Shea

Well, I've put myself in one helluva predicament.

That's all I can think as I wander down the hallway to Biology. How am I supposed to play nice with Brenna? It's not like I can flip the script and become friends with her again. We have too many years of bad blood between us. In order to win her over, I need to be nice, express my interest in her interests, and quit bitching about a girl being on the boys' hockey team.

Easier said than done.

If I show too much interest, she's going to suspect something's up. If I continue to feed the conflict between us, I'm never going to win that money. She'll hate me forever.

Goddamn my decision to drink last night. I should've avoided the alcohol and kept my senses sharp. If I'd been entirely sober, I would've kicked Connor's ass and told him to fuck off. I wouldn't have given in to such a primitive method of earning money. I have to admit, though, it's a helluva lot easier than getting another job. At least roping Harrison in works with my schedule—we already have to collaborate with our French project. We also see each other frequently because of hockey.

As the morning hours passed, I watched Harrison through Chemistry. I was trying to figure out her weaknesses, what she likes and dislikes, and what we have in common. So far, I've learned several things. First, she sticks close to her friends: Tucker, Wright, Charette, and a girl named Evren. She's also partners in Chemistry with Ella, KJ's ex. Harrison hates cheese on sandwiches—I watched her pick it off during lunch. Her favourite NHL team is the Vancouver Canucks, and I can't help but express gratitude toward the person who created key chains. Who knew key chains could hold such valuable information?

Key chains aside, the Vancouver Canucks are also the team I cheer for. They give me some leverage. When I sit down next to Harrison in Biology, earning a glare from Charette, I bring up last night's exhibition game.

"What did you think of last night's win over Calgary?" I ask, watching Mr. Davis write the outline of our class on the whiteboard. I avoid her gaze because I know she's pissed at me for stealing Charette's spot.

"I think their win resembles a promising season," she replies. Her voice is calculating.

"Me too. That Pettersson kid looks great."

Harrison drops her pencil to the desk and swivels in her chair. "What the hell do you want, Smith?"

I tear my gaze from the whiteboard and stare into her blue-violet eyes. Her eyes turn to thin slits and she presses her lips into a flat line. As I'm shrugging, a smirk encompasses my lips. God, she's fun to poke. "Maybe I'm just trying to break the ice, Harris—Brenna. No pun intended."

My comment earns me an eye roll.

"Ah, c'mon Brenna," I continue. "I'm trying to be nice. I acted like a dick at Starbucks. Maybe I'm still trying to make amends. We said we wanted to act civil around each other. Is there shame in trying?"

I want to choke on my own words. There are better things I could focus on than Harrison. I could sketch out new plays to propose to Coach. Or talk to Noah about my upcoming schedule and when I'll need him to look after Chels. But I have no one to blame other than myself. I took this stupid bet, now I have to face the consequences.

Her eyes widen the slightest bit, and a light dusting of blush coats her cheeks. It's almost like she's remembering the moment she drenched me in coffee. She made it clear she wasn't apologizing for that—and I don't blame her—but I think her reaction has affected her. "Oh... well... I guess you're right, Sm—Shea. As much as I hate to admit it, you've got a point."

I shrug, tapping my pencil against the heavy Biology textbook on my desk. "Have anymore ideas about the project?"

Harrison goes into full-on academic mode, leaning forward in her seat as she explains her idea. She wants to do a project on a Canadian citizen's Montréal lifestyle. From poutine to the importance of keeping the French language alive, she's got it covered. I try to pay attention, nodding my head as words fly from her mouth. It's difficult, though. Mainly because I'm shocked by her brilliance. The pieces of her outline I'm able to absorb are guaranteed to gain us an A. And, if I'm going to be entirely honest with myself, her low-cut romper is an eye catcher.

Yeah, I'd tap those.

The neutral expression on her face turns vicious. "Are you fucking kidding me?" she hisses. Harrison doesn't yank her romper up to cover her cleavage. Instead, she stares at me with indignation and keeps her shoulders and chin held high. "You have self-control! Use it! I'm so sick and tired of men getting away with shit. Just because women wear low-cut tops does not mean we want you to stare at our chests. Our clothes don't imply we haven't left much to the imagination—and nor should that even be a thought." She motions to her eyes. "My eyes are up here. Have some fucking respect!"

Half the class is staring, and my cheeks are heating. Fuck. I can't believe I said that aloud. It was a thought that never should've been heard. Goddamn my mouth. Just because I think it doesn't mean it's right. I'd be upset if someone ever said that to my sister. I don't care if it makes me a hypocrite, but I'm not about to admit I'm mortified. It would be detrimental to my reputation.

The back of my chair cuts into my shoulders as I stretch. "What?" I smirk. "My comments should flatter you. I'm one of the hottest commodities at this school."

