*Slow updates*
After agreeing to be the focus of a college article,
senior Charlie Murtaugh gets more than he bargains for when he's assigned a clueless sophomore who knows nothing about the sport.
...
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"Yeah, um," I swallow forcefully hoping that the right words spill out of my mouth instead of 'I want you to take me right on this table in front of all of these people because my entire body is on fire. I open my mouth to speak but nothing comes out. All I can concentrate on is the feeling of Charlie's strong legs encasing mine. Charlie smirks, almost like he knows what he's doing to me by trapping me in this position. I blink, trying hard to keep a clueless expression. I'm not going to allow this man in front of me to know just how much he's affecting me "I, um, wasn't there when Byrne covered it in class. Which is partly your fault."
"I'm never going to live that one down, am I?" Although, there's a playful glint in his eyes there's also a hint of seriousness in his tone.
I open my mouth to disagree but nothing comes out. Because the truth is we both know every time I try to forgive Charlie, he gives me another reason not to. I look away from him to my laptop, unable to hold his gaze. "I have gone over the notes by myself but I still don't get it."
It's better to focus on maths than the reality of my current situation. I am insanely attracted to the guy in front of me who's not here to apologise for kissing his girlfriend in my presence or here to tell me that he's insanely attracted to me too and wants a replay of the moment we shared two days ago. Yet, I haven't fully forgiven him for the sh*the put me through. Like announcing on the tv that I slept with him for an article.
I'd be lying if the reality of it all didn't sting a little bit.
"It's okay. We can go through it again," he reassures, leaning in a little too close as we stare at the laptop. I have to remind myself to continue breathing "whenever you see a question that's asking for anything other than the z-score, all you have to do is flip the formula around-" Charlie points at the screen, his tattoos peeking out from underneath his sleeves "-here it says to find the height. You have the SD which is 8, you have a z-score of 1.5SDs and a mean height of 146cm. Do you remember the formula I gave to you earlier?"
I was focused on the rumbling of his steady voice. On how I never imagined Charlie, the school's star player, would be sitting in front of me teaching me maths that I didn't expect him to turn to me or ask me any questions. I'm caught off guard by the proximity of our faces-not close enough to be anything sexual, but close enough that I feel every bit of me boil.
I groan. "um, Z= SD-observed /mean?"
"Wrong. Do you want to try again?"
And because I can't handle being under his scrutiny, I shake my head almost vigorously. I huff out in frustration. Not at maths, but myself, for feeling like this. I've never felt this way before and I'm handling it wrong.
God, I need help.
"Z= observed - mean /SD. Have you got a pen-" I nod, glad for a reason to look away and get myself together. I ruffle through my pencil case for a black pen and hand it to him. Charlie's finger grazes mine lightly and I have to stop myself from snatching my hands and pretend nothing happened. But as I zip up my case I can't help but wonder if I'm doing to him the things he's doing to me. I doubt it. I sneak a look at him as he scribbles on a piece of printing paper. Someone who's losing it wouldn't be able to think straight, let alone solve a maths problem. When he finishes, he passes what appears to be formulas to me.
