4. MADDIE

CHAPTER 4

MADDIE

M y heart beats as fast as a rabbit's as I rush toward the exit. Our table mostly cleared after he snapped at those annoying girls, and with Wyatt also gone, it was just Aran Rodriguez and me for forty-five minutes more.

And he's intimidating as heck.

He has this really intense air about him. Something about the way he observes every detail in complete silence. It made me rant like I never have in my life just so I could busy myself with anything other than panic. Because that's what I felt the second he asked what TDH is.

In my hurry, I didn't even bundle myself properly, and once I leave the building, I regret it. The January air feels like tiny needles stabbing my exposed neck and hands. I leave a trail of puffs in the air across the parking lot until I locate my Beetle and hide in it. I turn on the engine and set the heating to the max, watching the library's front door.

Of course he doesn't follow. Why would he?

I expel a sigh of relief. Is it just me, or is it even hard to breathe in front of him? I wonder if this is how his opponents feel when they face him. This overwhelming certainty that his eyes can see through to their deepest flaws.

Strawberry, huh? I fiddle with my favorite earrings, the ones I wear when I need a little spark of joy. Now I feel childish.

My phone buzzes in the pocket of my dress and keeps shaking while I pull it out. I accept the incoming call from Wyatt. "Hello?"

"Did you survive?"

I snort. "Barely. Did you time the session so you could make this call?"

"I totally did." He laughs a bit. "I was too curious. How did it go?"

"It went well, I guess…" I trail off a bit because objectively, it did. Once I started the session, there was no more teasing or snapping. Aran gave me his undivided attention, which is the problem.

"You guess? Don't tell me he was like…" Wyatt draws in air, though I don't know if it's for drama or because he's taking a brisk walk. "A bully?"

"Goodness, no."

"Okay, cool. I was a bit concerned based on how he reacted to those girls."

"So was I, to be honest," I mumble, fiddling with the hem of my coat. "But I think he's just kinda grumpy."

He chuckles. "Grumpy isn't how I would describe him."

"You're right. He deserves at least a full paragraph of description." I laugh, because I have a whole page of notes about him in my journal.

"I confess I'm a little glad I won't have to tutor him now, but I'm worried about you." He hushes his voice, like maybe he's in a building and not alone anymore. "Did you see in his profile how he specifically requested a male tutor?"

"I saw. What's the deal with that?" I mumble in return while I fasten my seat belt.

"I don't know. Moreover, I don't know why Melinda reassigned you to him."

"Maybe I was the only one available."

"Maybe." Wyatt pauses. "Just be careful with that guy, Maddie. He has a reputation." The way he says the last two words is as if he capitalized them, and I know exactly what he means. Aran Rodriguez is a player on and off the ice.

"Don't worry. That has nothing to do with me."

"Hmkay, hopefully those won't be famous last words."

I huff a quick farewell after that. While I appreciate his concern, I can also take care of myself. Ish. Extremely good-looking guys with bad-boy reputations and a stadium-full of broken hearts have never been my kryptonite. It's not that I'm invisible to them. I'm just someone they glance around on their search for a hot girl who fits next to them.

That's probably why it didn't matter to him that he was reassigned to a girl, despite requesting a male tutor. I'm basically the same as Wyatt in his eyes. And to me, he's like looking into the sun. It's nice to know he's there, and certainly heated me up, but so far out of my reach I won't even contemplate the possibility. I put my car in drive and leave the parking lot, determined to leave him behind for the day.

But dang, does he make great character inspiration.

TDH, foul-mouthed, self-confident, bottomless eyes. I can't wait to get home and flesh out some backstory. What would fit a character like this best? Surely something tragic. So what if it's nerve-racking to sit with Aran Rodriguez for almost an hour, two times per week? If it means I design the ultimate hockey hero for my new book, it's worth it. In fact, I should probably pay him for the service.

Optimism returns to me on the drive back to the apartment. I have no classes for the rest of the day, so I can spend a bit of time on developing my first-ever hockey romance before switching over to my coursework.

Even better, my roommates do have class this afternoon. I'll have the whole place to myself for a few hours.

I pick up my fave veggie lo mein on the way and wolf it down at the kitchen counter in our tiny apartment. After I'm done, I bag up the trash and toss it into the building's trash container by the parking lot. Last time I threw the cartons in the kitchen trash and my roommates saw it, they said this was why I was so fat, and that if only I'd stop eating takeout, I could get healthier and lose weight, when, in reality, I can't afford takeout more than once a week.

Back inside, I change out of the marigold cashmere dress I found at a thrift store and chuck my leggings across the room. I put on my comfiest pair of sweatpants and a sweatshirt that fits me like a tent because it's a men's 4XL. And with this freedom, I decide to enjoy the only good feature of this apartment. The glorious couch.

Rebs was my roommate at the freshman dorms, and we hit it off. The dorm room was too small for all our junk, and she knew I was having a hard time with the shared bathroom situation. So, at the first chance we got, we looked for options and found this place. The problem was that it has three bedrooms, so we needed one more person to help us carry the expense.

Insert Tiff. She found us through the roommate-wanted post we made on the student portal, and there were no red flags from her. But that's because the red flag was Tiff's bestie.

Lori.

Good ol' Lori is what fat phobia would look like if it could transform into a living, breathing person. She's one of those girls who's hot and knows it. And if you're not at her level, she will let you know. Repeatedly. Until you either start hating yourself, run away from her as fast as possible, or turn into her so she can accept you. I'm currently trying to do the second one of those options because, even though she's not my roommate per se, she spends most of her time at our place hanging out with Tiff and Rebs.

Lori's the author of the takeout comment, which was obnoxious and expected of her. But the next day, I came home with a few leftover cookies from the office and made the mistake of offering them to Rebs and Tiff.

