“Talk, Carson.”

“You don’t need a book?” he asks.

“I don’t need people gossiping about seeing us together, and neither do you.” First it would get back to Levi, and I could only imagine how obnoxious he would be. Then Dad would hear, and I didn’t have the energy to fight wars on two fronts with him.

He scoffs. “You severely overestimate my importance on the team and at this school. No one gives a crap who I am.”

“I do.”

When he looks at me with darkened eyes, I realize my response could mean two things, and I rush to correct. “I care that you’re on the team. I told you I don’t date football players.”

“And I told you, I’m not asking for a date. And technically, I am a football practicer. I’ve yet to step a foot on the field during a game. Shouldn’t that get me a little slack?”

He grins cheekily at me, and I hate that even with all the anger I can muster, it’s not enough to keep one corner of my mouth from pulling up in a half smile. When his eyes drop to my lips, I slam my walls up as fast as I can.

“Doesn’t matter. Say what you want to say, because I need to go.”

I’ve got class, and then I’m starting a new job at the campus Learning Lab. Basically, I’m a tutor, writing and Spanish mostly (since those are the two things I tested out of and am good enough at to provide help), though from what I hear, more often than not I’ll end up helping people figure out how to work the lab computers.

Whoop-de-doo.

It’s a start, though. If I want to save money to get away from Rusk and go somewhere with a decent dance program, I’ve got to begin somewhere.

Carson runs a hand through his hair and sighs, drawing my attention back to him. My eyes scan the way his body tapers out from his waist to his strong shoulders. God, his arms are my weakness. I remember how one of them slipped up the back of my shirt, surrounding me and pinning our bodies together.

Too much. Abort. Abort.

He says, “I just want you to know that I get it. I get why you want nothing to do with me or football. I’ve seen enough from guys like Abrams and Moore to get your hesitance.” I lift my chin to show their names don’t bother me. “So anyway, I just wanted to let you off the hook. I understand, and . . . it’s cool.”

He pauses for a few moments, then nods his head and walks away. It’s not until he’s completely out of my sight that I let myself acknowledge the disappointment weighing heavy on my chest. A part of me had wanted him to push again, to poke and prod my reasoning until I had a decent excuse to give in.

When Katelyn’s eyes meet mine as I cross the library toward the exit, I straighten my shoulders because, disappointment or not . . . this is for the best.

I SPENT AN hour whining to Stella about how boring my first day at the Learning Lab was, only to find myself wishing for more boring when Carson McClain walks in on my second day. It’s late, with only an hour left before we close for the night, and there are only three tutors working. I’m the only one not already with another student. He’s wearing university sweats and a Rusk T-shirt. His hair is wet, and I’m willing to bet he just came straight from the practice. I don’t think he sees me. He just checks in at the front, stalks through the room, takes a seat at the station in the far corner of the lab, and starts pulling out his books and things.

I hesitate . . . just for a moment. Then I suck it up and go do my job.

“Can I help you?”

He doesn’t look up as he opens an English textbook and flips through a spiral covered in chicken-scratch writing. He smells fresh and clean and masculine, and I tell myself I should take a step back. I don’t.

“Yeah, I have to do an outline for my . . .”

He looks up and trails off.

He doesn’t say anything, but his expression tightens and his light blue eyes don’t dance the way they usually do.

“Hi,” I say, since he doesn’t seem too keen to begin the conversation.

“Never mind,” he says. “I think I’ve got it on my own.”

He looks down, and those words are like a punch to the chest. So much for him being “cool” with it. I look down at the page he’s turned to in his textbook.

“Working on an outline?” That’s right up my alley. If he’d been doing math, I’d have a good reason to walk away. “What kind of paper is it? Persuasive? Informative?” He doesn’t answer. “Did the professor say if the outline required complete sentences or just subjects?”

He stops writing whatever illegible thing he’s been scratching out in his notebook. “Dallas. I’ve got this. I don’t need your help.”

Stupid stubborn boy.

“Yeah. Riiiight. That’s why you came to the Learning Lab instead of just going to the library. Listen, we’re only open for another”—I checked my watch—“fifty minutes. And both Elizabeths are busy helping other students. You can wait, but there’s no guarantee either will be done in time to help you.”

“Both Elizabeths?”

I point to the other tutor closest to us, a pretty Latina girl with the longest eyelashes I’ve ever seen in my life. “Elizabeth A.” Then I gesture to the petite blonde on the other side of the room. “Elizabeth B.”

“How did you decide which one is A and which one is B? That seems a little unfair.”

I raise an eyebrow and point at the girls again. “Elizabeth Alvarez. Elizabeth Banner.” Then I cross my arms over my chest and give him my best smirk.

The corners of his lips tug up toward a smile for half a second before his mouth goes flat again.

He closes his spiral and his textbook and says, “I’ll just head home.”

“Seriously?”

“I’m pretty tired from practice.” He emphasizes the word, and I know he’s trying to get me to back off.

But . . . well . . . I do stubborn like Lady Gaga does weird, and the fact that he wants me to leave him alone makes me even less inclined to do it.

“Don’t be stupid, Carson.”

His jaw tightens, and he begins stuffing his things back into his bag.

Okay . . . so maybe calling him stupid when he came for tutoring help wasn’t the best word choice, but I’m not exactly known for being sensitive and polite.

“I’m sorry. That came out wrong. Just . . . stay.”