Chapter Two

I sit alone in the college dining hall eating lunch. My appetite is crap, has been a while now, but I go through the motions, mechanically chewing one bite after another until all the food is gone from my plate. I push my tray back and open a book, and—a broad back catches my eye. I look at that firm masterpiece, recognising the contours instantly. Mark faces his friend as he walks by—the tank, Eddie—and doesn't notice me. My gaze catches on Eddie's bulging shoulders, and my own tighten as bad memories prod at the back of my brain. The whisper of a jeer. A mocking laugh. I snap my gaze away, willing the ghosts away.

They end up sitting at the next table over.

Mark is facing me.

His black eyes connect with mine. I'm too startled to jump, which I'm glad for because that would make me look guilty as if I were checking him out or something. After a long pause, Mark glances at Eddie. I take the chance to look at my book.

Look at my book, not read. Because Mark keeps looking over at me. Eddie is talking all animated, but Mark doesn't seem the least bit interested in his story.

I am very self-conscious. My aloneness after the conversation Mark heard on the weekend is a tad embarrassing, but it's not embarrassment heating my cheeks…it's the jerk-off session I had once I got home that night on my mind.

I orgasmed. I orgasmed . I haven't done that in months. Thank you, Mark, for your gorgeous, gorgeous eyes, your wonderful husky voice, your firm, sloping shoulders, your sultry staring—is he still staring? I glance up. Yes, he is still staring. Our eyes meet. Hold.

"You're not even listening to me," Eddie complains. "Who are you looking at?" He twists around and spots me. Eddie's expression changes from annoyed to on-guard. "What are you looking at?" he demands of me.

His aggressive tone draws the attention of people at the tables nearby. If the idea of everyone looking at me didn't make me want to shrivel into a ball and cry, I would have talked back. Played up the fight Eddie was picking, if only to show him I'm not a soft target. But if he so much as breathed on me, I would hit the deck. Screw that.

I avert my eyes first, shut my book, and stand. Eddie braces for a fight, but I just take my tray and walk away in the other direction. I'm aware of Mark's gaze the entire way out of the cafeteria.

The me from a year ago would have died of shame to walk away. The me of today is happy to be walking. I put it behind me and focus on college. Thank god my course is something I enjoy; business and accounting might not be everyone's jam, but it sure is mine. Anything to do with numbers? Sign me up. I'm proud that I picked a practical course that would lead me to a job. Knowing a secure job was waiting for me at the end of this year has gotten me through many nights of utter despair.

That's why I can shrug off my wimpy retreat. I'm not here for the social aspect anymore—I'm here for the degree. The rest is finished, as are my days of rough-housing with the guys and being part of all the—nope. Depressing thoughts are reserved for night-time in bed. Campus means I am switched on and focusing.

Campus with Mark sauntering across the grounds in front of me means I'm turned on and focusing on other things, but I allow myself that much.

I adjust my position. I've been sitting in this library seat studying for hours, and I spy Mark as he and his friends walk along the path below me. They're heading into the gym. Today's Monday, so that means it's basketball practice. I noticed Mark's car this morning in the student lot, and I wonder if he knows that the ground is freezing over tonight?

I open my weather app and see it's already below freezing. The unusual warmth from the weekend has quickly given way to more appropriate temperatures for late fall. I can't focus on my work anyone, more interested in getting an eyeful of Mark when he comes out of training all sweaty with his clothes sticking to him. I used to see it all the time. I used to smell him (during tackles). Touch him (during tackles). And I didn't even appreciate it…okay, I did. I jerked off all the time to our intimate moments.

Movement. I peer down—

"Fucker," I hiss.

Mark is wearing a jacket.

My study-buddy, aka the guy who sits opposite me until ten pm every day, glances at me. He then looks outside to see what I cursed at. His gaze lands on Mark, and he shoots me a wry look.

I shrug.

Disappointed, I pack up my things. It's only nine, but I'm done for the day. Not getting to see Mark all sweaty killed my motivation.

For some reason, I'm rushing. Actually, I know the reason. If I walk fast, I'll intercept Mark on his way to the car park, and then I will casually mention the ice warning. Just in case. Can't be too careful with cars.

I'm stepping out of the building; my foot slips. I throw my weight to try to save myself. There's a delicate snap. I go down. And all the healing wounds just ache . A bone-deep pain throbs through my left leg, paralysing me.

"Are you okay?" Mark asks.

I'm trembling in pain. "Fine," my voice is hardly above a whisper as I try to get up.

"Here." Mark puts his arm around my waist and lifts me to my feet like I weigh absolutely nothing. His spicy cologne washes over me, and in the midst of pain, my nerves wake up—my skin hypersensitive and aware of every minute point of contact. He smells really, really good. Too good. I grab his back for balance, and his arm holds my waist firmly.

For the first time since I've known him, I realise Mark is several inches taller than me.

Mark looks around as I make this discovery. His eyes fix on something behind me. "There, the bench." He looks back. Our eyes meet because I'm staring at his handsome face. I can feel his breath on my cheeks.

Mark swallows. "I'll help you over."

"Okay."

