MY NEXT CLASS after my face hits the papers for the second time in a week is my least favorite—principles of management.
Liam thinks that’s hilarious seeing as I manage everything and everyone around me, but the course goes deeper than that.
It also helps that I loathe my professor.
McMahon never liked me, but now that my dating Liam has been made official, it’s clear that dislike has turned to hate.
Maybe she’s an ex and unsuccessful puck bunny?
When I receive a text from Kara about the tabloid photos of Liam and me kissing as well as the character assassination that’s being attempted on my person as the press drags up a timeline of how long we’ve known one another—my hair looked like shit when I was seventeen. What was I thinking?—I barely let it pierce my concentration, knowing how McMahon rolls.
Unfortunately for me, she notices my screen light up.
“Ms. Bukowski, are the fourteen principles of management no longer of interest to you now that you’ve hooked yourself a hockey player?”
I refuse to blush, even though her question triggers a welter of laughter from the other students.
Unfortunately for her, I’ve already had to deal with Hanna Bukowski and, no matter who she is and what she can do for my educational career here at NYU, I retort, “I’m not sure that my personal life holds any weight in this class, professor.”
McMahon narrows her eyes at me. “Cellphones should be switched off during a lecture.”
“That wasn’t a requirement before. Putting them on ‘silent’ was the only stipulation.
“I was taking notes on my laptop, professor. If you’d like to see them after class so you know that you have my full attention then I’ll be more than willing to share them with you,” I counter, saccharin-sweet.
Professors at undergrad level leave you to write or die when it comes to notes—the responsibility is yours. At MBA level, it’s amplified. That she’s deciding to call me out speaks of her distaste for me.
McMahon sniffs and continues with the lecture, but I can feel the eyes of my fellow students on me at varying points during the class. Those who didn’t know about Liam and me have probably run a Google search by now.
When the lecture’s over, I slip from the hall without her dragging me to the lectern, but a woman I’ve never spoken to before is waiting outside the doors.
“Gracie?”
I frown at her. “Yes?”
She smiles. “Nina, remember?”
“Not really.” I check the time on my phone. “Sorry, Nina. I have to run.”
But Nina doesn’t care that I’m not interested in whatever she has to say. She storms ahead with: “I didn’t realize you were one of those Bukowskis.”
I release a heavy sigh—and so it begins. “What type of Bukowski are you talking about, Nina? The pain-in-the-ass variety of Bukowski?”
She flutters her lashes as she titters with laughter. “No, of course not! You know, the one related to Kow.”
I frown at her. “Why is it always Kow? Trent is so much hotter than Kow. Plus, Kow’s been around the block so many times, he’s got the keys to every city he’s ever played in, which is a lot.” I sniff. “But if you’re hoping that I’m desperate for a friend when you’ve barely talked to me throughout the entirety of this two-year program, Nina, unfortunately for you, I’m not.
“And I sure as hell won’t introduce you to Kow, Trent, or Noah. They can make their own hook-up arrangements—”
“They’re on Hooked-Up?” she bursts out.
My eyes boggle at her audacity. “I don’t know which dating app they use, Nina. Jesus—” I hold up a hand. “I don’t have time for this.”
As I stalk off, the last glimpse of her face imprints on me—her mouth round as she blows bubbles like a goldfish.
Okay, I was rude. But seriously, I’m so sick and tired of having to deal with this bullshit and it’s barely even begun.
Before the event, I knew it’d happen, though. That I was working on borrowed time before people would eventually link me to my brothers. It happened when I was a teenager but faded after I left the circuit and stopped following Kow and Liam to their games.
Simply being the sister of a Bukowski is to invite BS from guys hoping to score tickets or to meet my brothers or chicks wanting me to set them up…
Actually dating a hockey player, though?
I’m literally begging to be scorned and ridiculed and gossiped about in the press.
I’m going to be vilified and judged and every wrong move he makes on the ice will somehow be pinned on me.
My brow furrows at the thought.
But my scowl eases when he texts:
Liam: Did the freesia arrive before class?
A smile curves my lips as I look down at my corsage pin-holder where the soft fronds of the flowers he gifted me this morning are sitting against my suit jacket.
Me: They did. I was going to thank you in person…
Liam: Did I ever tell you that I love how you’re a woman of action?
Outright grinning, my thumb smoothes over the screen.
He’s worth it.
The judgments, the hate, the ridicule.
I accept them.
Embrace them.
Because nothing in this life comes for free, not even my feelings for him.
