SADIE
As it turns out, Trey wasn’t exaggerating about being busy.
I woke up this morning to two disappointments: my eyes were still green, and Trey was already gone. I’d been hoping the first problem might magically fix itself overnight, and while he did mention something about six a.m. practice before throwing Nash and Walker out last night, I don’t think I fully believed anyone voluntarily started their day that early.
Perhaps I’ve been unfair to the entire college-athlete population.
Most of what I’ve seen of them involves lounging around campus in team jackets, looking annoyingly well-rested for people who train all the time and collecting easy A’s in classes the rest of us have to develop stress disorders for.
I knew the sports part had to fit in there somewhere. I just never gave much thought to where. Now that I know they wake up before sunrise to get thrown around on ice, I’m willing to reconsider.
It’s ten am and I’m sitting in Advanced Statistical Modeling, staring at a regression problem Professor Evelyn Hart has been building across the board for the past five minutes while half the class types along with her.
Statistics has always made sense to me in a way most things don’t. Give me a mess of numbers and enough time, and eventually, I’ll get somewhere. There’s an answer. I just have to figure out how to reach it.
Maybe that’s why I chose it as my major in the first place. Numbers don’t care that I’m an omega. They don’t care where I came from or who my mate is.
Or who he used to be.
My pen stills against my notebook.
This particular class used to be my favorite for two reasons.
Professor Hart is one of them. She taught my introductory probability class freshman year and managed to make an eight a.m. lecture worth getting out of bed for. Four years later, she’s still my favorite professor, and having her again for one of my final year courses makes Thursdays the easiest day of the week to look forward to.
The other reason is sitting three rows to my right.
I used to choose this seat because Ezra was three rows over, close enough that I could look at him without making it too obvious. He never sat beside me. We had an understanding about that, or at least, that’s what I called it because it sounded better than admitting my mate didn’t want anyone wondering why he was sharing a desk with an omega.
Back then, I took what I could get. It never stopped me from sneaking glances at him, though.
Sometimes he’d catch me and give me the smallest smile. Other times he’d ignore me completely, and even that used to be enough.
Three years is a long time to build little habits around someone. A few days clearly aren’t enough to get rid of them.
I smooth a hand over my skirt and decide not every Thursday habit needs to go just because Ezra did. The outfits can stay. Today it’s a soft cream cardigan over a pale blue camisole, a flowy white midi skirt, and the little ballet flats Lola once said make me look like I should be carrying flowers everywhere.
She meant it as a compliment. I think.
"And this is where people tend to make the mistake," Professor Hart says. "A low residual doesn’t automatically mean you have a good model. What else do we need to consider?"
A few hands go up.
"The distribution," someone answers from the front.
"Exactly. If your residuals are showing a pattern, then your model is telling you—"
My phone vibrates against the desk before she can finish, the screen lighting up with Trey’s name.
Whatever Professor Hart says next is lost on me as I reach for my phone.
Trey: Where you at? Got 3 hrs free. Drop your pin. I’ll come get you.
My heart drops straight to my ass.
An overreaction? Probably.
In my defense, Trey Mercer just asked for my location so he can come pick me up. I think I’m allowed a little overreaction.
The tutoring part isn’t the problem. This is my only class today, he has three hours free, and working around his schedule is exactly what I agreed to. If anything, I should be happy we’re finally getting started.
It’s those four stupid words at the end that have me staring at my phone.
I’ll come get you.
Obviously, I knew Trey was popular. You’d have to spend your entire degree underground not to know who Trey Mercer is. What I didn’t know was how quickly that attention gets transferred to any girl seen around him.
Lola made sure I understood that this morning by sending me some warning texts. Apparently, a girl got harassed online for an entire week because Trey held a door open for her.
Held. A. Door.
I’m not sure what he was supposed to do. Slam it in her face? Chivalry is dangerous around here.
A hidden meeting spot is starting to sound much safer than having him come here until my eyes drift three rows to Ezra.
Well. There is that.
It’s petty. I know it is. It also increases my chances of getting run over by one of Trey’s fangirls, but Ezra watching me leave with his older brother after everything he did to me?
I’d be lying if I said the idea doesn’t make the risk a little more tempting.
My fingers move before I can talk myself out of it.
Me: Fulton Hall. Class ends in 20.
I hit send and set my phone beside my notebook, but before I can tune back into Professor Hart, the screen lights up again.
This time, it’s Lola.
Lola: BITCH
Before I can guess what emergency deserves all caps, another message follows.
Lola: Paige got her claws on Trey 😭
My heart slams against my ribs.
You’ve got to be kidding me.
Lola: she’s been asking around about him all morning
Lola: like asking people what he likes, where he hangs out, everything
Lola: that girl wastes NO TIME
Lola: is she obsessed with you?what are you going to do?
What am I going to do? Feel enough anger to spontaneously combust, that’s what. A hot wave of irritation crawls up my chest, and my fingers tighten around my phone.
What is wrong with Paige? Isn’t Ezra enough for her? I could’ve sworn humiliating me and walking away with my mate of three years at that hotel meant she’d gotten exactly what she wanted, but maybe I hallucinated that part.
I haven’t even had time to figure out what my life looks like without Ezra, and she’s already asking around about Trey too.
Why?
There are thousands of men at Boreal. Thousands. Paige could close her eyes, throw a rock, and probably hit one, so why does she keep picking from the tiny selection that enters my life?
Unless this isn’t about them at all.
Is Lola right? Does Paige Kincaid have some weird obsession with me?
I flip my phone facedown before I can give Lola an answer I’ll regret.
Trey has nothing to do with me. Who he dates is none of my business, and I know that.
But Paige? No. He can date anybody but her.
I have enough sense to know anything I type right now will make me sound far more bothered than I have any right to be, so I leave Lola unanswered.
The rest of the lecture is a losing battle between Professor Hart and whatever the hell Paige thinks she’s doing. Professor Hart wins every few minutes, usually long enough for me to scribble something down before my brain defects again.
Eventually, she closes her laptop.
"That’s all for today. Read through the model-selection notes, please, because I’m not spending another lecture explaining why a higher R-squared does not automatically make your model better."
A few people laugh while I slide my notebook into my bag.
"And before everyone leaves, I received two identical submissions for the regression-modeling project."
Ouch. Nice to know someone’s Thursday is going worse than mine.
"Sadie Rhodes and Ezra Mercer, could you both stay behind, please?"