Page 17 of The Pucking Coach's Daughter

I twitch. “Junior.”

“Major?”

“Criminal Justice,” I lie.

He snorts. “Oh, I didn’t take you for a meathead jock.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You know the old adage—the only people who major in Criminal Justice are the athletes who will never use their degree.”

“Maybe I want to join the FBI,” I say.

“Maybe,” he allows. “Do you?”

I roll my eyes. “Okay, fine, I think I’m going to major in English Writing. They’re giving me the semester to decide.”

There’s no way he can use that against me, right?

“Care to join me for lunch?” he asks.

Not really. But I find I can’t quite say no fast enough, because before I know it, we’re in the dining hall surrounded by a hundred other students with the same idea. I keep my head low and stick close to him, although using a stranger as a shield isn’t really a great idea.

This could be a trap.

My stomach flips, and I resist the urge to sprint away.

“You okay?”

“I, uh…”

He glances around. “I take it other people share Andi’s vitriolic opinion?”

I choke on a laugh. “You could say that.”

He makes a face. “Heathens.”

We get food and find a table in a back corner, and I breathe a little easier once we’re seated at a four-person table.

“What are you majoring in?” I ask him.

“Double majoring in sociology and education. It just so happens that I had an elective, and one of my first loves is creative writing.” He glances over my shoulder and waves to someone.

They set their plate and drink down beside me, dropping into the vacant chair. Girl. She’s tall, her shoulder at least a few inches above mine while seated, with long blonde hair and zero makeup. It isn’t until she’s fully settled that she looks to me.

Her jaw drops, and she faces Brandon. “No.”

“Yes.”

“Brandon Moore,” she hisses.

“I can hear you,” I murmur.

“She’s nice,” he says to her. “Sydney, this is Dylan. Dylan, Sydney. You have the y’s in your names in common.”

“Pleasure,” I say, sticking out my hand.

She stares at me like I’m a freaking bomb about to go off. There’s a thud under the table, and she jerks slightly. She takes my hand, squeezing tight.