The Game That Breaks Us (Us 3)

“Fine.” I grab one and bite into it. Immediately, my lips pucker and I spit it out, the red candy landing on the floor of his car in a blob. I glance over at him sheepishly. “Sorry.”

He looks at me with a straight face, and I expect him to yell at me for spitting out a gob of gummy on his floor, but instead, he bursts into uncontrollable laughter. His laughter is contagious, and I can’t help but join him. I pick up the red gummy and wrap it in a tissue from my purse.

“You weren’t kidding about not liking sour things.” He shakes his head, driving back toward campus.

I can still taste it on my tongue, the tangy flavor sticking to my taste buds. I wish I had some water.

“Here,” Bennett says, almost as if he’s read my thoughts, and hands me a half-empty water bottle. “I promise I don’t have anything contagious.”

I shake my head and take the bottle from him. I untwist the cap and lift it to my lips. The water is slightly warm from sitting in the car, but it’ll do. The tart flavor from the Sour Patch Kid finally leaves my tongue and I put the cap back on the bottle.

“Thank you so much for doing this.”

He glances at me with a raised brow. “For making you spit out a Sour Patch Kid in my car?”

I laugh and shake my head. “No, for bringing me here to get my things. I’m sorry you had to ditch your plans.”

He waves a hand dismissively. “It’s okay.” Something in his tone worries me, though, like maybe it’s not okay.

We arrive back at campus and he parks in the garage in the same spot. I grab the bags from the back and he carries the rug. We walk side-by-side back to my dorm—at least I know where that is.

When the building approaches, I say, “I can get that,” and try to take the rug from him.

“I’ve got it,” he says, swiveling out of my way. The end of the rug nearly whacks my legs.

“Are you sure?” I ask. “I don’t want to hold you up any longer.”

“It’s fine, Grace.”

I shrug and start up the steps. I pull out my ID card from my purse and swipe it to so we can get inside. My dorm is on the third level, but thankfully, there’s an elevator. The doors ding open and we step inside. I hate the awkward silence that’s fallen between us. I’ve never been good at this—talking to guys I like and knowing the right thing to say. I wish I was one of those girls that always knew the right thing to say, or was confident enough in her sexuality to put herself out there, but that’s just not me.

The doors slide open and show us an empty hallway. “It’s this way,” I say and he picks up the rug again. I lead him to my dorm room and he sets the rug down beside the door. “Well,” I begin, shuffling my feet as my awkwardness grows even more profound, “I guess this is goodbye.” I should probably ask for his number, but I don’t want to seem desperate. Besides, he was only doing me a favor and probably doesn’t want to see me beyond this.

He shrugs and steps back. “I don’t think this is goodbye, Grace. Something tells me I’ll see you again.” He gives me a closed-mouth smile, ducks his head, and leaves.

I watch him get into the elevator and just before the doors close, he winks.

“You’re late.”

I swallow thickly. I have no good excuse for being late, and even if I did, Coach Harrison wouldn’t want to hear it. He doesn’t like to hear “I’m sorrys”, either.

“I’m here now,” I say instead.

His shrewd green eyes narrow. They see everything and know too much.

“You smell like perfume.” His voice is gruff and his finger taps restlessly against his desk—the same desk he had when I went to school here. It’s old and worn, with scrapes and chunks of wood missing.

“I wasn’t with a woman,” I defend. “I mean, I was.” I shrug, wincing. “But not like

that.”

“Dammit, Bennett.” He slaps his hand against his desk so hard that his pen cup bounces and rolls to the floor. He glares at the cup and pens now littering the floor and then at me. “Pick them up, asshole,” he says.

I sigh and bend down to pick them up. My hurt leg and knee protests with the movement and I wince. Coach notices but doesn’t comment. The cast I’ve worn for months only came off a week ago and my leg is still stiff. It’s not used to the freedom of mobility which is a damn shame considering the game I play. Getting out on the ice again is going to be brutal.

I make quick work of picking up the pens and stuff them back in the tin cup with a clatter. I set the cup down on his desk with a little more force than necessary and his lips lift just the slightest bit.

Coach Harrison is a hardass. It’s why I’ve always liked him and why he’s the right guy for this job—the job of getting me back to my team. Sure, my team has plenty of people who could help me, but they don’t want to. All those assholes want is to see me fail. I’m determined to prove them wrong.