Baumgartner Generations: Henry (4 page)

Of course,
he didn’t want her to know the truth, either. That would be awful.

“Nah, it’s
okay. I’ll manage.” He always had. By high school, it was really
athletics—hockey specifically—that had saved him. He’d found something he was
incredibly good at, something that wasn’t just valuable to him, but something
other people valued, too. His high school hockey coach had taken him under his
wing, making exceptions for him and talking to all of his teachers. He went
from skating by, barely passing, to getting A’s and playing great hockey. He’d
even gotten a scholarship to U of M—something he was now in danger of losing.

“Well, the
offer’s open.” Libby sat on the bed again as Dean came back into the room,
still zipping up his jeans.

“I gotta get
going,” Dean informed them, grabbing his jacket and regarding Henry. “You’ll
keep Libby company during the game?”

Henry stood,
walking toward the door and opening it. “Can I talk to you? In the hallway?”

Dean
followed him.

Henry shut
the door. His hands were shaking. “What the fuck is going on?”

“You mean
Libby?” Dean took a step back when he saw Henry’s face. “Hey! Hey! It’s not
serious or anything. I asked her if she wanted to go to the game and she said
yes. I was as surprised as you! Besides, I thought it would give
you
time
to get to know her, since
I’ll
be playing football the whole while.”

Henry
frowned, hesitated. His hand was already clenched into a tight fist, cocked and
ready to go. But part of him wanted to believe. Was Dean really just trying to
help him? “It looked pretty serious to me.”

Dean grinned
sheepishly. “Well, I wasn’t gonna turn the girl down. Would you?”

“So what is
this now, a competition?”

“May the
best man win?” Dean took another step back, holding up his hands and laughing. “Dude,
I don’t wanna fight. We both got an equal shot. If she likes you, she’ll end up
with you. If she likes me, well…” He shrugged, still smiling.

What else
could he do? “Fine.”

“Still
friends?”

Henry
ignored Dean’s outstretched hand. How in the hell was he supposed to compete
with Dean Mosher? The dorm they lived in was named after his great-great-something
or other, for god’s sake! The guy had everything and he walked around like he
knew it.

“Hey, will
you bring Libby back here after the game? I’ve got to head over to the frat
house for some setup afterward. Next week’s Greek Week, buddy!” Dean waggled
his eyebrows, grinning with perfectly straight teeth, and Henry relented.

“Okay, but
if the sock’s on the door, you’re sleeping on Bel’s floor—and I saw him eating
baked beans at lunch today.” Henry gave him the finger as Dean laughed and
walked away.

Chapter
Two

“I hate
football.” Libby was shivering, even in her oversized matching gold and blue scarf
and knit hat and mittens, all with the U of M logo on them. She seemed so small
sitting next to him.

“You’re
cold.” Henry started taking off his jacket for her, but she stopped him,
shaking her head and sliding her body closer, as close as she could with the
armrest in the way.

“Just put your
arm around me,” she urged, teeth chattering. The wind was wicked and Henry
happily did as she asked.

“Better?” He
smiled when she tucked her head under his chin. He could feel her body already
beginning to relax.

“Much.” Her
voice was muffled in his jacket. Down below, the band looked like little toy
soldiers marching across the field. It was all a big show, the first game of
the season.

“So if you
hate football…” Henry’s arm tightened around her as they both tried to make
themselves as small as possible while a man and his son squeezed by.”Why did
you come?”

Libby didn’t
say anything for a minute and he wondered if she was going to answer at all
when she finally changed the subject and asked, “So, you play hockey?”

“Uh-huh.” In
his pocket, Henry’s phone went off for the third time. He’d put it on vibrate,
but it still startled them. He ignored it anyway.

She lifted
her head and he liked how close she was, how her breath smelled like the
cinnamon Trident gum she had been chewing on their walk to the stadium. “Think
I could come watch a practice?”

“You like
hockey?” She hated football and liked hockey. It had to be a sign.

“Oh I love
hockey,” she agreed, snuggling closer again. “I just wish I could afford season
tickets.”

“I get two free
tickets for every home game. You can have them if you want. Unless my parents
are coming or something. Mostly they can’t make the games. It’s too far.”

