In Ruins (4 page)

Present Day

I spend an extra hour in the weight room after the rest of the guys leave. We work out as a team most mornings, but my focus was off today, too busy trying not to glare at Ben. I know he doesn't know about my history with Carl, but I don't trust the guy.

I finish my last rep and head to the showers.

I'm angry. I've been angry for months, and it's a new look for me. My jokes don't come as easily and my patience for bullshit has vanished.

I'm angry that she's here. I'm angry that she's not who I thought she was. I'm angry that she's beautiful, and that my teammates have already noticed her. I'm angry she ran out of that bar alone last night when she should fucking know better. I'm angry that she still affects me—that my dick doesn't seem to care whether or not she's a conniving little liar.

I'm angry that we all go out to the same bars, the same damn parties, and that I will probably see her way more often than I realized. But most of all, I'm angry that a part of me actually wants to.

The second day of classes begins much like the first. I get in my workout with the rest of the team, shower at the gym, then hurry off to my first Tuesday morning class. But unlike yesterday, this one is in the Communications building, which is on East Campus, the farthest possible location from both the lacrosse house—which is just off campus—and the athletics facilities.

It's an effort and a half not to be late, even with cutting through the student union, and I barely make it through the door before the professor closes it behind me.

I'm expecting another vast lecture hall, and I'm surprised by the small classroom, the desks arranged in a circle like we're here for some kind of support group. The professor himself doesn't look much older than me, and I guess that he's probably a grad student. I also note that he looks less than pleased with my abrupt entrance.

“Nice of you to join us, Mr.…?”

“Green,” I murmur, already deciding I'm not a fan of the guy. It's the first fucking class, and I wasn't even actually
late
.

Asshole
.

A small gasp from across the room grabs my attention and pulls my gaze like a damn magnet, and even before it reaches its target, I know. It wasn't even her voice. It was a gasp—a fucking
breath
—but I know her gasps as well as my own name, used to pride myself on eliciting them, and my chest explodes with violent agony the moment my eyes meet shocked emerald green.

Carl forces her mouth shut, quickly averting her gaze as if something on her tablet suddenly fascinates her. But I don't need to see her eyes to feel her anxiety, and I curse myself for still being so fucking attuned to her every goddamn emotion.

Worse than my awareness of her is the impulse to reassure her, to tell her everything will be okay. Because it won't fucking be okay.

I chalk the instinct up to all those years of caring about her feelings above even my own—which worked out fucking
great
for me.

But instincts can be suppressed, and I defer to logic instead, reminding myself that Carl Stanger is nothing to me anymore. That the Carl Stanger I loved was never real at all. The girl I'm painstakingly not looking at is just another stranger.

I don't let my attention linger, not wanting her to think my interest is anything other than fleeting surprise. Before I even got to campus, I promised myself I would leave that shit in the past. I would leave
Carl
in the past. The constant awareness, the jealous outbursts, the uncontrollable desire—all of it. And I was more than ready to move on. I
am
more than ready to move on. I even convinced the guys to go to the slightly less popular bar last night because I assumed Carl would be at the more popular one.

I saw her exchange with Vance, and watched her talk with Ben for way longer than her bullshit explanation would account for. But she's a skilled liar, so bullshit is pretty much where she shines. I remind myself that I only ever
thought
I knew Carl. That nothing she does should surprise me. Because I used to think I saw through her in a way no one else did, but it turned out that, too, was just more bullshit.

I saunter through the circle of students in a skilled impersonation of the carefree Tucker Green I've always shown the world. Even if the one person I'm acting for most of all is the one most experienced at seeing right the fuck through me.

A glance in my peripheral vision confirms Carl is still intently focused elsewhere, which is a relief. But my practiced nonchalance isn't just for her. I don't want to call attention to myself at all—which I admit is new for me. But I don't want anyone to pick up on my animosity, or to realize there's anything between Carl and me at all. I don't want people to make a connection between us. There is none.

It's the same reason I insisted on avoiding the bar I thought she'd be at, but I guess she did the same, because that backfired royally. As I take a seat at one of the two empty desks—which mercifully isn't too close to Carl's—I realize that's probably how we ended up in this fucking class together, too.

When we were still together, we'd planned to take an Intro to Business class together. But in the wake of the disaster of our breakup, it slipped my mind, and it wasn't until I got my schedule that I even remembered. By then this digital marketing class was the only one available in the same slot. But clearly switching a class to escape an ex was also on Carl's agenda, because here we fucking are.

I take out my iPad and open my notebook app, silently snickering at the irony. Ever since the bar, I'd been worried I'd run into her socially, but I never even considered the prospect of us sharing a class. Of having to see her twice a week, every week, for the entire fucking semester.

Fucking great
.

The frat-guy-grad-student professor introduces himself, insisting we call him Zayne. The girl sitting next to me stares so hard I think her eyes may pop right out of her skull, and I glance around the circle, realizing she's not the only one. I take another look at the guy, and realize he's not bad looking—if you're into that sort of preppy, wannabe rich-guy look.

He starts discussing the syllabus, and I try not to look over to see if Carl is as fascinated as the rest of the girls, but I can't help myself. I also can't help my satisfaction when she continues to take notes without even looking up.

“So, as interested as you all are in the subject matter, I'm sure you'd like to hear about my grading process?” Zayne says almost teasingly.

There's a resounding murmur of affirmative responses.

He chuckles, though I don't know what's funny. Why
wouldn't
we want to know how to earn a good grade? Some of us are here on athletic scholarships that have minimum GPA requirements.
Arrogant prick
.

“Okay. It's really very simple. If you do a good job, participate, and actually learn something, you have nothing to worry about.”

Real fucking specific, asshole
.

