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Still, for some reason, none of them light that spark for me. None of them make me feel anything.
In fact, the idea of taking one of them up to my bedroom … it makes the nape of my neck prickle unpleasantly, like catching a whiff of a bad smell.
It makes no fucking sense, but that’s how I feel. It’s how I’ve felt ever since …
Shit. It’s how I’ve felt ever since the first day of English class, when I turned my head to the right and saw Summer Andrews sitting next to me.
An arm wraps around my shoulders. “There’s my bestie,” Tuck says in his unmistakable southern drawl.
I shake out from under his arm. “Bestie?” I ask, my tone cold.
“Yeah. We should be best friends.”
I only lift an eyebrow in response.
“Lane and Rhys are best friends. The house needs another pair of best friends. Hence,” he points his index finger back and forth between us.
“Why not be best friends with Sebastian?”
Tuck waves his hand dismissively. “He’s too … too … bookish. He’s always reading or talking about some new idea he’s obsessed with. Cool guy, don’t get me wrong. I love him like a brother. But he’s not really best friend material.”
My eyebrow only arches higher. “And I am?”
Tuck’s gaze slices to the side, a thoughtful expression overtaking his face. “Well, not really. But we can work on that.”
I bring my drink to my lips and take another sip. “I think I have as many friends as I need.”
“You don’t have any friends,” Tuck replies.
“Exactly.”
Tuck sighs. “One roommate too nerdy, one roommate too grumpy. Guess ol’ Tuck McCoy’s gonna have to keep looking for his bestie.”
My brow lowers. “Did you just refer to yourself in the third person?”
“He kinda does that a lot.” Rhys saunters up with a drink in his hand, taking a sip as his eyes sweep the room. Stepping between me and Tuck, he lets out a satisfied sigh, looking out at the scene of the party. “I’ve got a good feeling about this year.”
“Fuck, yeah,” Tuck pipes up again. “The rest of the league aren’t going to know what hit them, not with the Ice Man in the net.”
Tuck pats my back, but I just glare at him. “Ice Man?”
He grins sheepishly. “That’s a no on Ice Man as a nickname?”
“For the twenty-seventh time, that’s a no on any nickname.”
“Come on, Rhys, back me up, here,” Tuck pleads to the defenseman standing between us. “We need nicknames. Come to think of it, this house needs a nickname. You know the Hot Shots team down in Ridley, PA? I heard they call the house the players live in The Ice Box. Cool, right? We should have something like that.”
Tuck’s mouth is a motorboat, but looking at Rhys, I can tell the words are going in one ear and right out the other. And not just because he’s intentionally ignoring Tuck, a valuable skill I’m sure the rest of the guys are well-practiced in.
No, Rhys’ eyes are laser focused on something. He’s got a starstruck look on his face. I follow the direction of his gaze across the room and see a girl.
She’s on the younger side. Maybe a freshman. Cute as hell, though. She wears a black skirt with a long sleeve white button-up shirt. An understated but stylish look. Her dark hair is up in a bun, and she wears a pair of black-rimmed glasses.
I look back at Rhys, and he still has a mesmerized look on his face. His feet are riveted to the floor like they’ve been nailed down, and his mouth is just slightly open. Is he even blinking?
Then, I notice Lane walk up behind the girl Rhys can’t keep his eyes off of. He taps on her left shoulder before sliding to her right. She looks to her left, sees nothing, then finds Lane and lets out a laugh. Lane wraps her up in a hug.
I arch my eyebrow questioningly to Tuck, who’s also looking on.