“I’d like
that.” He thought he heard a smile in her voice. The stadium was on its feet
now, ready to welcome the home team, but they both stayed put. “So what’s your
major, Henry?”

He snorted. “Hockey.”

“Are you
good enough to play pro?”

“I don’t
know.” He shrugged, trying to sound nonchalant. The dream of becoming a
professional hockey player was so enormous for him, it was unspeakable. “Maybe.”
Now he was desperate to change the subject. “So you didn’t always want to be a
librarian?”

“No, I
wanted to be an investigative journalist.” Libby clapped her mittened hands as
the team burst out onto the field, but Henry didn’t take his arm from around
her to do the same.

“What
happened to that plan?” He was far more interested in their conversation than
the upcoming game. Damn, there went his phone again. He jammed his hand into
his pocket to silence the vibration.

She
shrugged, leaning forward in her seat now to see, and he didn’t like it when
she moved too far away. “Well, for one thing, newspapers are disappearing.”

“There’s
always TV.”

She
mock-shuddered. “I couldn’t do TV news.”

“Why not?
You’re gorgeous. You’d make a great news anchor.” It was true. Of course, she
could have made a great anything in that regard—model, actress, whatever.
Although Henry thought it would be a waste of her real talents, he also
believed someone should bask in her beauty. He selfishly thought it should be
him.

“Well thanks
for the compliment, but I get tongue tied.” Libby pulled out her cell phone and
clicked the camera on, taking a picture of the field. “There, now we can show
Dean proof we were here.”

“I bet you
could overcome it,” Henry encouraged.

She made a
goofy face at him, sticking out her tongue and crossing her eyes. It made him
laugh. “You haven’t seen me. I freeze up. I stutter. It isn’t pretty.”

“Well,
librarians are cool.” He thought whatever she did would be cool.

“So are
hockey players.” She turned her attention fully to him, pressing close, her
thigh brushing against his. He insanely wished, even though it was only
forty-something degrees outside, that they were wearing shorts so he could feel
her skin. His phone buzzed again and he swore, taking it out of his pocket.

“Who keeps
calling you? Is it your girlfriend?”

“I don’t
have a girlfriend.” Henry made sure to say that first. “It’s my mother.”

“Shouldn’t
you answer it?”

He clicked
silence
all
with one hand and slipped it back into his jacket pocket. “She just
wants to yell at me about my grades.”

“Oh, you
have those kinds of parents too.” She had a sad sort of knowing expression in
her eyes.

“Actually
no.” Henry couldn’t help being fair to his mom. She hardly ever yelled at him
about anything, except maybe the time when he was seven and he’d taken his
dad’s spray paint from the garage so he could paint the entire lawn blue. He
just wanted to play “shark,” he’d told her—and it didn’t look enough like an
ocean. Mostly, she was kind and sympathetic and understanding. It drove him
crazy. “She’s just worried. She wants to help.”

“Are you
going to let her help?” Libby gave him a sly glance.

He shrugged.
“She wants to get me a tutor.”

“Hey, that
was
my
suggestion.”

“I know.”

“So what do
you have against tutors?” She nudged him in the ribs and he grunted. “Is it a
pride thing?”

“I guess.”
He pretended to be interested in what was going on down on the field.

“Everybody
needs help sometimes.” Libby leaned in to say this, almost whispering. “It doesn’t
mean you’re stupid or anything.”

“Gee
thanks.” The wind had picked up and he hoped it explained away the redness in
his cheeks.

“I’m
freezing.” She was shivering again and he pulled her closer, wishing the
armrest between them would disappear. The band had started again, the fight
song this time, and people were on their feet. At least it blocked the wind.

“Hey, do you
think Dean would know if we went back to your room?”

Her words made
him stiffen. In more ways than one.

“Probably
not.” He tried to sound casual. “He wanted me to take you back there afterwards
anyway. He’s got some frat stuff to do first.”

Libby rolled
her eyes. “Ugh. Alpha Pi Alpha?”

“That’s the
one.”

She made a
face. “The worst of them all.”

“What’s that
supposed to mean?” He didn’t mean to sound so defensive, but Dean had convinced
him it was a great group of guys, that if he pledged, he would have friends for
life. “Brothers, “Dean said. That was what convinced Henry. He had an older
sister, but he’d always wanted brothers.

