Project Hero
Briar Prescott
Contents
About this book
Prologue
1. Andy
2. Law
3. Andy
4. Law
5. Andy
6. Law
7. Andy
8. Law
9. Andy
10. Law
11. Andy
12. Law
13. Andy
14. Law
15. Andy
16. Law
17. Andy
18. Law
19. Andy
20. Law
21. Andy
22. Law
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
About this book
What if you accidentally fell in love with the right guy?
* * *
Andy:
If my life was a movie, I would be the sidekick. Not an especially promising start when my plan is to finally let my best friend know I have a crush on him. No worries, though. I have a plan. I just need a complete makeover. Change everything about myself so that when Falcon returns from his summer vacation, he can finally see I’m the love of his life. I totally know what I’m doing here.
Well, not really.
If I knew what I was doing, I wouldn’t look like every nerd cliché wrapped into one awkward package.
In short, I’m screwed.
But then Law Anderson enters the picture…
* * *
Law:
It’s all very simple. I need somebody to tutor my hockey team, and Andy needs somebody to help him with his crush. Sounds like a match made in heaven.
Only the more time I spend with Andy, the more I like this quirky guy who makes me laugh, and pretty soon I’m the one who’s tutoring Andy in way more than we initially agreed upon.
It’s fine.
I have it all under control.
But as weeks pass and the chemistry between us turns explosive, I’m starting to think that I might be in way over my head with Andy.
If only I could make Andy realize that he doesn’t need to change himself for love. If only I could make Andy see that he just needs to be with somebody who has considered him perfect all along…
Copyright© 2020 by Briar Prescott
* * *
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in book reviews
* * *
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, events and incidents are either the products of author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. Any perceived slight of any individual or organization is purely unintentional.
* * *
Cover by: Black Jazz Design
Editing by: Louisa Keller at LesCourt Author Services
Proofreading by: Jill Wexler at LesCourt Author Services
Formatting by: Leslie Copeland at LesCourt Author Services
Prologue
Andy
I was sixteen years old when I realized something life changing about myself—I was the sidekick.
In hindsight, I’m forced to admit there were signs. I’m unremarkable in every aspect of my life. Okay, fine, I’m decent with numbers. Throw some physics at me, and I can chew my way through it. It’s the reason I routinely exchanged the illusion of friendship for help with homework while I was in high school.
Everything else, though? Mediocre city, population me. I’m not particularly tall, nor am I noticeably short. I’m not fit. No six packs or V-shapes have ever graced my body with their presence. My hair is a very average brown and my eyes are an equally ordinary gray. I don’t look repulsive, but there’s nothing about me that would catch anybody’s attention.
I’m the guy who looks like the boring neighbor that lives across the hall from you and later turns out to be a cannibal with a freezer full of body parts in his spare bedroom. All the neighbors would be completely surprised once the police came to arrest me, and they’d say things like, but he was so ordinary. The old lady from upstairs would wax poetic about how I helped her carry her grocery bags to her apartment every Sunday, and to that I say, “That’s how they get you, Mirna. That’s how they get you.”
So…
That’s me. Minus the people-eating part. I’m too average to be a psycho.
I have no talents. My singing sounds like somebody is trying to stuff a litter of angry cats into a wet bag. My drawings are at a preschool level at best.
I once drew a bunny for my niece. She started crying when she saw the result. My sister was pissed and refused to listen to my explanation that I was not trying to scar her kid for life with my rendition of mutant rabbits but rather, I was trying to educate Lily and show her which rabbits to avoid should there ever be a nuclear disaster. That’s what I get for trying to make the best of a bad situation and turn a disaster of a drawing into a teaching moment.
As for other talents, I can’t dance, and I’m very much opposed to public speaking, proven by the vomiting-onstage incident at the seventh-grade debate. The accompanying stage fright was so bad that I couldn’t even walk across the stage at my high school graduation. I had an honest-to-God panic attack five minutes before the principal called my name. My mom had to step in and claim my diploma for me. Needless to say, acting, politics, and even teaching are not viable career options for me.
I have glasses that are an absolute must, since otherwise, I’m blind as a bat and walk into a lot of walls. I’ve tried not wearing them in hopes of walking into a hot guy instead. Didn’t happen. I did stumble into an angry janitor once, who sprayed me with a bottle of Windex and yelled at me. It wasn’t a love match.
