“I know, I’m sorry. I was dealing with furniture shit. Moving is the worst,” she complains.
Corinne just moved into a one-bedroom apartment in Hastings, only a few blocks from Malone’s, in fact. It’s rare to find housing in town, but Corinne knew the previous tenant, a fellow Econ major at Briar who abruptly decided to drop out. Corinne had an application in with the landlord of the small building before anyone else even knew the apartment was available.
“Moving isn’t that bad,” Nico teases her. “I mean, especially when you have three strapping young men helping you out.” He wiggles his eyebrows.
I snort. Nico and two of his co-workers from the moving company helped Corinne last Sunday, hauling all her boxes and furniture from the house she used to share with five other girls.
“Did the strapping young men take off their shirts and flex their muscles for you?” I ask a blushing Corinne.
She bursts out laughing. “I wish. All they did was drink my beer and get my new carpet all dirty from their boot prints.”
“She’s lying!” Nico declares good-naturedly. “We wore booties over our shoes.”
“And to answer your question,” she says to me, running a hand through her mop of dark curls, “yes. I totally need help organizing everything. Maybe one night this week?”
“Sure. Just let me know when.” I met Corinne through Pippa, and although we’ve never been as close, I like hanging out with her. She’s a bit guarded, but when she relaxes she’s actually pretty hilarious.
Nico takes a swig of beer before setting down the bottle and slinging his arm around me. He’s so handsy tonight. He leans in and plants soft kisses on my neck until Pippa releases a loud groan.
“Come on, guys, enough with the PDA. You just got here. At this rate you’ll be banging on the table by the end of the night.”
“Sounds hot,” Nico says, winking at me.
Lord, he is so good-looking. Originally from Cuba, Nico and his family came to Miami when Nico was eight. They moved in next door, and all it took was one look at Nico’s soulful eyes and big dimples, and eight-year-old Demi was in love. Luckily, he felt the same way about me.
We talk about our classes for a bit, but I don’t contribute much to the conversation. Truth be told, I hate all my courses this semester, except for Psych. Today in Organic Chemistry, we discussed organometallic compounds in such detail that my brain almost melted. I didn’t mind my science classes in high school, but since I started college I’m slowly beginning to hate the sciences.
As I sip my drink, I absently listen to Nico and Darius chat about the basketball team. D is trying to convince Nico to be their equipment manager because their current one just bailed, but Nico’s too busy with his work and class schedule. TJ remains quiet for most of the conversation, only speaking when I draw him out of his shell.
I don’t care what Nico says. TJ’s a sweetie. He’s such a great listener, and he usually dispenses really solid advice. I wish he’d find a girlfriend, but he’s so shy and it’s hard for him to open up. I tried setting him up with one of my sorority sisters once, and she said he barely spoke a single word during their entire date.
“I’ll be your equipment manager,” Pippa tells D. “But only if I get to watch you guys shower. I feel like that’s a reasonable requirement for—oh my God.” She stops midsentence, gaping at the tall guy who saunters past our booth. “Forget it. I want to watch him shower.”
I only manage to catch a glimpse before he passes. Shoulder-length blond hair, a red T-shirt. I twist around but can’t see his face. His body is banging, though.
“Eyes up here,” Nico chides, lifting two fingers up to his face.
I grin. “Oh, come on. Look at his butt. It’s something else.”
My boyfriend peeks out the booth just as the guy disappears through the corridor to the restrooms. “It’s a’ight,” he relents. “But that doesn’t mean you’re allowed to check him out.”
“What are you gonna do, spank me?”
His chocolate-brown eyes narrow seductively. “Don’t tempt me, mami.”
Corinne gives a slight cough, while Pippa and Darius sigh dramatically.
“Sorry,” I tell everyone. “We’ll be good now, I swear.”
“I don’t want to be good,” Pippa announces. “I want to be bad with that hottie. Who was that?”
TJ speaks up. “Hockey player, I think. He came from the hockey booth, at least.”
“The hockey booth?” she echoes.
He nods toward the other room, where Hunter Davenport and his friends are piled into two huge booths. All I see are gorgeous girls, big athlete types, and a lot of food.
Speaking of food…
“Who wants nachos?” I ask as I grab the menu in front of Darius. “I’m ordering some for me, but I’m also thinking—ooh, there’s a new app on here. Deep-fried spinach and mozzarella balls. Oh my fuck, yes. I’m in. I’ll get an order of those, and then we’re looking at the nachos, and maybe…the boneless wings?”
“Who is she even talking to?” Pippa asks my boyfriend.
He sighs. “Just let it happen, Pips. You know the drill.”
I peer up from the menu. “Am I being judged right now?”
“Yes,” Pippa tells me.
“One hundred percent, yes,” Darius concurs.
“How do you eat so much and never gain weight?” Corinne demands.
“I’d never judge you,” TJ assures me, grinning mischievously.
“Thank you, Thomas Joseph. The rest of you, guess what? You don’t get to taste my spinach balls. You can sit here in envy while—”
“He’s coming back,” hisses Pippa.
Sure enough, the hockey player in the red shirt strides by again. This time I do see his face, and promptly understand why Pippa is drooling all over the table. He’s got vivid gray eyes, and a beautiful smile that curves his mouth when he catches Pippa’s gaze on him. He keeps walking, though.
“Oh my,” I murmur, and Nico pokes me in the ribs.
“Definitely a hockey guy,” TJ confirms with a nod. “But I can’t remember his name.”
“Hold on, I’ll find out.” I slide my phone out of my purse.
“What do you mean, you’ll find out?” Pippa squawks.
I pull up Hunter’s name in my contacts list. We exchanged numbers at my house on Monday night.
ME: Hey, hockey man. Who’s the dude in the red t-shirt with the fuck-me face and tight ass?
Although I crane my neck toward the other room, I can’t pick out Hunter amidst the sea of jocks. But on my phone screen three gray bubbles pop up to indicate a response is being typed.
“Who are you texting?” Nico demands.
“Hunter Davenport.”
TJ looks up sharply. “You’re texting Davenport?”
“Yeah, we’re working on that project, remember? I have his number.”
“Who’s Hunter Davenport?” Corinne asks.
“Just a hockey player who thinks he’s God’s gift to the world,” TJ tells her, smiling wryly.
“You don’t even know him,” I tease.