Bedhead: A Romance

by Kayt Miller

  “What happened? You’re no longer at the pub, love?”

  “I left.”

  “Are you crying, love?”

  “N-No.” Okay. A little.

  “Why? Did I do something?”

  “No.” My voice cracks. “Of course not. It was K-Kara.”

  “She’s a right cow, eh?”

  That makes me laugh. “If that means she’s a bitch, then yes.” I blow out a breath, trying to calm myself. “I barely know her, but she never stops saying terrible things about me.”

  “She’s jealous, love.”

  I know I should laugh at that, but I can’t. “I gotta go.” I hang up the phone again and shove it in my back pocket. “Jealous? Of me?” What a fucking joke.

  I make it another block when my phone rings again. “Hello?”

  “We keep getting disconnected.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Are you walking? Alone? After dark, love?”

  “It’s not far. Ames is very safe.” I stare down at my phone and blink a few times because I can’t believe what I’m seeing. Cooke is getting dressed. Don’t worry, he’s not naked—not completely. He’s in a loose pair of shorts that show off his perfect abdominals. Now he’s sliding on a shirt. When he pulls it down, I can see it’s got the same logo, the flower, as I saw in the gym, and there’s an O and a 2 with it. “Is your team famous?”

  He’s still moving around in what appears to be a hotel room. “We’re the best, love.”

  “Are you on a college team?”

  Cooke chuckles. “I’m going to send you a link later today. Check it out and that will answer your question.”

  “Oh. Okay.” I pause. “So, not a college team?”

  “No, love.” Cooke chuckles as he picks his phone back up. “You almost home?”

  Oh, he wants to hang up. “Yep,” I lie. “Just walking up to my door now.”

  “Okay, then. Sleep tight, Quinn Maxwell. I need to dash.”

  “Bye, Cooke.” I’m about to press End as I cross the street. Looking up, I’m barely aware of the car turning the corner toward me. I don’t think he sees me. I attempt to pick up my pace, but I’m forced to take corrective action, launching myself forward until I feel hard concrete against my palms and knees. As I fall to the ground, my phone skitters across pavement.

  The passenger in the car leans out of the open window and yells, “Pay attention where you’re going, dumb bitch!”

  I roll over onto my butt and assess the damage. My jeggings are ripped on both knees now, and blood is oozing out of the scrapes beneath. My hands feel like they’re burning. When I peer down at them, I wince. They’re really messed up, and rocks and dirt are embedded in my palms. “Shit.” I suck in a sharp breath as I try to wipe them on my legs.

  “Quinn? Love?”

  What the hell? I look to my left, searching for my phone. I spot it in the grass. Gingerly, I roll in that direction and pick it up. “Cooke?”

  “What happened?”

  “Oh. Erm….”

  “Quinn.”

  “I fell.” I’m not about to tell him I was an idiot and almost got hit by a car. “I guess I had too much to drink.” Which is not a lie.

  “I thought you said you were home. There’s a shop behind you.”

  I slowly turn my head and see the bright lights of a convenience store. Damn. “Well, I… you sounded like you were busy. I—”

  “Darling.” It sounds like “Dahling.” So cute.

  “I’m fine. Just a klutz. Go. Get on with your day. I’m almost home, I promise.”

  “I’ll walk with you.” He chuckles. “If you’re tipsy, I want to make sure you’re safe, love.”

  “Fine.” I push up to standing and stare down at myself. I’ll live. “So, you don’t play college rugby.”

  Cooke starts to laugh, and it reminds me of our last call. It’s contagious, and I laugh too.

  “No, I guess you could call me a professional footballer.”

  “Like the Minnesota Vikings?”

  “I suppose it’s similar. I’m paid to play the sport. Not as much as your famous American footballers, but enough.”

  “Ah, I see.”

  “Just click on the link I’m going to send you and watch it. It’ll explain everything.”

  “Man of mystery, huh?”

  Cooke laughs again. “Indeed. I’m extremely mysterious.”

  It’s my turn to laugh. He seems very open to me. Nothing secretive about this man. But what do I know? We’ve only spoken three times. Well, more if you count the times I’ve hung up on him.