I wear sweats a lot. And I do mean a lot. I was actively campaigning for wearing sweats to my high school graduation because those suckers are just that comfortable and nobody would have even seen them under the robe. Unfortunately, I was downvoted by every single member of my extended family. Even my great-grandpa, the traitor. My closet holds a wide variety of physics-themed T-shirts, and I can proudly say that I wore socks with sandals before it was cool.
My hair is a curly mess, and when passing on genes, my dad bestowed upon me the gift of multiple cowlicks. On a good day, I look like I do not own a hairbrush. On a bad day, I look like the lovechild of Albert Einstein and Edward Scissorhands. There are more bad days than good ones.
The only remarkable thing about me is my best friend. Falcon Asola. Even his name sounds like he’d be a good protagonist in any story. He’s everything I’m not. Tall, handsome as hell, ridiculously in shape. He’s the captain of Baril University’s basketball team, which is a big deal, since they tend to win a lot. I mean, we’re a hockey school, but Falcon has single-handedly brought basketball back to everyone’s attention in Baril. They even renovated the courts last year because winners get special perks like that.
Falcon is popular and there are no vomit-related episodes in his past. Instead, he’s quick with a comeback, funny and smart. It would be annoying as hell if he wasn’t my best friend since the summer before ninth grade, and the coolest, nicest human being on planet Earth.
He’s the Wayne to my Garth. Wallace to my Gromit. Shrek to my Donkey. Batman to my Robin.
And sure, I guess you could argue that without Watson’s help, Sherlock would be a neurotic mess who couldn’t even solve the case half the time, but let’s face it, nobody would go see a film about Dr. Watson. He’s not charismatic enough, hence, the posi
tion as a sidekick.
Ever since Falcon’s family moved in next door the summer before ninth grade, we’ve been best friends. He doesn’t mind that I’m awkward and dress like a cross between a nerd and the thirty-five-year-old whose parents just can’t seem to get him to move out of their basement.
I had been deathly afraid my less-than-stellar situation in school would make him drop me like a hot potato once he realized he’d chained himself to his unpopular nerd of a neighbor by accident. But Falcon had stuck by me. He’d also put a stop to the nickname hurlmaster, which had taken off like a rocket when one of the jocks had yelled it out after the debate that shall not be talked about.
The thing about sidekicks is, they are usually left in the hero’s shadow. See, when I made my big, life changing discovery about being a sidekick, it took me a while to come to terms with it. Everybody wants to be a hero in their story. It’s human nature. But like my grandma used to say, life is not a wish factory. If you want something, you’ve got to be willing to work for it. And so, with those words of wisdom in mind, I took a good, hard look at myself at the end of my junior year of college. The results were disappointing, but I had a quick fix—I decided to drown all my sorrows in alcohol.
The next morning, while battling the mother of all hangovers, I came up with a plan. I’m a problem-solver at heart, so the way I saw it, if I didn’t like myself that much, I could just change everything about myself. My goal was to turn the sidekick into a hero. And that’s how Project Hero was born. It was a brilliant stroke of genius.
It would have been better if I’d done it just because I wanted to be a better, more accomplished version of myself. Unfortunately, I had a bit of a different goal in mind. Namely, I was in love with Falcon Asola, and I would finally make him notice me.
1
Andy
I, like a lot of people, am a creature of habit. I eat oatmeal for breakfast every morning. I take an eighteen-minute nap every afternoon. When I go to the library, I sit in a certain spot.
Some people don’t like the routine. Me? I love it. It helps me concentrate and makes my brain less crowded if I have all the everyday decisions made beforehand. Which is why it throws me for a loop when I get to the library on a sunny Friday afternoon, only to find that my usual seat has already been taken.
I come to a complete standstill and stare at the behemoth of a guy who occupies the corner that usually belongs to me. It’s not like there’s a sign with my name on the desk, but damn, not many people even step foot into the science wing. Most students in my department know each other. If not by name, then by face and also by where we like to sit.
Rebecca, the biology major, likes to sit by the window that faces the lake. Tyson, another physicist, prefers the desk that is an equal distance from the physics shelves and the rows dedicated to math. He’s a double major and coincidentally also a major overachiever. The redheaded freshman likes to be close to the information desk. Lots of questions and awkward flirting with the help desk lady for that one. And I like the back corner of the library because it’s quiet and very few people venture this way, so I can concentrate better while studying.