I still remember how Rebs's expression turned all concerned and she said, "Are you sure you should be eating this, Maddie? Maybe you should watch your calories a bit more."

And that was the first time I exploded. Rebs was my best friend. She knew that my mom made comments like that all the time. She knew how much they drove me nuts and how they hurt. And how they made me shrink in on myself. Two years of atta girl-ing me when I vented to her about my mom went down the drain the second queen bee Lori walked into our lives, deeming Rebs a hot and me a not .

So yeah, I have to get out of this place. But first I'll enjoy the feather-soft couch Rebs and I bought when we moved in for a little longer.

I brew myself a mug of lavender and chamomile tea, because I worked myself up to a froth just thinking about the mean girls. The aromatic steam settles my nerves. I put the fluffy blanket over my legs and settle in.

My laptop fires back up, and it still shows the site with the Thunder Strikes info that I'd minimized once I felt a little guilty over stalking Aran and his team. But now, in the privacy of this apartment, I look up his player profile once more.

This time I don't stop at his pretty face. Except I don't understand his stats at all. Are they good or bad? I've heard people say he's a great player, but this is all gibberish to me. I open a new tab on my browser to start looking up the terms and soon discover that he's not just great. Aran is the cream of the crop of Division I players. My tea goes cold as I fall into a rabbit hole of YouTube clips of games. I have no idea what I'm watching, but it's fast, and I'm enthralled.

I pause to heat up the tea in the microwave and make a note in my journal that says hockey players must have good eyes, because the puck is small and fast .

Huh, that must be how Aran spotted the letters TDH on another page of my journal. And maybe how he knew I was staring, even though he only made eye contact the one moment that made me choke.

The microwave pings, and I retrieve the mug. I remake my nest and brace myself. Aran Rodriguez pulls out a shocking number of results. The first one is a video feature in SPORTY magazine—a magazine even I've heard of—from last year.

I watch the whole ten minutes of it with my mouth hanging open. It starts with a montage of various trainings. Aran lifting weights that look as big as me. Lacing up his skates in the locker room. Getting white pucks fired at him in rapid succession—and him catching every single one like a machine. That has to be edited, right? But then they show him at a gym in normal clothes, catching a barrage of tennis balls someone flings at him from behind the camera, like it's a party trick. The words prodigy and hottest goalie prospect are bandied about every so often. They get some action shots of him that I rewind to watch again. Not my fault they got his best angles.

"Whoa!"

I jump in my seat. One of the action shots shows him shirtless and lifting what looks like thick, heavy ropes in rapid succession. And my question from earlier is answered eloquently.

Yes, a human apparently can be that chiseled.

His brown skin gleams with a sheen of sweat under the gym's harsh lights. It marks deep shadows in the ridges of his muscles, which shift and flex under the effort. Thick drops of sweat trickle from his chin, but his expression is exactly the same as when he's sitting at a library, watching me rant my head off. Calm but intense. And even though he's more or less crouching as he lifts the ropes up and down, his stomach doesn't bunch into a little tire like mine. No, sir. His is a map of tight muscles that belongs to a museum. I can even see the V shape that disappears into his sweatpants.

Wait, his sweatpants are quite tight. Are those muscles around his knees? I didn't know knees could look like that.

Would it be creepy if I paused the video to stare?

Bah, no one's watching. I hit pause and even make the video full screen.

"Oh no, Maddie. You shouldn't have done this," I mumble to myself. It's going to be hard to face him tomorrow and not imagine what I've now seen is under his clothes. Maybe Wyatt's concerns weren't as unfounded as I thought.

Keys jiggle outside the door, and it opens with a bang. I slam my laptop shut, looking like a deer caught in the headlights.

"Gee, are you looking at something for adults?" Tiff asks with a laugh she tosses over her shoulder. Sure enough, the other two also cross the threshold into the apartment.

"Of course not." But almost. I curl my hands around my warm mug of tea and take a casual sip. "Why are you all back early?" Unfortunately, my question goes ignored.

"Wow, Maddie. I didn't know you were into that." Rebs wiggles her eyebrows at me, playing along with her friends. Their twinkling little laughs chafe me raw.

Sighing, I start collecting my stuff. Meanwhile, Lori throws her bag at the foot of the couch and plops onto the cushions as if she were the owner.

"Aw, you don't have to go!" Lori pouts in an exaggerated manner. "But then again, if you prefer privacy to watch your naughty videos, I understand. Just don't let us hear you. Am I right, girls?"

Tiff snorts. "Ew, yeah."

I wish I didn't have paper-thin skin that so easily gives away when I'm feeling a strong emotion. But as I clutch my laptop and journal against my chest with one arm and pick up my mug with the free hand, they can all see how red my face is, and they laugh even harder. But actually, this is a flush of anger.

I slam my bedroom door shut with my heel. I'm angrier at myself than at them. I wish I could tell them off once and get them off my back for good. But every time I try to stand up for myself, Lori's comments get more and more insulting, and Rebs and Tiff get meaner too. It's worthless to even try anymore.

I don't want to max out my credit card to move out, but I may have to. Even taking in an extra student won't get me there quick enough. I sit on my bed and open my laptop back up, about to check my bank balance when there's a soft knock on my door.

The only one who'd ever bother is Rebs, the lesser of all the evils. Taking a deep breath, I say, "Come in."

She pushes the door open and pokes her head into my room. "Hey, we're heading out to O'Malley's soon and will probably be out of your hair all night, okay?"

Not an invitation. Not an apology. Or even an acknowledgment that her friend was awful—again.

"Yeah, whatever" is all I say. My door clicks shut, and Lori's laughter echoes from the living room, disrupting the quiet in my room.

I'm officially done with this.