel Maggie’s eyes on me. I swallow my bite and reach for my napkin. “Is there sauce on my face?”

“No, no. I just—” Those perfectly rounded cheeks flame a little brighter. “Um, is that good? The pasta? I’ve only ever gotten the chicken Caesar salad here.”

Her question is ridiculous. I know it. She knows it. Classes have only been in session for a week, so it stands to reason that Maggie hasn’t sampled every item on the menu. And I’m not one for chit chat. If literally anyone else on campus asked me about the quality of my meal, I’d offer them a blank stare and say that it’s fine. That’s no lie. It’s food. It’s hot and fully cooked and edible. I didn’t have to make it or do the dishes, so that probably earns it a higher ranking.

I should have my phone out and my AirPods in. I should be chowing down while scrolling through sports highlights. Hell, I could even crack open my anatomy textbook and get a little reading done. That’s what I’d do if I were sitting here next to anybody else, my teammates included.

Instead, I take a drink and nod. “Yeah, it’s pretty good. The alfredo’s better, though. They only make that on Fridays.” It’s far from sparkling conversation, but I don’t care. I’m talking to the girl who’s been on my mind since the minute we met. If she wants me to sit here and rate every dish they serve in the dining hall, I’ll gladly do it.

“That’s good to know,” she answers, like I’ve just given her inside information.

Another wave of students wanders in as Maggie wads up her napkin and sorts the trash from the silverware on her tray. “Well…” she begins, “have a good day, JT. A good semester, I guess, if I don’t see you around.”

There it is. The brush off I knew was imminent. The thing is, I don’t buy it. Believe me, I’m not saying I’m god’s gift or anything. I’ve got my flaws, like everybody else. Fuck, I probably have more than my share. But Maggie hasn’t been able to take her eyes off me since I sat down. The chemistry I’m feeling isn’t one-sided, that’s for damn sure. The willingness to do something about it? Well, those scales are definitely tipped in my direction.

I’ve been playing hockey since I was six years old and got signed up for a league only because the rink was next to a bowling alley where my aunt’s boyfriend used to hang out. He’d take me to lessons three times a week and sit his ass at the bar while I was learning how to stay upright on skates. I played all the positions that first year, but I’ve been in goal ever since. Defending the net is what I do. I’m not the guy who makes the plays; I’m the one who stops them. And one thing I know for sure is that timing is everything. The impulse is there to shoot my shot, to go for it, to ask Maggie out. I could be casual as fuck right now and ask her if she’s going back to Kappa this weekend, or if she wants to hang out.

But there’s no doubt in my mind she’d shoot me down. She’s intrigued, yeah. Interested, maybe. Skeptical as all fuck, no doubt.

If there’s one quality that makes a good goalie great, it’s patience. Lucky me, I’ve got a fuck ton of it. Whether that comes from my screwed-up childhood or my hours on the ice willing the puck to come my way so I could fucking do something, who knows.

“Yeah, see you later,” I say, smiling at Maggie as she walks away. I’m mesmerized by the sway of her hips as she weaves through the crowd. My eyes never lose sight of her for a second, which is how I catch her looking over her shoulder at me.

She turns back quickly, as though the speed of her retreat will erase the motion. It doesn’t. Whatever game she’s playing, whatever makes her feel like she needs to keep her distance, I don’t know. But I’ll wait patiently until I find out.