“Yeah? Well sort it out, we’re against Portland this weekend, so there’s no time to fuck around.”
Raising my eyebrows, I fold my arms across my chest. “Is that your captain voice?”
“Fuck you, Bowers.”
I chuckle. “Yeah, yeah. Don’t worry. I’ll be back to normal tomorrow.”
Whether Sol texts me or not.
I head to the showers with a sigh, purposely not checking my phone first. This is exactly why I was hesitant to get involved. Ever since the night of the Wolves’ opening party, he’s taken root in my brain, and ignoring the voice telling me to run in the opposite direction is becoming a full-time job. I can’t seem to tear myself away, though. It’s more than attraction. Perhaps, something more like curiosity. Curiosity in the way a small child might stick their finger in the fire to see how much it hurts.
The locker room is empty by the time I finish up in the showers, and I grab my bag before sinking onto the slatted wooden bench still in my towel. I hate how my breathing quickens as I pull out my phone. I hate that my heart skitters in my chest when I see the notification telling me he’s messaged even more.
Golden Boy: Hey. Got back late last night. Didn’t want to risk waking u. Got classes today n tomorrow, but we’ve got the meeting with Mason on Wed. See u then?
I read the message five times, unsure whether I’m happy or disappointed. He messaged. He didn’t chicken out. But he can’t see me until Wednesday. I frown at the screen before tossing the phone back in my bag and pulling out my clothes. It makes sense, I guess.
Part of me assumed he was a frat boy jock because he’s captain of the lacrosse team and a Wolf, but in the little time I’ve spent with him, I know there’s a lot more to Sol Brooker. He’s so carefully put together. I just know he’s top in all his classes, and I bet he works hard to stay there. His easygoing confidence is addictive but there’s a lot more going on beneath the surface. And that is what’s scratching around inside my head.
The computer nerd in me wants to take him apart and find out how he ticks, but I’m painfully aware that I don’t think I’m strong enough to be the one who puts him back together again. Hell, I can’t even tell my own father that I don’t want to work with him.
Rolling my neck, I grab my bag and head back to the dorms. Two days. I have no idea what’s going to happen on Wednesday, but at least it’s a start.
* * *
Monday and Tuesday drag, and by the time I walk down the hallway to Dean Mason’s office, I’m wound so tightly I could snap. It’s not the idea of seeing Sol, it’s the fact I’ve built this up in my head again. I like things to be simple—to know what’s happening. Sol is a wild card. He might have followed through by texting me, but it’s still been a couple of weeks since our phone call and that’s a lot of time for things to get cold. For thoughts to settle.
The smile I offer to the secretary sitting outside the dean’s office is tight. “I’m here for a meeting?”
“Go right ahead,” she says, perhaps reading my tension as nerves for the meeting. “Sol’s already in there.”
Of course, he is. I’m three minutes late. I’d bet money that Sol was at least five minutes early.
I knock once and push the door open, finding the dean leaning against the front of his desk. Sol is sitting in one of the gray chairs, his laptop open on his lap, and he looks up as I enter, his smile bright, but not quite reaching his eyes. My gut clenches.
“Good morning, Wes,” Dean Mason says, gesturing to the other seat. “Thanks for joining us.”
I shrug out of my coat and sit down, glancing over at my proposal open on Sol’s screen. He looks delicious. Wearing a dark blue long-sleeved shirt and black jeans, his hair is swept back in that perfect way of his, his face smooth. I wonder what he looks like when he doesn’t shave. I can’t imagine him with scruff, it would contrast too heavily with his perfectly put together image.
He gives me another nervous smile and I mentally kick myself. How fucking self-centered of me to think that his obvious nerves have anything to do with me. This fundraiser means a lot to him, and this meeting determines whether it happens. Once again, this is why I don’t like dating. It clouds your head, logical thoughts becoming tainted by the other person’s mood.
“The proposal is excellent,” Dean Mason says. “I also like the date, right before spring break. The only thing we need to talk about is costing and how we promote this.”
“So, you’re signing off on it?” Sol asks, leaning forward a little.
As he moves, I get a whiff of his spicy citrus scent and it makes my head spin.
Dean Mason gives him a warm smile. “It’s a wonderful cause. Of course.”
“Thank you,” Sol says in an exhale.
Dean Mason turns to me. “Are you on board for this, Wes? I know you have a lot on with swimming and The Howl, but I’ve spoken to your professor, and he’s assured me you’d be an excellent choice for spearheading the marketing on this.”
He’s right. I do have a lot on my plate, and I’m thankful that The Howl is still one of the things I have to worry about. It’s not a surprise that he’s spoken to Professor Brierley about me. I’ve seen the two of them hanging out before and I know they’re friends. Still, I know the compliment is genuine. I’m top of my class. The weight of what the dean is saying is heavy in the room, though. I wrote the proposal, but he’s asking if I’m going to stay on board, to see this through until the event itself.
I glance at Sol who’s looking at me with big, blue, goddamn puppy dog eyes, and the hope shining there tightens my chest.
“Yes,” I say, even as my brain facepalms itself. “I’m on board.”