  I look up and see my house. “Now I’m really home.”

  “Oh? Prove it.”

  Turning the phone around, I point it at the white house with the red door. “That’s my house.”

  “You live with the girls from the pub?”

  “There are six of us.”

  “That’s a lot of females in one house.” He pretends to shiver.

  Pushing open the door, the first thing I notice is the silence. Nice. “It’s not bad.” Looking at our small kitchen, I silently wish I had something good to snack on, but I can’t bring myself to eat toast right now. “I’m home,” I say tiredly. “Time for bed. I’ve got an early class tomorrow.”

  “All right. Nighty night, Quinn.”

  “Night, Cooke. Have a good, er, workout?”

  “Aye, lass. Thanks.”

  And he was gone.

  Chapter Seven

  Taking a coffee break at the Hub the next day, I use the time to study my notes for Introduction to Biology. We aren’t supposed to have a quiz today, but it’s Friday, the day of the week that lots of people skip, so a lot of professors give pop quizzes to punish those who can’t get their butts out of bed. But I’m a good student and woke up on time—mostly—and was out of the house and on my scooter in time for Ceramics 2. Yay!

  Just as I’m about to write down some vocabulary, I hear his voice. “Hey, Quinn.”

  I look up and blink. The sun is shining through the floor-to-ceiling windows in the Hub. “Oh, hi, Bryant.” I know I should ignore him, be angry with him for laughing when Kara… never mind. She’s a hag.

  “How’re you feeling today?” He smirks.

  “Fine. Why?”

  “You were pretty wasted last night.”

  “Um.” No, I was tipsy, as Cooke called it, but not wasted. “Right.”

  I watch as Bryant sidles up close. “Mind if I sit?”

  I nod to the chair across from me, but he chooses the one next to me. Not unusual, but still. I’m a bit leery. I’m not sure what to do, so I jot down a vocabulary word into my notes.

  “What’re you doing?” he asks.

  I want to say, “What does it look like?” but I decide to keep the snark in check. “Studying?” Why the heck did I say it like it was a question? I shrug. “Friday is pop quiz day.”

  “Right.” He places his hands on the table and begins to tap nervously. “So.”

  I sigh, set down my pencil, and look at him. “So.”

  “I was curious about that guy you were talking to?”

  “Yeah?” Why on earth for? I arch my brow.

  Bryant chuckles and flips the front of his hair out of his eyes.

  I used to think that little hair flip was cute. Now? Oh, who am I kidding? It’s still cute.

  “My roommate is on the Iowa State rugby team.”

  “We have one of those?” Who knew?

  He laughs again. Patting my hand a tad too condescendingly, he says, “Of course. It’s a club team, so it’s not like our other big sports. They travel, though. Play teams from the other Big12 schools.”

  “Huh. Who-da-thunk?”

  “Is your friend famous?”

  I shrug because I have no idea.

  He’s not giving up on the questions. “You mentioned the logo?”

  “It’s a flower.”

  “Wait.” Tapping on his phone, he stops and turns the phone my way. “This logo?”r />
  Wow, he found that fast. “Yep. That’s the one.”

  “So, he plays professional rugby.” He pauses, then punches out, “For. England.”

  I shrug again. “I guess.”

  Bryant chuckles. “Wow.” Looking back down at me, he smiles. “Leave it to ditzy Quinn to befriend a professional athlete and not even know it.”

  Hold the gosh dang phone. Ditzy Quinn? I’m not ditzy. “I’m not ditzy.”

  Patting the top of my hand again, he smiles, but it’s not sincere. “You know what I mean.”

  No, I really don’t. But I’m not going to argue with him about this. It gives me some things to think about, though.

  “What’s his name again?” Bryant picks his phone up and holds it like he’s ready to go.

  “Cooke.”

  “Cooke?”

  Why is he asking? If I let on that I probably know more than I should about the hot guy from England, Bryant might get the wrong idea. “Cooke the rugby player from England.”

  Bryant chuckles, shakes his head, and types. I wait in silence as he stares down at his phone. Looking up at me, he asks, “Cooke Thompson?”

