From Campus Bookworm

PROLOGUE

LIAM

PE sucks.

The gym smells like body odor and rubber from the black mats laid out in the middle of the floor, and it makes me wish I’d skipped class again. Especially since today we’re doing a marathon of events to test us for some national survey.

Six obstacles. Ten minutes each. Varying from how many jumping jacks you can do to how long you can hold a stretch.

Because this matters in the real world, I scoff, completing my round of pull-ups on the metal bar hanging from the wall.

A shrill whistle echoes in the cavernous space, halting everyone in their tracks. “Switch! Next set!” Coach Corcoran yells from her place in the center of rotating students. We’re all fucking adults yet still being treated like cogs on an assembly line.

Isn’t college supposed to be different from high school?

I trail behind my group to the second to last drill: jumping jacks. Thank fuck this hell is almost over. I’m not against physical exertion, but corporate exercising isn’t for me. It’s why I’m not on any sports teams. Well, that and my aversion to people.

But PE is an easy A and a required credit, which is why I pushed it off for three and a half years—saving it to pad the breezy second semester of my senior year.

“Morrison!”

Coach C’s loud voice rings in my ears. Who’s Morrison? “Sit down, Morrison!”

She’s getting nearer, focusing on one of the students in the group next to mine. A short, curvy girl with a ponytail full of frizzy curls, and at the moment, she doesn’t look too good. Her cheeks are pale. Ghostly white. And Coach C’s commands don’t seem to be registering.

“Morrison, can you hear me?”

Suddenly, the girl’s eyes flutter closed and the breath shudders out of her frozen body in an unexpected faint. Hurrying forward while everyone else remains stuck in place, I instinctively wrap an arm around her waist, bracing the other at the back of her head as we both crumple to the ground.

“Kennedy, are you alright? How’s Morrison?” Coach C squats before us, whistle dangling around her neck, and I take stock of our positions.

“I’m fine. I tried to protect her…” Movement catches my attention as the girl moans and shifts from her prone state on the gym floor next to me. Immediately, I roll to my elbow and lean over her, my shadow shielding her face from the fluorescent lights above.

“Hey, how are you feeling?” The color’s come back to her cheeks as her confused gaze meets mine before flitting away to observe the crowd surrounding us.

“What happened?” Her soft voice is a shock—a gentle melody of chimes swinging in a summer breeze—but it’s the trust in her blue eyes that shakes me to my core. No one’s ever looked at me with such innocent faith except for my little sister. But even Nicole’s sisterly trust is jaded with knowledge about the type of men the Kennedys are. From my grandfather to my dad and uncles, we’re a long line of addicts, whether it’s alcohol, women, or building financial empires.

My vice is the only unknown.

Or it was.

Because I’m afraid I just met my drug of choice.

“You passed out,” I stupidly say, reeling from the realization.

“Mr. Kennedy caught you. This young man saved you from a knock on the head.” Coach C pounds my shoulder in a ‘good boy’ kind of way. “You must’ve overexerted yourself. Cut off the oxygen to your brain, and it blacked out to protect you. You need to be more careful in the future.”

“Yes, ma’am. I felt dizzy, but before I could rest, it was too late.” Morrison pushes to a sitting position while I support her spine, though I’m unsure of what I should be doing. If I should still be touching her.

“Let this be a lesson for everyone. Pay attention to your body’s cues. It will tell you when it’s had enough.” Checking her watch, Coach C sighs and dismisses class a little early, allowing everyone to trek back to the locker rooms.

That’s it? Shouldn’t she call for a nurse? Double-check the girl’s okay?

“I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

The quiet question redirects my focus, bafflement furrowing my brows. “Hurt me? Baby, you’re the one who blacked out. Are you sure you’re feeling alright?” I don’t know where the endearment comes from. I’ve never called a girl ‘baby’ in my life. But it suits her, and I can’t deny the warmth in my chest as another blush—this time a sweet pink—blooms on her face.

“Yeah, I just meant when I… When you caught me…” She stumbles over the words, arms moving to hug her round stomach, knuckles turning white. “It couldn’t have been easy.”

What the hell? I think I understand what she’s trying to say, and I don’t like the implication. “Coming to the rescue of a beautiful girl? Nothing easier in my mind.” Flirting feels unnatural. I don’t get much practice since I keep to myself ninety percent of the time, but something from all the Korean dramas my little sister makes me watch must be rubbing off. “I’m Liam, by the way. Liam Kennedy.”

“Mae Morrison.” I offer a hand to help her up, and we stand alone in the gym—uneasy, hesitant. Has she always attended Trinity College? How have I missed her for nearly four years? It’s a tiny fucking campus!

“Thanks for—”

“Should we—”

We both stop. Awkward smiles follow.

“Ladies first.” My chin dips in a bow while my arm flourishes forward like I’m a damned knight instead of a twenty-one-year-old guy from Ohio.

“Thank you for catching me, though I’m sorry it happened at all. It’s pretty embarrassing to faint in front of the entire class.” A trembling hand brushes a wayward wisp of hair off her forehead. “Not something I want to be remembered for, that’s for sure.”

“It could’ve happened to anyone. These ridiculous tests they put us through are dumb anyway. I wouldn’t sweat it.”

“Easy for you to say. You’re the hero in this story.” Adorable creases form at the edges of her eyes as she smirks.

I’m not a hero. But I don’t voice the denial. I like that she thinks I’m good. Gallant. Even if it’s bound to be short-lived.

Our privacy’s broken when squeaking tennis shoes erupt from the back corner where a swarm of basketball players floods into the gym. Were these guys standing at the doorway waiting for our class to end or something? Because practice seems underway with little fanfare as orange basketballs fly around the gym.

My time with Mae is up.

“Guess that’s our cue.” Mae retreats, and before I can summon a witty remark or at least ask for her phone number, she’s gone. Curly ponytail waving good-bye.

“Hey, get off the court!” Some giant runs by me with a basketball in hand, and I heed his command, shoulders hunched as I shuffle to the men’s locker room for my things.

It’s a small campus. You’ll see her again.

But the question is: should I?

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