“You’re not
pledging, are you?” Libby gave him a funny look, frowning.

He loved the
way her brow crinkled. Those lines would probably develop into something
permanent when she was older. She’d probably hate them and curse them and want
to get Botox injections or something. And he thought, if he were lucky enough
to still be alive and around when Libby hated those lines, he would love them
just as much then as he did right now.

Henry
deflected the question. “Why?”

“I did a
story for
The Michigan Daily
about hazing last year,” she told him. “They
do some awful stuff to their pledges.”

“Ah hah!”
Henry exclaimed, still deflecting. “So you were a reporter!”

“
Were
is the optimum word there.” Libby stood and Henry lamented this, scanning her
pretty, round face. She held a gold and blue mittened hand out to him and he
couldn’t resist. He would have said yes to anything she asked. “Come on, let’s
go get warm.”

Libby kept
close the whole walk back to the dorm, her arm linked through Henry’s—and he
was pretty sure it wasn’t just because she was cold. Bel’s door was open as
they went by and he waved from his bed, the TV loud. The game was on, and the
cheers of the crowd sounded both on the television and far in the distance, an
echo.

“This is
better than shivering in the stands!” Libby pulled off her mittens, hat and
scarf, shaking her hair out as she left her coat on his bed, already wandering
around the room. He threw his coat next to hers, shoving them both over to sit
cross-legged on the bed, watching her touch things, pick them up, put them down
again.

She explored
Henry’s desk this time, marveling at the volume of mini cassette tapes he had
there. “Why so many?”

“I record
all my lectures.” He grabbed his iPod out of habit, flipping through for
something to listen to.

“Whatcha
got?” Libby crawled onto the bed and he welcomed her warm weight as she settled
herself beside him. “Anything good?”

Without a
word, he reached over and opened his desk drawer, pulling out two pairs of
headphones. He had a splitter that allowed them both to listen at the same
time, and he handed her a pair. She slipped them on just as he hit
play
.

“The
Runaways?”
Libby listened, a smile curling the corners of her mouth.

He found it
hard to not lean over and kiss her, both because she was so irresistible and
because she’d instantly recognized the band. He held his breath as she situated
herself with her head in his lap, her long legs stretched out, settling her yellow-and-blue
stockinged feet halfway up his wall.

“Awesome,”
she murmured, her eyes tilting back to him, and he noticed they were a shade of
blue so incredible he was sure the color couldn’t have occurred anywhere in
nature. “Spin me some tunes, Mr. DJ.”

He did, and
although he had his own set of headphones on, he wasn’t sure he really heard any
of the music he played for her. His senses were otherwise engaged, feeling the
silky brush of her hair against his arm, her neck arched over the swell of his
thigh, her pulse beating time at the hollow of her soft, pale throat.

He stared at
her like a starving man in a prison cell watching a buffet parade by. The way
her sweater pulled up when she stretched gave him an astonishing and
intoxicating glimpse at the dip of her navel. To Henry, she smelled like rain
and sweet corn and fields of poppies, like every good thing he could imagine,
and he wanted to lose himself in the experience of her completely.

And that’s
just what happened. He forgot everything but Libby. They’d been listening to
music and talking for hours when Dean showed up. Libby had her own iPod with
her, and they went through each other’s song lists, him poking fun of her Dave
Matthews collection and Libby teasing him about owning anything by John Mayer.
They’d been so engaged, Henry had almost forgotten he had a roommate.

“Did you see
that touchdown?” Dean burst through the door, tossing his jacket at his desk
chair. Libby was now sitting next to Henry on his bed, both of them wearing
headphones, and they viewed each other guiltily. Neither of them had thought to
check the football scores.

“We creamed
them! Twenty-eight to nine! Boo-yah!” Dean pumped his fist in the air. “I had
four guys on me, and I’m running like this…” Dean squatted low and ran in
place, head down. “And this jackhole comes around this side like he’s superman
or something, ready to tackle me.” Dean weaved, first left, then right. “And
I’m like, I don’t think so!” Dean slammed an invisible football down onto the
floor. “Touchdown!”