Chapter Three
Lindsay
I’d always claimed that no matter how good the teacher was, I’d never understand math, and that was all there was to it. Up until the other night, that’d been true. It wasn’t like I suddenly understood everything about algebra—as convenient as that’d be—but I’d be lying if I said that Ryder’s tutoring session was like every other one I’d experienced.
For one, I’d never been so aware of every inch of my tutor, from the ridiculously blue eyes to the thigh that’d pressed against mine every time he’d leaned in to explain a concept to the toes that tapped out a rhythm while waiting for me to solve the problem. Somehow it’d been soothing instead of annoying, like he was perfectly happy to be there patiently waiting to provide help whenever I needed it.
And for two, even when I did need help, he never made me feel stupid.
Still, I shouldn’t actually text him to see when we could do it again, even if I’d gotten every homework answer right, which had never happened before. I’d already learned my lesson about guys I was so wildly attracted to that my common sense took a vacation. Getting burned hurt, and a big no thanks to going through that again.
I controlled my interactions with guys. I didn’t rely on them for anything and that made me stronger and more focused. All things I needed to be to survive my last semester.
I returned my attention to the computer screen in front of me, scrutinizing the layout for the next edition of the Heights. Whitney’s article called to me, and I clicked on it. Over the past several months she’d become a great sports writer, and as I read her words I could vividly picture the game. Could smell the ice, feel the chilly air in the arena on my skin, hear the zing of skates, and that loud slap hockey sticks made when players fought for control of the puck.
The image in my mind shifted so I could see the guys holding the sticks, all the gear they wore making them look that much bigger. But even when they took off those pads, there’d be rippling muscles and scars from past games. There’d be unbridled testosterone crackling through the air, just waiting to be released in other ways.
My internal temperature shot through the roof, and I quickly minimized the screen and reached for my water bottle. It wasn’t nearly cold enough to calm my raging hormones.
Confession #3: I’m still ridiculously attracted to hockey players, and sometimes, in my weaker moments, I Google images of famous ones to get my fix.
I told myself that I was playing with fire, but I also rationalized that if I stuck to NHL players, I wouldn’t fall into old habits. It wasn’t like I’d see one of them strolling around campus.
Unlike the guys on the Boston College hockey team. Those were the guys you ran into walking to class, or say, bumped into after you’d hidden from them for the express purpose of not spending the next few days thinking way too much about them.
That’s it. No matter how good Ryder Maddox is at helping me with math, I need to find a different way to pass my class.
Where’s the nearest crossroads? I’m not using my soul all that much anyway.
Since I couldn’t do anything more with the next edition of Heights until the article I’d edited earlier this afternoon came back, I pulled out my math book and flipped to my next assignment. The library was no longer a safe zone, which meant I’d risk my ass fusing to my chair and stay in the newspaper office for another hour or so to get a jump on the homework that was due in two days.
While I enjoyed editing the paper, my dream job would be editing novels, and I grumbled that either way I went—which basically came down to who’d actually pay me to read—I couldn’t see how math would help me, or when I’d ever use it.
Unless the only job I can land is editing math textbooks. I shuddered at the thought. Maybe I did have some limits for what I would or wouldn’t edit, salary be damned. Most of the positions in my coveted career field started as internships that didn’t pay much per hour, and the one I had set up for the summer was no different. It wasn’t like I could go to my mom for financial help—her boyfriends didn’t like being reminded that she had a daughter in college, and a lot of times, it felt like she didn’t, either.
Student loans allowed me to go to college, but the amount I’d racked up in the interest of being able to provide for myself made me want to cry. So I’d have to take whatever job I could get to pay off my debt and take care of my bills.
Which brought me back to getting through this stupid GE requirement I’d put off, as if three and a half years of English classes would somehow give me the skills to face a math class. One that Ryder could pass in his sleep.
No thinking about Ryder.
After twenty frustrating minutes of scribbling down equations without the benefit of a hot hockey player sitting next to me to help when I slipped up, I glanced toward Will’s desk. He was our tech guy and a total whiz at computer stuff. Unfortunately, he wasn’t there. I knew he had a huge class load, not to mention all the digital formatting and online stuff for the paper. When I’d asked him before how he was at math, he’d said, “I only do the kind the computer speaks, really. Coding’s my home base.”
Whatever that meant. Wasn’t the benefit of having a computer that you didn’t have to calculate anything yourself? And we were all pretty much walking around with minicomputers in our pockets.
Ooh, maybe Siri can help.
I asked her the equation in front of me, but she told me an obviously wrong answer, choosing to leave out the x, y, and z. If only I had that option, I wouldn’t have gone to her in the first place.
“You suck at math, Siri,” I said, although I didn’t push the button to talk to her first because who was I to judge anyone on math skills? I ran my thumb over the smooth glass of my phone’s screen. After another moment or two of debating, I pulled up Ryder’s information.
Me: What are your open tutoring hours?
I stared at the screen for a couple of seconds, but when no response came, I checked my email. The article I’d been waiting on sat at the top of my inbox. I read through it one more time, noting that my changes were added, fixed a couple of punctuation errors, and then placed it in the layout along with the rest of the articles.
My phone chimed and I picked it up, expecting it to be Ryder.
Instead, my mother’s smiling face beamed up at me. I opened the text for a better look. A guy at least ten years her junior was kissing her cheek and she was holding up a necklace, the dangling rock front and center.
Looks like the boy toy gave her a new necklace.
Growing up, I used to think my mom was so much cooler than my friends’ moms. What I didn’t realize back then was that relying on men to pay for our existence wasn’t actually cool and that it never provided for a stable environment. Honestly, it’d sort of screwed me up, and it took me way too long to see how unhealthy it’d been.
It was why I’d sworn that I’d be in charge of all my interactions with guys. I’d have fun, play the field, and be empowered in the knowledge that I never let love play me for a fool. Independent woman and all that. But then I’d accidentally fallen in love, and it confirmed my theory about attachments equaling weakness. I learned firsthand how letting my guard down weakened who I was, and when things fell apart, I was weak enough to cry over it for longer than I cared to admit, my self-esteem totally gone. Ugh.
That led to the period where I’d taken that hard look at myself and realized I’d let guys use me. And the fact that I’d used them right back didn’t make me feel any better about it.
Going home this past Christmas and watching Mom with her current boyfriend only renewed my theory that love made you weak. She’d been purring over the guy as she dug in her claws and practically begged him to want her back, even if it was only until they’d used each other up, novelty turned to boredom, and one of them decided to move on.
I’d tried to talk to her about it, using the nicest words I could to explain that she was getting older and maybe it was time to find a steady career so she’d have that safety net no matter what happened with her boy toy, but she told me to stop being a buzzkill and asked what I wanted him to buy me, because she had his gold card for the day.
With that icky memory weighing me down, I sent another text to Ryder, desperate to undo everything before I slipped down a bad path.
Me: Never mind. I found another tutor. Thanks for the offer, though. Talk to you later.
I added the “talk to you later” because I felt guilty for lying, even if it was better for both of us in the long run.
As for the strange pang in my chest? I wasn’t sure what that was for, but I was sure it’d go away in time.