Harrison clenches her jaw. I can see millions of angry retorts spinning through her head and smouldering behind her lips, but she's a smart girl. She says nothing because she knows Mr. Davis will snap at us if we make any commotion. He's got this "silence is golden" policy in his class. We're not supposed to speak unless it's academic-related. Once we're in his classroom, the rules are absolute. Our hushed voices can only go so far.

Her silence is scary, though. I flick my gaze to the side, wanting to groan. What the fuck is wrong with me? This is not how I meant for things to start. It's just so damn easy to push her buttons, and I like the fire in her eyes when she reacts. "Do you want to get together this weekend and work?" I ask. "I heard from a little bird you don't have a game on Sunday. I also have the day off from work."

"And who," she drawls, "was that little bird?"

"Tucker talks loudly during lunch. You should tell your boyfriend to use his inside voice when we're in school."

"Hunter isn't my boyfriend," she replies, rolling her eyes. "Why does everyone think he is?"

"Because you hang out with him too much?" I snort.

"Like we did when we were friends?" Harrison snaps.

My expression falters for a moment, leaving me wondering why her comment has made me stumble. Why does it make me uncomfortable? Why do I care? The questions I ask myself are a cover-up. I know exactly why her question causes me to falter. "We weren't friends," I mutter, averting my gaze to the notebook in front of me. I flip it open and scribble in today's date in the top right corner.

Harrison's voice is soft when she speaks again. "We went to the same elementary school, Shea. For seven years. We played on the same hockey team and hung out at each other's houses before you moved from the Westside to Kelowna. You can't tell me we weren't friends."

I grip my pencil tightly. The day Dad ridiculed me for being lesser than a girl echoes in my head. Until that point, we were friends. We didn't hang out every day, but we got along and would carpool to hockey together. I went over to her house sometimes. During the winter, we would always play hockey on the frozen pond by Rose Valley Elementary. The days when she came over for hot chocolate after were the best. "We weren't," I shrug. "I don't know where you cooked up that story, Harrison."

"Christ!" she exclaims, tossing her pencil down. "Why the hell do you keep shrugging? It's so annoying!"

Just to piss her off, I shrug again. It's not my fault she's easy to bug—and piss off. It is, however, my fault I resent her. I'm still allowing Dad's words to fuel my grudge. But not having his approval stings. Just like the soreness of my shoulder.

"Ugh," she groans. "Just leave me alone, okay? Go sit with your own friends. Drew and I claimed these spots at the beginning of the semester."

"You didn't answer my question." I want to make a comment about these desks not being their property, but I bite my tongue. She'll probably smack me.

Her gaze flicks to mine. The blue-violet colour of her eyes looks electric through her long lashes. "If I agree, will you shut the hell up and leave me alone?"

"Maybe," I shrug.

"Fine." She reaches for my good arm and rolls up my sleeve. She's leaning close to me, and I can smell the faint hint of perfume. It's something floral with a hint of maple. "Text me the details. I'll talk to my mom."

I snort. "Since when do you need permission from your mom to go out? Aren't you seventeen?"

Her eyes pierce mine. "I discuss events with Mom because she's the person who raised me. She's done everything for me, so the least I can do is let her know what's going on in my life."

"What?" I chuckle. "Do you need permission from your parents for everything?"

She writes her number on my forearm, the smooth skin of her hand brushing against me. The tip of the gel pen tickles, but I keep my arm grounded against the desk. I don't want to bump her and cause her to mess up her cell phone number.

"Parent," she corrects, finishing her number. "My dad isn't around. Never has been."

Her last sentence captures my interest, sparking many questions. When I pull up memories from our childhood, I don't recall seeing her dad around. I'd always assumed travel was common within his career. Now, it's obvious that's not the case.

I stare down at the number she's written on my arm. The ink is blue, smudged from her left hand. When I glance to my right, I see some ink has rubbed off on her. Being left-handed must be a pain in the ass when writing.

Harrison seems to notice my curiosity. "Before you say another word," she adds, "I'm going to tell you to shut the hell up. What happens and has happened in my house is none of your business. Got it?"

My mouth pulls to one side. "What if I want to know more about my partner?"

"Don't know," she shrugs just as the bell rings. "Maybe because you're a total dick?"

She tosses her hair over her shoulder and swivels in her seat, staring ahead at the whiteboard. Her perfume washes over me again, causing a lightbulb to go off in my head.

"Are you wearing Shawn Mendes's perfume?" I snort, remembering when KJ had to buy some for Ella last year. He dropped the bottle when we got home from the mall, soaking the kitchen's hardwood floor. Mom couldn't get the smell out for months. Now, I buy it for KJ's birthday every year as a joke.

Harrison's jaw tics. "Maybe," she shrugs.

A crease forms between my brows. That shrug was hardly an answer.

Yeah, maybe it's a little annoying.

I brush that thought away. I need to focus. While I'm not fond of trying to get close to Harrison, it seems I've taken a step to the positive side. I have her phone number.

Now all I need to do is make her like me.

Easier said than done.