thing. No matter how hard you try to reach it, it always manages to slip through your fingers at the last minute, stealthily evading your grasp. Could have, should have, would have. I try to tell myself that “good enough” is, well, good enough, but it’s a tough sell when it goes against the way you’re wired.
“Are you still working on that? Let me look it over for you,” Preston offers, nodding at my laptop screen.
We’re camped out in the training room working on an assignment creating an entire training session from scratch. Next week, we’ll take turns leading the team through each session by ourselves. It was the three of us earlier, but Julianna had to duck out for a dentist appointment.
While it’s been okay so far—almost like old times, before the tension between us developed—I’m still worried that might change. I want to avoid another potential kiss scenario. I’m already regretting the first one, and I don’t know how to talk to Preston about it. The whole, “it’s not you, it’s me” thing seems painfully cliché, even though in this case, it’s one hundred percent true.
“Thanks,” I tell him. “But before I let anyone else see this mess, I still need to iron out a few details.” As in, all of them. I’m on draft number three and it still doesn’t seem quite right. While there’s science behind athletic programming, there’s also a certain amount of art; a way that the pieces have to fit together holistically. For this assignment, I haven’t yet found it. However, accepting Preston’s help could be construed the wrong way and after what happened between us, I’m trying not to lead him on.
He resumes packing up his things, shoving his final textbook into his bag. “You sure? I can stay if you need help. Or company.”
“I’m sure, but I appreciate the offer.”
There’s an awkward pause. For lack of knowing what to do, I stand and push the chair back, taking a step closer. We hug goodbye while I make a point not to offer him my face. Though, I’m not sure he’d try to kiss me in here, anyway. That’s more Nash’s style.
Two more drafts later, the printer on the cabinet beside me spits out my four-page document. I re-read it one more time, giving it a final once-over until I’m confident that I’ve caught all my typos, corrected any mistakes, and polished all the rough spots. Somehow, I can’t shake the feeling that I need to compensate for the Nash situation by being a model athletic training intern. It makes absolutely no sense, because none of the faculty even know there is a Nash situation. With any luck, I’ll keep it that way.
Satisfied, I turn and reach for the stapler, startling when I notice a hulking figure looming in the doorway. My hand flies to my chest in surprise and the papers slide through my fingers, falling to the floor. I lean down and gather the pages, fastening them with a staple before shoving the assignment into Christina’s inbox on top of the desk.
“You scared me,” I tell Nash, trying to ignore my galloping heart.
“Maybe because you’re working alone in the middle of the night.” He pushes off the doorframe and strolls over to me, his heavy footsteps echoing against the tile. He’s wearing a black long-sleeved tee and gray joggers, with his hair neatly styled instead of hidden beneath the baseball cap he was sporting earlier. It’s a far cry from the creepy intruder that I feared he might be, but scary in his own way because he looks so good that it nearly incinerates my self-control on the spot.
It’s frustrating, too, because I’m still angry with him. Or at least, I’m trying to be.
Hating Nash would be so much easier if I didn’t have the underlying urge to tear off his clothes all the time.
He shrugs off his black nylon book bag, leaning one hip against the desk. His cologne wafts over to me, and my stomach does a pirouette. I discreetly scoot my rolling chair back a few inches to put more space between us. He either doesn’t notice or chooses to ignore it.
His brow furrows as he scans the room, searching for signs of anyone else, and when his forest green eyes land back on me, there’s concern beneath them that I didn’t expect. “What are you doing here so late, Vi?”
I glance at the clock on the wall and discover it’s past ten p.m. Had I guessed, I would have thought it was more like eight, maybe eight-thirty at the most. There are no exterior windows in the training room—the glass partitions look out onto the gymnasium—so it’s easy to lose track of time.
“Had to create a training plan for next week and submit it to Christina before midnight. I usually do my homework at school because I can focus better. At home, I get distracted and start to get off track.” Why am I giving him so many unnecessary details? I catch myself and stop abruptly. “What are you doing here so late, lurking in doorways and scaring innocent co-eds?”
“I left my stuff in the locker room so I didn’t have to drag it to the Schuyler Center. When I came back to get it, I saw the light on and wondered what was up. No one’s ever in here this late.”
“Schuyler Center? Why were you all the way over there?” Nash is a civil engineering major, and the Schuyler Center is a social science building tucked away on the opposite end of campus from the engineering faculty.
