Abby Ryan has her whole life planned out, up until graduation that is. As a journalism student at the University of Southern Washington, she has one goal in mind for her last semester of senior year: secure a scholarship for graduate school. But whe...
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"I would definitely fail this class without you." Abby groans, wrapping her maroon scarf around her neck.
I let the classroom door close behind us as I fall into step beside her, trying not to laugh at the look of utter incredulity on her face. "Who in their right mind would let freshmen handle chemicals like that? That can't be safe."
I try to hold back my smile as I push the building door open and step back so she can walk out first. The early morning air stings my cheeks, and I watch as the breeze whips her hair around her face, sending the vanilla apple spice of her perfume into the air between us. She tucks the strands of loose waves behind her ears and pulls her bag further up her arm as she leads us toward the courtyard.
More eyes are trained on me than usual today, and all of them are locked in on my ankle as I walk by, probably trying to figure out whether or not I'll be out for the Oregon game on Friday. I clench my jaw and try my best to keep from wobbling, but the faint throbbing is starting to hurt again, and I know I won't be able to make it to my class across campus without giving in to a slight limp.
I rolled my ankle pretty badly in the game last night. It hurt like a bitch, but once the trainer gave me the thumbs up, my ass was back on the court. We were playing Duke, and I wasn't about to leave my team to play the second-best-ranked team in the league without me. That, and the fact that Zayn Williams, Duke's star shooting guard and Grade-A asshole, made a show of smirking at me when the trainers were checking out my ankle on the court as if to say, can't keep up, Beck?
I usually don't let the shit talk get to me, but I've had an unspoken competition with Williams since I was a freshman. He's one of the only players who the analysts predict might be able to knock me out of the top pick for the NBA Draft, and because I'm a proud asshole, I couldn't let him win. The fact that I dunked on Williams twice, even with my throbbing ankle, was just the cherry on top. That, and the fact that we still managed to win after losing our lead.
My ankle throbs again, and the trainer's advice echoes through my mind—"Ice and heat, just keep switching, and you'll be fine." I iced it this morning while I was studying for the exam I have tomorrow in my Organic Chemistry class, and now that it's starting to hurt again, I know I should probably get some heat on it.
"I don't want to go to my next class." Abby frowns, pulling my attention away from my ankle as she grabs her planner out of her bag. When she flips it open to today's date, I don't miss the three different streaks of highlighter reminding her of an essay that's due Thursday and that she has work tonight at five. The final thing on her to-do list makes me smile because only Abby would pencil in a time to call her mother.
"Skip class." I grin as her brows shoot up.
"I can't just skip." She balks.
"Why not?"
My eyes catch on the practice gym on the other side of the courtyard, and when I look back down at Abby, an idea sparks.
"What if I miss something important? How would I take my lecture notes?"
