He steps aside to give me room to walk out of my room. I shut my door behind me and lock it, and we silently make our way down the hall toward the elevator. My mind is a whirl as I try to think of something to say to him. I should say something. Anything. We didn’t end things in a good way Friday night, and I had hurt him.
That had haunted me all weekend.
Yet, just as then, I’m unable to come up with anything useful to say now.
When we step into the elevator and the doors slide shut, I finally blurt out, “I’m sorry about Friday.”
He barely spares me a glance, his face a mask of cold indifference.
“What about it?”
His response catches me off guard. “The party. About what you told me in the bathroom.”
He gives an awkward shrug but I see his fists clench at his sides. “It doesn’t matter.”
“It does. You shared some really personal, horrible stuff, and I didn’t respond like I should have because—”
“You responded exactly as your instincts told you to,” he interrupts. His tone is calm, almost bored sounding, but there’s an underlying edge to it that gives me a glimpse of the fury bubbling beneath the surface. “Don’t worry about it.”
“Saint—”
At that moment, the elevator doors ding and open and he steps out with me close on his heels. He walks too quickly for me to hold a conversation with him, but not so quickly that I can’t keep up with him by doing a light jog as we head to the dining hall.
I ignore the stares as we walk inside. Saint and I have been seen together for weeks now. I don’t get why everyone is still so fascinated by us.
“Can you slow down?” I huff.
To my surprise, he stops and zeroes in on me. “We’re not talking about Friday night,” he states, his tone hard. “I shouldn’t have bothered you with my shit.”
“You’re not a bother because I—”
“Drop it.”
“Okay,” I murmur. “Sorry. I’ll drop it.”
He gives one firm nod of his head. “Good. Now let’s fucking eat breakfast before we run out of time.”
Like a scolded child, I follow him to the buffet line. I can’t even be mad that’s he ordering me around. Not this time.
This time, I deserve it.
Things remain stiff and awkward between Saint and me for the next couple of days. He still follows me everywhere, my constant shadow, but he doesn’t really talk to me at all. He’s cold and distant, and I don’t even try to thaw him out. I figure the best I can do is just wait until his temper subsides before I attempt another conversation with him.
On Wednesday, I go to his track meet, hoping that might help smooth things over between us. Maybe if he sees me cheering him on, acting somewhat like an almost girlfriend is supposed to, he’ll be less angry.
God, I hate how hard I’m trying. It’s not like he’d do the same if I was angry with him. No, he’d just kiss me then fuck me until my brain turned to mush and I forgot why I was upset with him in the first place.
Except, he’s still not coming to my room, so I don’t know if that tactic would actually work right now.
I think about inviting Loni to go with me, but I decide this is something I should do alone. That way, he doesn’t think I was forced to attend. When I arrive at the track, the bleachers are packed. I avoid the crowd, knowing it’ll probably be far from friendly toward me, and make my way to the chain-link fence to watch the meet.
Curling my fingers through the fence, I search for Saint. It doesn’t take me long to spot him. He’s standing on the fringe of the rest of the team, crouched in a low stretch. My heart races at the sight of his tight, defined muscles rippling as he moves.
Suddenly, he stands straight and heads to the start of the track. Members of the other teams line up next to him. I watch, eyes wide, as they all lean down and ready themselves for the race, waiting for the starting gun to go off. When it does, it takes me by surprise and I gasp.
He and the other runners take off. I can’t keep my eyes off them as they rush past, but in particular I can’t stop staring in awe at Saint. Other than the day he was injured, I’ve never seen him like this, in this setting. His expression is one of intense focus, and I can tell nothing matters to him in this moment other than winning this race.
He soars over the finish line less than a second before the next guy, snagging first place with apparent ease. Coming to a stop, he lifts his arms and rests his hands on the top of his head as he fights to catch his breath, which only shows off his flexed biceps. I’m practically drooling by the time he jogs off to make his way to the next event.
The track meet drags on, and for the most part, it’s kind of boring. Luckily, Saint competes in several events, and handily wins them all.
It’s almost irritating—how the guy excels at everything.
When the last race finishes, I linger, wondering if he’s noticed me at all. I feel like an idiot, getting nervous as a fangirl waiting for her favorite band to come out from the venue. I can see him gathering his things and hold my breath as he begins walking away from the rest of the team.
I let out a small breath of relief when he makes his way straight toward me.
“Ellis,” he says, coming to a stop on the other side of the gate.
“Angelle,” I murmur back. “Good job out there.”
I almost wince at how lame that sounds, but he shrugs.
“Had a good night.”
Right. As if it wasn’t pure skill and determination that made him stomp all over the competition. “I’m glad I saw it,” I confess.
He stares down at me for several moments in silence. I don’t know what he’s thinking, and I begin to worry that maybe I crossed a line. What if he doesn’t want me here?
“If I’d known you wanted to come, I’d have gotten you into the track so you could watch from the sidelines,” he says after a while.
My heart thumps in my chest, and I swallow down the silly grin that wants to curl my lips. “VIP Treatment? You spoil me, Angelle.”
He smirks. “Yeah, there was free Gatorade and everything. The works.”
I chuckle softly, but then silence stretches between us as we simply stare at each other. I wish I could read his mind. This would all be so much easier if I could. I want to tell him I’m sorry, but I’m not sure he wants to hear it yet, so I keep my mouth closed.
Just as the silence begins to grow truly awkward, he says, “Come back to my room with me.”
My heart beats like a heavy drum and I feel my cheeks heat with a blush.
“Why?” I whisper, praying he can’t tell how desperate I am for him.
“You and I have a few things to discuss.”
I’m not sure if he’s being coy, so I just nod. He tells me to wait where I am, and then he goes to a nearby gate in the fence and walks out and around to me. Taking my hand, he leads me away from the track and across campus toward his dorm. We don’t say a word to each other the entire walk. By the time we reach his room, I’m a bundle of nerves, unsure of what’s about to happen. I know what I’d like to happen—I think.
Actually, I’m so confused about what I’m feeling, I’m not sure I should even be here alone with him right now.