It's wide eyes all around, and Zayne waits another couple of beats before he lets out another chuckle. “Okay, okay,” he concedes, “I guess I can give you a few more details.”

The rest of the class—especially the girls—laugh right along with him. Except for one.

Carl's eyes remain fixed on her tablet, her dark blond brows pulled into a barely perceptible frown, her fingers at the ready to type down notes as she impatiently waits on useful information. It hits me belatedly that I even snuck a glance in her direction, as does my satisfaction that she doesn't seem to be under the spell of our douchebag professor, and I inwardly wince. I shouldn't fucking care either way. I
don't
care either way.

Fuck.

Zayne finally gets to the point. “I'm sure you've all heard the popular misconception that attendance doesn't matter in college. I'm sorry to be the one to tell you that it is, in fact, a myth.”

A few girls giggle. I roll my eyes.

“Now, every professor is different, but almost all of us at least take attendance. Some will dock grades for unexcused absences, and while I don't necessarily subscribe to that policy, I do grade on class participation, and it's difficult to excel if you're not actually here to participate.”

More giggles.

This is going to be a long fucking semester.

“There will be a few unannounced quizzes to confirm you're all keeping up with the assigned reading, and of course a mid-term. Those quizzes, mid-term, and your aforementioned participation will make up half of your grade.”

Carl's long, delicate fingers flit over her screen, and I wonder what the hell she needs to write down. This isn't exactly rocket science, right? Participation, quizzes, and a test. Pretty standard stuff, and no different than high school really.

“In lieu of a final exam, you will all be presenting a project, which I will discuss in more detail in the coming weeks. That project will determine the other half of your grade.”

My gaze, along with those of the rest of the class, shoots to Zayne, who smiles wryly. Clearly he was expecting a reaction. Half our fucking grade decided on one single project?

“Now don't panic. You'll have almost the entire semester to work on it, but you're right to take it seriously.”

Yeah, no kidding, dick.

He continues on about his goals for the class, but I'm too busy trying to follow his advice and not panic. I'm a fairly good student, but the stakes are high and the pressure is on. Being a college athlete may attract the hottest girls, or get you into the best parties, but there are limits to the special treatment, at least at this school.

We're all required to maintain a 2.8 minimum GPA to keep our place on the team, and if we fail to do that for even one semester, we're automatically benched. Two semesters and we're off the team. But even getting benched would make me ineligible for my scholarship, and there's no way my mom could afford the sixty-thousand-dollar private university price tag.

I feel foolish that it's only really hitting me now. It's not that I didn't know the stakes before, but I guess I never really considered they could be an issue for me. A 2.8 isn't exactly reaching for the stars, and I just assumed that as long as I didn't fuck up in some significant way, I wouldn't have trouble landing the grades I needed.

Even now there's no real reason to think otherwise. I just need to nail this stupid project, and I'll be fine. Which is all the more reason not to let myself get distracted by old ghosts that don't have the decency to just fucking disappear.

I tell the guys I'll see them later and leave the gym ten minutes early so I can get to the Communications building on time. I admit that walking into my first Tuesday morning class to find my lying ex staring back at me really put me off my game. But two days later, the surprises are off the table, and I've got my calm and confidence back.

I'm not looking forward to starting off yet another day with this shit, but it is what it is, and I've had no choice but to accept that for the next three months, Tuesday and Thursday mornings are going to blow.

I glance at my watch and see that I've made good time, so I slow my walk through the quad. Obviously I don't want to be late, but I have no intention of arriving even a single minute early, either. My purpose is to show up, learn some shit, and rush out to my next class. Not make small talk with the other students, or even so much as fucking eye contact with one in particular. Because Carl is the type to make friends with everyone, and the last thing I want is to add yet more mutual friends to the already practically incestuous group we have back home.

I linger in front of the building, not heading inside until there are just under two minutes left before class, and everyone is already seated when I saunter in like I don't have a care in the world.

“Mr. Green, take a seat. We're just about to begin,” Zayne says, and I do. I don't even glance Carl's way.

Zayne begins his lecture and I mostly manage to keep my focus, taking notes when necessary.

He talks about
old-school marketing
—he actually uses this term in a blatant attempt to resonate with us undergrads—versus newer campaigns.

He lectures on and on, and I continue to take notes, even trying to participate once or twice. I'm sorely aware that at least part of my grade depends on it, and as arrogant and pretentious as I still find the guy, I know I need to do better than my one-word answers if I want credit for participation.

I do notice the dark-haired girl next to Carl staring at me, and it's a little off-putting. The lacrosse team is practically worshipped at this school, and I expected to get a certain amount of attention as a starter, but I didn't think it would happen so soon. Our regular season doesn't start until mid-winter, and while it's true we're also supposedly famous for our parties at the house, the first one isn't even until this weekend.

I catch the brunette staring again, and she blushes and returns her attention to Zayne, who's still talking. But he only seems to make her blush deepen. I want to roll my eyes. Instead I fix them on my iPad, and try to keep my interest in the lecture. I can participate next week.

“…and the question a lot of these companies grapple with is the farthest reach versus the fastest reach.”

“What's the difference?” some guy asks.

“Indeed,” Zayne says. “What is the difference? Does it pay to reach a greater audience more slowly, or a smaller, perhaps more targeted audience, more quickly?”

And then I hear her soft, familiar voice. “More targeted,” Carl murmurs, and all eyes turn to her.

“Elaborate…” Zayne encourages her, and she shrugs.

“Well, mediums like television and billboards are expensive and broad, right? You're spending a ton of money, much of which is reaching people who will never buy your product. But things like social media campaigns can be really cheap. And you can reach people just based on friends liking or sharing, or whatever. I'm more likely to buy something my friend bought than someone random, right?”