“Hen hào chi.” She carefully places each syllable like if she drops one it might break.
My lifted brows request the translation.
“Very delicious.” She grins infectiously. “On my first business trip to China, I’ll be able to tell the server that the meal was Hen hào chi.”
“China, huh?” I drop my bag of already clean laundry to the floor. Many of my clothes get re-washed to justify studying with Banner in a laundromat.
“Basketball is exploding in China,” she says. “Yao Ming tore down the Great Wall, so to speak. The financial implications of China for the NBA are huge.”
&nbs
p; “So they tell me in our Econ class.”
After having no classes with Banner at Kerrington, despite the fact we are both sports management majors, we share two classes our last year here.
“Speaking of which, we need to study for that final,” she says, tossing a dryer-warm T-shirt in my face. “And you’re late. Again.”
“Sorry.” I toss the T-shirt back into her pile of navy blue and black cotton. “Again.”
“I hope it’s worth it.”
I let her words settle around us for a second before answering.
“You hope what’s worth it?” I ask with a quick frown.
“I’m not stupid,” she says wryly.
“Obviously.”
“I know what you’ve been up to,” she says, lowering her voice conspiratorially.
Oh, shit.
“Uh . . . you do?”
“Of course.” She hits my shoulder with her small fist. “You’re pledging a fraternity.”
A relieved breath rushes past my lips. “What makes you think that?”
“The buzz cut?” She points to my shorn hair. “The late hours and weird ‘assignments.’ It all adds up to a fraternity. I just hope they aren’t asking you to do anything too outrageous. Or dangerous.”
The stern line of her lips paired with the belligerent glint in her eye makes me want to divulge all the outrageous, dangerous shit I’ve done the last three months to get in with The Pride. Of course, every prospect signs confidentiality agreements, and even if we don’t get in, we can’t talk about The Pride. But if I could tell her . . . she looks like she would kick some ass in my defense.
“So are you in?” she asks, going back to the pile of darks and starting to fold again.
Hell no. Prescott’s words “fuck a fat girl” resurface in my head, and anger grips me by the throat. I swallow several colorful curses and simply shake my head.
“I withdrew.” I twist the rope on my laundry bag and avoid her stare. “They crossed the line.”
“I’m sorry, Jared.”
She covers my hand with hers for a second. I hated Prescott calling her fat, but she’s not small. Her hands are, though. Long, slim fingers. Short unpainted nails. She’s maybe five-six or seven. No makeup covering her clear olive-toned skin. Dark, wavy hair scooped into a knot and anchored with two pencils. Banner doesn’t bother with the things girls often do to gain a guy’s attention. Maybe she’s too driven, too tunnel-visioned on her goals, but she has my attention. She’s had it for months, and she either doesn’t know or doesn’t care. Tonight, I’m determined to find out which.
When she moves her hand to pull away, I loop my thumb around her index finger, anchoring our hands together. We share a held breath and the only sound is water sloshing and clothes spinning in the machines. It’s so quiet in the laundromat that I hear her breath hitch when I reach under to scrape her palm with my thumbnail. I don’t let her go, don’t let her ignore the inevitability of my interest. A frown gathers on her face and genuine confusion clouds her eyes. She looks from our hands still pressed together to my face then shakes her head like she’s imagining something. The moment is elastic, for a few seconds thick with unspoken desires—mine and I’m pretty sure hers—and then in an instant, snaps back to the harmless, sexless thing we usually have. She lets out a breathy laugh and pulls away.
Will I have to take out an ad? Sketch lewd pictures in her notebook? How can she not know that I’m interested in her? Hell, Bent’s never even met Banner and he knew. I’m not usually a subtle guy when I want someone, but I’ve never wanted anyone like Banner.
“We’d better get cracking,” she says and walks toward the back room where we usually study.