Power Plays & Straight A's (CU Hockey 1)

He rarely looks up from his computer, but when he does, his gaze sweeps the room before his eyes land on mine.

I can’t help it. I cock my brow at him every time and try not to smile.

He averts his stare immediately.

Before I know it, Professor Lawrence is giving us our assignment for the week and dismissing us.

We file out of the room, but I linger outside the doors.

“You coming, man?” Jacobs asks.

“I’ll catch you later.”

He smiles a knowing smile, and I fight to keep from flipping him off.

Zach’s the last one out the door. He immediately narrows his eyes in suspicion. “You can tell your brother I didn’t fall on my face in front of everyone.”

He walks off, but I keep pace.

“I think you talk to Seth more than I do. You can tell him yourself.”

We reach the quad, and Zach stops walking. “What do you want, Foster?”

I wince. “Can you call me Grant? Everyone else here does.”

He flattens his lips, but I can’t tell if he’s actually contemplating it or pretending. “I don’t think so.”

Pretending it is.

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t buy into the whole frat mentality of using each other’s last names. And … because it’s weird. Would you expect me to call you Grant in front of Seth? Should I call Seth that?”

“Frat mentality?” I try to squash my smile. “How were you assigned to this class?”

He lowers his voice. “It might have been suggested by my advisor because I’m great at analyzing individual behavior but not so great at the group and herd mentality thing. It will help me when it comes to writing my thesis. Apparently.”

“Are you sure you’re qualified to teach a sports psychology class?”

“I’m sure I can manage.”

I rub my jaw. “Well, if you need any help …”

“I won’t. I have to go. I have another class to get to.”

“You know where to get my number if you need it.”

4

Zach

If I need help.

If I need help.

Am I qualified?

I’m the damn TA.

I shake Foster’s words away for possibly the hundredth time this week. Other than that little blip on Monday, things have gone surprisingly well. Professor Lawrence is nice enough, a few students have reached out to introduce themselves—over email and text, thank God—and I made it to all my classes on time with only minor detours. And Foster … well, he just keeps popping up. All big smiles, and warm eyes, and the kind of stare that twists my gut.

We might not know each other well, but over the last few years I’ve become very aware of the fact that when Foster’s around, I’m powerless to stop my gaze from finding him over and over again.

After a late lunch on Thursday, I head to the library to research. Professor Lawrence said to start thinking about my thesis now, which was admittedly a good prompt as I still have no idea what my hypothesis should be.

Still, I have plenty of time to prepare. What I don’t have time to do is become an expert on sports psychology.

Sports.

When I walked into that classroom and saw a wall of jocks—and yes, other people obviously, but mostly jocks—staring back at me I’d been so distracted I’d slammed right into Foster. Pretty Foster. With the big shoulders and easy smile and hair that seems to always look perfect.

If you need help …

I shake my head again, and if I keep it up, people are going to assume I have a behavioral tic. Patronizing Foster is a more apt descriptor. I mean, did he have to be so distracting and smug during the class? Couldn’t he tell I was trying to concentrate?

I drop my laptop onto the table a little louder than I intend, and the girl a few seats down jumps. I shoot her an apologetic smile at my miscalculation, feeling my cheeks heat. She doesn’t smile back or nod, only stares at me, her expression unchanged, and I quickly drop my messenger bag and take a seat before I cause her any more annoyance.

Don’t mind me. I’m over here, attempting to be invisible.

I log onto the CU intranet. The first sports psychology assessment of the year is focused on an area of discipline I understand the least. Different people working together—different testosterone-driven alpha males—attempting to comply with a common goal. The pieces aren’t sitting right in my brain.

Theoretically it all makes sense, but how that translates to a practical environment …

As I’m searching the library database for anything I can find about team mentality, the girl moves one chair closer. I’m not sure if I’m meant to notice or not so I keep my attention on my screen.

“You seem nice.”

I blink and glance over. Her scowl hasn’t lessened, and her tufts of short black hair give the impression she cut it herself. “I am nice.”

She chews on her thumb nail, and I tilt my head.