  I lift both shoulders and attempt to show him that I have no idea. Why do I care what Bryant thinks? I doubt he’d be jealous of a guy half-way across the world.

  Reaching out, Bryant slaps my back. Hard. So hard that I wince. “Leave it to somebody like you to fall into something like that. Jesus. You’re friends with fucking Cooke Thompson.”

  I lift one shoulder. “I wouldn’t call us friends.” I wouldn’t. We’ve talked on the phone a few times. So what? “I didn’t realize you followed rugby.” Honestly, I know very little about Bryant. Except that I thought I loved him.

  “I’m a big rugby fan. My team is Wales.” There’s a weird silence between us. Uncomfortable. That is until he says, “Yeah, well, the reason I stopped by….”

  Oh, here we go.

  “Do you happen to have your friend Kara’s number?”

  Oh. No. He. Didn’t.

  Before I can even think to speak, I slam my book shut, then slap my notebook down on top of that. Then I take both and shove them into my backpack. First off, “My friend Kara?” What the ever-loving hell? Secondly, why would he ask me? I’m—he’s supposed to like me.

  “Quinn?”

  Grabbing the handle of my backpack, I stand. Turning to him, I say the only thing I can and still save face. “Kara is not my friend.” I mean, didn’t he hear the shit she was saying about me last night? I doubt it stopped when I left. “I just met her, and I’ve been doing my best to stay as far away from her as possible.”

  “Why?” He’s standing up now too.

  “She’s mean.”

  “Mean? She seemed nice.”

  “To you,” I spit. I’m not doing this.

  I start to step away when I feel him grasp my upper arm. I quickly pull back because I hate my arms. His voice is soft. “Quinn. Stop.”

  I stop, but I don’t look at him.

  “I’m sorry,” he continues. “She was a bitch to you last night. I shouldn’t have asked you for her digits.”

  Digits? God, that sounds so stupid, especially since I already know he’s not sorry for wanting her number. He’s just sorry he asked me.

  “No problem.” I step away from him, picking up my pace. I’m out the door and on my way to biology—one hour early. Great.

  As I’m walking out the door, he shouts, “Hey, tell Cooke he’s got fans here. If he’s ever in Ames—”

  The door slams behind me, so I don’t get to hear the rest of it, thank goodness.

  Chapter Eight

  Tayler was right, but I refuse to admit that to her. If I do, she’ll just rub it in my face. Not only that, but she’s never the one to apologize first whenever we’ve had a fight, and I’m tired of it. She claims it’s because I’m too emotional (I am), that I take things too personally (I do), and she doesn’t have time for it. God, just thinking about it pisses me off. I’ve lasted over a week without my best friend. While it makes me sad, I know I need to hold out for her to extend the olive branch this time. Can I do it? Time will tell. In the meantime, I’ll get to know my roommates a little better—hopefully sans Kara—and see where that goes.

  As I wait for my biology class to begin, I use the time to go over my notes again. Biology is not my thing. You can lump science right in with math, thankyouverymuch. Exception? I took Geology 101 my freshman year, dubbed ‘Rocks for Jocks,’ and I loved it. I learned a lot of good stuff about Earth, like tectonic plates. Plus, the professor was cool and funny.

  The door opens to the lab and our teaching assistant steps in. She’s in charge of these labs while the actual professor does the lecture portion of the classes. At least the labs let us do things. Sitting in a lecture for ninety minutes is not my favorite thing, but it’s just part of it, I guess. Today, we’re continuing to talk about ecosystems, and happily, our task is to work in groups to make a poster about our experiments, which is right up my alley. Whoever I get lumped with will appreciate my artistic skills.

  Just as class is about to end, I feel my phone vibrate in the front pocket of my hoodie. We’re not supposed to have phones in class, so I want to be discreet. Looking down, I reach into my pocket and pull it about halfway out, enough for me to see the text

  Unknown: Hey, this is Cooke. Just wanted to check on you after last night.

  I’m honestly shocked. I mean, I’ve video chatted with this man several times, and it’s strange because he’s very easy to talk to. Sure, it could be the fact that he lives a million miles away and obviously unattainable for someone like me, so there’s none of my usual nerves like when I talk to hot guys like Bryant. Cooke seems to be a nice guy who happens to be drop-dead gorgeous and definitely out of my league.

