Page 7 of Test Me

“Sooooo?” I said hesitantly as I dropped my backpack on the table, way more invested in his emotional state than was warranted. I mean, yeah, I loved tutoring and helping people improve their grades, but there was usually a healthy sense of detachment in place, instead of the strong desire to give him a hug as he turned toward me, his expression glum.

“I didn’t even make a C.” Josh heaved out a giant sigh as he turned the laptop screen toward me and I squinted at it. The text came into focus at the same time I caught him breaking into a grin in my peripheral vision.

“You asshole!” I punched his arm.

“A B minus isn’t a C.” His grin was unrelenting, and I couldn’t help sharing it as I dropped into a chair next to him, shaking my head.

“Celebratory burger?” he asked.

“Absolutely.”

Josh pulled the burgers and fries from the bag, before unwrapping his and bumping it against mine. “Cheers. I can’t believe you fell for that in the first place,” he said around a bite of burger. “Must mean you really do think I’m a dumbass.”

“No.” I swiped a napkin across my lips, my tone defensive. “I just didn’t think anyone still pulled sophomoric stunts like that.”

“I’m technically a sophomore, so.”

I stared at him before breaking into a laugh. “I take it back, I do think you’re an idiot.”

He grinned again, and then polished off his burger—the guy ate like a garbage disposal—before saying, “Remember that time I said projectile motion problems made no sense to me and were the most needlessly complex bullshit?”

“Yeah?”

“Well, I lied. This next section? Even worse.”

“You’ve got me for the next hour. Use me wisely.”

“Oh, I will, Whizkid.” Then he flashed a wink that made his dimple pop and I squeezed my burger so hard, sauce gushed out the sides. Fortunately, he’d already busied himself leafing through his packet of coursework.

4

JOSH

Ifumbled the weight in my hands and barely caught it before it could crash to the bench, wincing at the loud clatter as I hoisted it back onto the rack. It was my third fumble since stepping foot into the gym this morning, which was three too many when dealing with weights.

“Trying to get out of practice early by landing yourself in the infirmary instead?”

I glanced over to find Ansel Slater watching me with an arched brow. The track star had his usual pre-workout smoothie clutched in one hand—some weird green shit he swore by—while his other gripped the strap of his gym bag.

“Just distracted,” I muttered. I really needed to get my shit together.

“I noticed. You’ve been staring at that same spot on the wall for five minutes. Except when you nearly dropped that weight on your toe. Pretty sure the wall’s not gonna start giving you answers no matter how hard you look at it,” he teased.

Ansel set his smoothie and bag down on the bench beside me and started his meticulous stretching routine. It was the same one and in the same order he’d been doing since I’d methim freshman year. I’d teased him back then about adding a little variety, but he’d shrugged and said routine bred success. I guess he wasn’t wrong though, since he was one of the best all-around runners the U had ever seen as far as I could tell. I’d gotten to know him last year in Bio 101 when we’d been paired as lab partners. Now we shared a Tuesday/Thursday marketing class, which was probably the only reason I knew about his track schedule. That, and everyone seemed to know about his training regimen. The guy was like a walking advertisement for athletic dedication. Sigma had wanted him as a pledge, but he’d forgone it, afraid it’d mess with his focus.

“Eh, it’ll crack, eventually. Give it another minute,” I joked back, then sat up and grabbed my water bottle, taking a long pull to avoid Ansel’s scrutiny. He had this way of looking at people like he was doing complex calculations, probably timing my rest periods in his head and finding them lacking. Dude took his training that seriously.

“You’ve had about twelve of those minutes in the last five.” He dropped into a runner’s lunge, muscles coiled with the kind of control and flexibility I usually associated with gymnasts. “You coming down with something? If so, don’t get any closer. Got a big race on Saturday.”

“I’m not sick, promise.”

“Is broodiness contagious?” He offered a playful mock frown.

“You tell me. I’ve definitely seen you ‘broody’ before.”

“That’s just me concentrating.”

“Ah, mm-hmm. I see.”