“I see.” My mind races. Who on earth pretend dates? It’s silly and ridiculous.
“They picked you for a reason, and once they think we’re together, everyone will back off, especially Melinda. Plus, you aren’t interested in me like that . . .” He arches a brow, as if waiting for me to reply.
“Hmm, right,” I say.
“HR allows teachers to date, and if you say yes, I can let them know, make it official, and get the ball rolling. Once they know, word will get around fast, and there’s not much we’d have to do.”
My eyes thin. “You know the HR rules for romantic relationships?”
“I’ve looked into it.”
“Interesting. Have you considered dating anyone here, ever?”
He frowns. “Of course not. I don’t plan on being here long. I don’t do relationships.”
So why was he looking into dating someone he worked with?
“You’ll break their hearts when you leave.” I saw those faces in the hall, those looks of admiration and hope. “They want you to stay.”
A frown furrows his forehead. “I’m not a bad person, Nova. The administration knows my plan.”
Right, but that high enrollment for next year would mean a job for me and probably more people. Sabine told me that the last coach here hadn’t gotten us to state in five years—and now we have Ronan Smith, a winner. Those athletic scholarships mean everything to these kids. To the community.
A bell rings, signaling class has started.
He whips off his hat and rakes a hand through his hair. “Well? What do you think?”
“What does fake dating involve?”
“A date to a function. A kiss after a game. Whatever you want. I would never do anything you didn’t want to . . .” He trails off, heat flashing in his eyes. “We have chemistry, Nova.”
The air in the room thins. “We don’t.”
He stares at me for at least five seconds, and with each moment that ticks by, my body becomes more aware of his. My nipples pebble under my bra.
As if he knows, he laughs under his breath. “Right. Come by the house tomorrow, and let me know your decision. Later, Princess.” He opens the door and leaves.
The halls are silent as I exit the school. Fake dating dances in my head. It would make things easier for him, and it would provide me with a Hey, look who I’m with whenever I see Andrew. Plus, it’s not like I’m interested in dating anyone else. I have a career to think about now, and being his arm candy would help my street cred with the whole town.
The issue is . . .
What if I like spending time with him?
What if I miss him when he’s gone?
And we can’t forget . . . I’m inherently weak when it comes to jocks.
Nope. Not a good idea at all.
It’s not until I’ve cranked the Caddy that it dawns on me.
He called me Princess.
I bang my head on the steering wheel.
Chapter 8
RONAN
The bell rings for the end of my freshman history class, and the students grab their books. I gather my things, my head still thinking about Nova—
“Coach!” Bruno, Milo, and Toby fill up the room with their shouts as they rush to my desk. All three are wearing jerseys for spirit day, their faces sweaty. It’s Friday, our bye week.
I raise an eyebrow. “I’m headed to lunch—”
Toby’s face is red, his usually kind eyes hard. “Someone’s snuck on campus and left us a message in the stadium. The maintenance person just saw us in the hall and told us. We ran out there and checked it out, then came here.”
I frown as I come around the desk. I was just at the stadium this morning before I came inside. I’ve heard of pranks from opposing teams in the past—toilet paper, cows let in, trucks that tear up the field . . .
“What is it?”
“You have to see it for yourself to get the full picture. Words don’t do it justice. I mean, it’s unacceptable,” Bruno calls out as he slams his fist into his palm. “They’re messing with our heads! Literally!”
“I see.” I grab my clipboard and whistle. “All right, show me.”
Skeeter joins us in the hall, and I fill him in as we muscle through the lunch crowd, leave the building, and head to the stadium. We enter and step out on the grass.
The sun is high in the sky, and I squint at the field. Holy shit . . . “Are those stuffed animals?” There are hundreds, from one end zone to the other, bits of tuft and mangled bodies covered in fur, red splatter dripping.
“Yep,” comes from Skeeter. “Mutilated.”
I put my hands on my hips and stalk out to center field, where our mascot is painted. There’s a life-size stuffed bobcat lying on top of it, decapitated and covered in red paint. Its jaw is open with a note crammed in. I take it out and unfold it.