  I look up to make sure the TA can’t see me on my phone. Holding it under my table in an attempt to hide it, I quickly add him to my contacts and type:

  Me: Hi, Cooke. I’m good. In biology lab. Can’t get caught with my phone.

  He responds immediately.

  Cooke: Biology, eh? I think you need to tell me all about your biology lessons.

  I blink a few times. Is Cooke flirting with me? I shake my head. “Nah.” So I type the least sexy thing I can think of.

  Me: We’re learning about ecosystems.

  Cooke: Well, that’s a shame.

  Me: It’s not my thing.

  Cooke: What’s your “thing”?

  Me: Art. I’m an art ed major.

  Cooke: Art ed?

  Me: Art education. I want to be an art teacher someday.

  Cooke: Wonderful profession, educator. You must be a talented artist.

  Me: I’m okay.

  “Quinn Maxwell.”

  Shit.

  I look up and see my TA glaring at me. “Choose. Your phone or this class.”

  Wow, she doesn’t mess around. But I knew that. She’s said the same thing to several others in class. “Sorry.” I quickly slip the phone into my pocket and get back to work. I feel it vibrate several more times, but I don’t dare look at it. No matter. I’ve only got a few minutes left in class; I can check after.

  As I’m walking out the door, I half expect the TA to pull me aside and give me a good talking-to, but she doesn’t. Luckily.

  Once outside, I hoist my heavy backpack behind me and start the long trek back to my scooter. Just as I step onto central campus, my phone chimes. Pulling it out of my back pocket, I quickly hit the FaceChat icon. “Cooke?”

  “Hey, love. You didn’t write back.” Why does he sound a little miffed about that?

  “Oh, sorry. I got caught with my phone in class, and that’s a no-no. I’m just leaving now.”

  I glance at the time on the Campanile, the ancient clock tower in the middle of ISU’s beautiful campus: 2:00 p.m. Doing some quick math, I ask, “So, is it eight o’clock at night there?”

  “It is, love, and I’m knackered.”

  He’s used th
at word before. “Why are you tired? What did you do today?”

  “Up with the chickens for our first workout. Then meetings, a workout, lunch, more meetings, a scrimmage, more meetings, dinner, then off to the physio.”

  “Physio?”

  “Oh, let’s see if I can give you the Americanized name.” He chuckles. “The therapist for my leg.”

  “You hurt your leg?” Oh no.

  “Years ago, but it still gives me fits now and then.”

  I’ve stopped at one of the concrete benches in the grassy parklike spot on central campus. I look around me and sigh. It’s so pretty here, and people love hanging out in this spot. Students are sitting on their sweatshirts talking, and there’s a guy taking a nap to my right. He must be tired, because the other people aren’t quiet.

  “What are you sighing about?” Cooke asks with a look of curiosity on his face.

  “Campus. It’s pretty. Here.” I turn the phone around and scan the large courtyard. It sits smack-dab in the middle of four of the oldest buildings on campus: Beardshear, the Memorial Union, Catt Hall, and Curtiss Hall.

  “It’s lovely.”

  So are his accent and the words he says with said accent. “It is. The weather is perfect. Not too hot, not cold yet.”

  “It sounds ideal.”

  In many ways it is. “So, are you going to bed now?”

  “I’m not my granny.” He chuckles. “But I’m no spring chicken either.”

  Okay, now we’re getting into some personal questions. “How old are you?”

  “Twenty-six, love. And you?”

  “Twenty-one.” I almost say “and a half,” but that sounds childish.

  “A babe.”

  I blush, thinking he means I’m attractive, but then I remember who I’m talking to and who I am and snort as I think better of it. He means I’m still young. “Sometimes I feel ancient.” Without giving him a chance to comment, I ask, “Have you always played rugby?”

  “Since I was a lad, yes. My father was quite good, so he taught me the sport.”

  I’m almost nervous to bring it up, but he did send them to me. “Oh, I watched those videos.”