I have to hop and not put any weight on my left leg, and I am enormously relieved when I reach the bench. It's cold and wet—a modern metal material to match the modern library—and I sink onto it with a harsh exhale. Mark crouches in front of my legs. I notice that the guys he was with leaving the court are gone, and it's just us two.

"You might have broken it." Mark reaches for my ankle.

"Fuck off," I spit pure acid.

Mark freezes. Of course he freezes; my tone was ten times more aggressive than Eddie's had been in the cafeteria.

I don't mean it, but my mind blanked as soon as his hands reached for my leg. Fear filled in the gap. I'm breathing hard.

Mark glances at my face and we stare off. His brow furrows, thin lines forming. Mark slowly retracts his hands, and I breathe out in relief.

"Okay. Sorry." Mark drops a knee to the ground, changing the stance of his crouch but not leaving it. "I wasn't going to grab you or hurt you," he says calmly.

I reign my feelings in. Easier said than done with the pain rocketing up my leg. "I didn't mean to snap."

Mark meets my gaze. "Can I?" He gestures to my leg.

"No."

There is an awkward pause. I clear my throat. "You can…go." I gesture toward the car park. His car is visible from here.

"Not happening, Kyle," Mark says. He's eyeing up my leg, trying to assess the damage.

With the jeans and sneakers, there's nothing visible for him to inspect. My leg looks like a normal leg. "I'm going to rest for a few minutes," I say. "You go. And be careful; there's ice on the roads."

"I just saw a demonstration of the ice," Mark says wryly. He abandons his crouch and sits next to me on the bench. And he just sits there. Sits there…

"Will you just go?" I ask, annoyed. I can't go until he does.

"No."

"Fuck off, Mark." I try for aggressive.

"Don't waste your energy getting mouthy with me. It's not going to scare me off." Mark leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. He stares right at my face, a serious expression on his. "Does it feel broken?"

I could mouth off; but I suspect Mark is sincere that it won't have the desired effect. "It's fine," I say. And then I sigh. "I'm just going home now, anyway; you don't need to stick around."

"I'll drive you."

"The bus stop is two feet away," I point out. It's even closer than Mark's car.

"So? You expect me to leave you to hop over there?" Mark asks.

"I'll call a friend."

"What friend?"

"You don't know my friends. Even if I—"

"Bethany? Louis? Tommy?"

"Yes, stalker, one of them," I say, vexed. I dig out my phone from my pocket, angling my face away from Mark to hide that it's going red. I've always been aware of Mark, but hearing that he's been aware of me, too, has my heart skipping. "Why do you know my friends' names?" I grumble, hiding that the thought excites me.

"You know the names of mine."

"Hardly," I lie.

"And you knew it was Eddie's birthday on Saturday. And I know beyond any doubt that you two haven't had so much as a conversation before," Mark says.

I send a fake text to my brother's phone—who is currently well out of cell range—and ignore his Eddie remark. "There," I say. "Help is on the way. You can go now."

Mark leans back on the bench, resting his arm casually behind me. He makes no move to go anywhere. Was he always this annoying? Have I been seeing him through rose-tinted glasses for two years?

"Mark," I say, exasperated.

"I'll wait till they're here."

" Mark ."

"Waiting," Mark replies, totally at ease.

I lean back as well, irritated. I could text one of the guys, but I'm pretty sure they've all blocked me. No one has even read, let alone replied to, the messages I sent when I got back to college. Mark clearly isn't going anywhere. I don't want to hobble around in front of him, but as long as my leg stays hidden, I can probably live with it. Not that Mark is giving me a choice in the matter.

"Okay," I say, grumpy. "Fine."

Mark raises an eyebrow. "I expected at least ten minutes of stubbornness."

"It's too cold for that," I say.

Mark springs up. "I'll pull the car up to the curb. I don't think I need to tell you to stay put since you're obviously in pain despite pretending otherwise." He shrugs off his coat and places it on my shoulders. It's warm from his body heat and smells divine.

My attention shifts to Mark, who now stands in the cold air with only a cotton polo shirt covering his torso. The material is a perfect, gleaming white. "Wait here," he warns me a final time before walking away.

I watch his back and, unable to help myself, slip the coat on. It's soft, pleasantly heavy, and oversized. The sleeves are too long, so I push them up, and I love the warm cosiness that envelops me. Mark is back too soon; I was still appreciating the coat. Disappointed, I reach for the buttons but his hands cover mine.

"Keep it on. I'm warm from training," Mark says.

His hands are warm. I gaze at them as they fully envelop mine, and a full-body shudder wracks through me.

"See?" Mark says, squeezing my fingers under his and guiding them off the buttons. "You're shivering." His touch lingers for what feels like a long time. I look up and our eyes meet.

"Have you changed your mind about letting me see?"

"No."

"Figures," Mark mutters. "Okay, let's get out of the cold then."

He positions himself at my side, wrapping his arm around my waist. I grab his shoulder, and we walk to his car as a three-legged fused being. I don't dare place my left leg down, knowing it won't support any weight.

With some careful manoeuvring and pretty much hugging Mark, I'm safely in the car without jostling my leg.