“Met my group for our sociology project and promptly wasted the whole goddamn evening. No one could agree on a topic. We pissed away more than two hours arguing.” He rolls his eyes, much like I imagine he did the entire time. In addition to lacking any shred of tact, Nash has very little patience.
“Ugh,” I groan. “Group projects are the worst.”
“Tell me about it. I can already tell I’m going to be the one rewriting this piece-of-shit paper before we turn it in.” Nash smirks. “I guess that makes me the Violet of the group.”
A gnawing feeling forms in my belly. It’s a familiar sensation at this point, one that makes an appearance every time Nash demonstrates that he remembers something about me. In a strange way, it was easier to move on when I told myself he’d forgotten.
“In my defense, I only did that a couple of times.”
His mouth quirks. “You mean, every single time.”
Having a civil, back and forth conversation with him is both strange and normal all at once. When we both let our guards down like right now, things flow a little too easily between us. Which is why I need to reinforce my emotional walls to keep Nash far, far away from my heart.
Should be easy enough. All I need to do is focus on remembering how badly he broke it.
“Well.” I clear my throat, reaching for the mouse to shut down the computer. It chimes, and the screen goes black. “I was just leaving.”
Nash pushes off the desk and slings his bag over one broad shoulder, but he doesn’t move to leave. “Me, too. Where are you parked?”
“Um . . . I’m not. I’m taking the train home.” I’m reluctant to admit this because the transit station is on the other side of campus, and it is shady as hell. In addition to being dank and decrepit, it borders a high-traffic main road that divides the scenic LSU campus and a less savory part of town. I frequently stumble across homeless people sleeping in the station stairwells, and more alarmingly, have witnessed more than one drug deal go down while waiting.
However, taking a rideshare everywhere isn’t economically feasible, and I haven’t gotten behind the wheel of a car since last winter. I don’t have any intention of that changing, at least not any time soon. I might be forced to revisit that after I graduate, depending on where I land a job, but that’s tomorrow’s problem.
“The train?” A frown tugs at the corners of his mouth. “Why?”
“My car’s in the shop.” It’s easier to tell people this than to explain the truth, especially to him.
A muscle in his jaw twitches. “Do you mean the same transit station where three people got mugged last week?” His deep voice is stern, the effect far hotter than it should be.
“I guess so?” I squeak. Hadn’t heard about that, but it sounds pretty on-brand for West Campus transit station.
“I’ll drive you home.”
Alarm bells sound in my head. Going places with Nash. Alone. Bad idea. Bad, bad idea.
“Thanks, but that’s not necessary.” I reach down, retrieving my purse from the drawer I’d crammed it in earlier.
When my gaze lifts back to him, Nash’s expression turns stormier than a Category 5 hurricane. “It’s late, it’s pitch-black outside, and you’re pocket-sized. The campus Safewalk program exists for a reason. That’s not even factoring your CSI transit situation.”
While I hate to admit it, he does have a point; in addition to the mugging incidents in the transit station, there’s been a rash of unsolved night-time sexual assaults on campus lately. But still, it’s not like my ability to take care of myself magically disappeared when Nash plummeted back into my life like a fiery meteor of bossiness. I always keep my keys in my fist when I’m walking and have my phone at the ready. I’ll be okay. I think.
He rakes a hand through his dark hair, mussing the perfectly styled tresses. “Why are you working late by yourself, anyway?”
“I wasn’t by myself. Preston was here, too.”
Nash nods, but his features tighten at the mention of Preston’s name. Then something else registers across his face: disapproval. “Wait, he left you to take the train home alone?”
“I’m not helpless.”
“I knew I didn’t like that guy,” he mutters, half-under his breath but still loud enough for me to hear.
I open my mouth to defend Preston because he’s still my friend if nothing else, and immediately think better of it.
“I’ll be fine, Nash. See you tomorrow.” Slipping into my black wool coat, I grab my tote off the table and brush past him with my chin held high, but it’s hard to look dignified when my overloaded book bag puts me comically off-balance. Between my anatomy textbook and the extra training materials I’m taking home to study, it must weigh fifty pounds.
In a few long strides, Nash beats me to the door and stands in front of the doorway, blocking it with his body like a gigantic human barricade. I come to a screeching halt, glowering up at him.
“Three options, Vi. Either I drive you home“— he holds up three fingers to illustrate, ticking them off one by one—”you get campus Safewalk to come escort you, or I walk you to the train and wait with you. Take your pick.”
