“All right, what were you guys thinking?” she asks, prompting us to show her our ideas, probably wanting to make this some sort of teaching moment instead of just giving us the answer.
“I think one is here,” Olivia says, pointing with her gloved pinkie again.
“Bronx?” Tracy prods, and I show her where I think it is.
“Sometimes, those tiny parts are a little hard to identify with these guys. They’re definitely not as clear cut and defined as the manual makes them out to be, and these rats get roughed up after being used all week, so they’re by no means in prime condition. But, Olivia, I think you’re right. Right here”—Tracy points to where Olivia was moments ago—“is a gland. Then the other is over here.” Tracy points to the one on the other side. “Like I said, sometimes it’s very hard to tell, but you were really close, Bronx,” she says encouragingly.
“Told you,” Olivia says smugly, playfully sticking her tongue out at me. I know it was a good-natured, poke-fun gesture, but somehow it rubs me the wrong way.
“I told you she was right,” Rat Boy states not so pleasantly, really making my blood boil. I muster up a great deal of restraint and hold myself back from leaning over the table and punching him square in the face.
Then my phone buzzes in my pocket. Again. Making me even more irritated.
“You all think you’re so smart, don’t you?” I explode, feeling like a balloon filled up with too much air. I abruptly stand up from my chair, the legs screeching against the floor.
Everyone in the class snaps their attention to me, the room falling silent.
Olivia jerks her head back, stunned. A flash of hurt and confusion flickers in her eyes as she stares up at me from where she’s still sitting. “Bronx,” she says softly, reaching out to touch my arm, but I jerk away.
“Don’t,” I instruct firmly.
She draws her hand back, limply placing it in her lap as she looks away, her hair creating a curtain to hide her wounded expression. A pang of hurt shoots through my chest.
“What the hell, asshole?” Rat Boy sneers.
I clench my jaw, peeling off my latex gloves. “I’ll show you asshole,” I say, taking a few quick strides to round the table. He scurries back, pure fear in his eyes.
“Bronx!” Tracy yells, her voice surprisingly stern and anything but bubbly now. She quickly grabs my bicep to prevent me from going any further. “If you’re going to act like this, out of my lab. Now.”
“Gladly,” I bite out.
In a blur I snatch up my things, flinging my backpack over my shoulder and storming out of the classroom. Shortly after, I find myself barging into my room, throwing my stuff down next to my desk.
“Damn, Tasmanian Devil,” Chase comments from his bed. He stops throwing his football up in the air and catching it, hugging it to his chest. “What’s got you all riled up?”
“Don’t start,” I grumble, snapping open my dresser drawer and pulling out a pair of gym shorts and a muscle tank.
His brows pinch together. “What crawled up your ass and died?”
Wordlessly, I change clothes and shove my AirPods into my ears, turning the volume all the way up to max.
“Wow, I love this song!” Chase yells, just to be a dick, and bobs his head to the beat.
I flip him off and grab a water from the fridge.
“Love you too!” he yells just before I slam the door behind me.
I take a few laps around campus, needing to blow off some steam. Once my calves and lungs are burning, I stop at the gym on the south side of campus. Scanning my student ID, I walk past the front desk and go over to the weights. Finding an empty bench press, I load on the weights accordingly and take a seat, reclining back. Gripping the bar, I ease the weight off the rack and do a couple of reps before placing the bar back with aclank.
Sitting up, I take a few breaths, then lift the bottom of my tank to wipe my sweaty brow. Reaching down, I find my water bottle and take a few swigs as I scan the gym.
Out of my peripheral vision I catch a flash of neon pink. I turn my head to see Sasha Allen sashaying over to the row of treadmills, her high, bleached-blond ponytail swinging behind her. She’s dressed in all hot-pink gym attire: leggings, sports bra, tennis shoes, and even her water bottle is pink.
I watch as she hops onto a treadmill, working her way up to a jog. While her leggings are a bit too loud, I have to admit they look fan-fucking-tastic on her, shaping her ass and legs perfectly.
My mind wanders to Olivia and how great she would look in a pair. Maybe not hot pink—I doubt she’d ever wear that color—but I could picture her in a powder-blue pair, her favorite color. Now that fall has started, Olivia’s worn black leggings occasionally. Hers fit a little less scandalously, and usually she has them paired with a long sweater or cardigan so you can hardly see her shape. She doesn’t even wear shapely, skintight jeans, but I can tell she has a body under her conservative clothing.
After fantasizing about Olivia in those tight leggings—my mind even taking a detour to her in my jersey for a bit—I find myself back down on the bench. Worked up, I pump out as many reps as I can, still not feeling satisfied or settled.