Baril U is a small university in the state of Vermont. The physics department is tiny, one of those everybody-knows-everybody type of deals. It’s a decent program. It’s not the best in the world, but it’s far from the worst. Definitely the best Vermont has to offer, and since my parents have six kids, with me in the fourth position, there isn’t exactly money to spare for college. Am I a tiny bit bitter about not attending MIT? I guess a minuscule part of me had dreamed about going, but there’s always a chance I’ll go for my PhD. At least that’s the plan right now. Anyway, what matters is here and now, and right now, out-of-state schools are a definite no. Besides, Baril offered me a generous scholarship, so long story short, here I am.
And here is also this other dude I’ve never seen before, sitting in my chair, in my corner, like he owns the place. Unfortunately, a sign with my name hasn’t magically appeared out of thin air, so first, I make a mental note to create a sign.
Right now, I have to come to terms with the fact that, technically, it’s a free country, and the dude can sit wherever he wants. I huff under my breath as I find a free seat. I make sure to keep my seat in my line of sight. The goal is to observe and when baseball cap here leaves, I’ll be on it like cream cheese on a bagel, before some other idiot with bad manners seizes the opportunity to snatch the best desk in the library. Not that there is exactly a line out the door, but you never know. I didn’t expect Mr. I’ve-Got-An-Incredibly-Firm-Ass over there either, and yet, here we are…
I take out my laptop and my books and notes and lay them out on the desk in front of me, all the while throwing icy glances at the guy. He doesn’t even seem to register that somebody else has entered the room. He’s hunched over, but his back is so wide that it’s impossible to say what he’s doing. I glare at the massive shoulders. Nothing happens. Guess I can cross off freezing people with my eyeballs from my potential list of superpowers. Bummer.
The unexpected seating complication has thrown me off my game, but I open the research proposal I have to perfect and get to work. It takes a while to get going, and I’m not concentrating as well as I usually do because I’m busy glaring at the intruder and swearing under my breath. There’s no way I’ll finish the task I’ve set for myself on time, which means I’ll have to cut my eighteen-minute nap from my schedule, and it annoys me to no end.
I grumble and huff like I’m the big, bad wolf, ready to blow down the straw house. The guy straightens himself and I’m pretty certain he’s heard me, but he only adjusts his headphones and leans forward on his elbows. There’s some space left between the elbow and his side, and fuck it, it looks like he’s not studying at all. I have no idea what possesses me to do it, but I get up from my chair and move closer until I’m standing right behind the guy. I look over his shoulder, and just as I suspected, he’s scrolling through his phone. There are no books, no pens, no laptop, not even a smell of a notecard anywhere in his vicinity. The bastard is occupying my seat to waste time on social media. Fucking perfect.
I grit my teeth and turn around, but before I can go back to my seat, I reconsider. This is supposed to be the new me. I’m not supposed to blend into the tapestry any longer. A hero has a can-do attitude, and he fights injustice, so that’s exactly what I’m going to do. With epic tunes playing in my mind as an encouraging soundtrack for my act of bravery, I straighten my shoulders and prepare myself to stand up for my rights.
“Excuse me,” I say. I’m louder than I should be, considering it’s a library. Already I’m getting annoyed looks thrown my way. The seat stealer doesn’t react at all. He has his music turned up so high I can hear the aggressive guitar riffs floating around him.
I tap on his shoulder and bark, “Hey!” with a firm voice that would make a drill sergeant proud.
The guy jumps, tears his earbuds out, and slams them on the desk in front of him. “What the hell?” he snaps and glares at me.
He takes off his baseball cap and drags his hand through his dark hair, and I wince. The guy sitting in front of me is none other than Law Anderson. He’s my nemesis. Well, as much of a nemesis as someone can be when they don’t even know you exist.
Law used to be the star of the hockey team, and since the hockey team and the basketball team don’t like each other because of some stupid prank from freshman year, I’m forced to dislike the guy too. Falcon claims it’s the bro code, and so far, it hasn’t been a challenge to honor it, since I’ve never actually talked to Law. I’ve seen him at a couple of parties Falcon has dragged me to, but Law has never noticed me. He’s usually busy with being in the spotlight with people scrambling to get his attention.
Now that Law has quit the team, I should probably ask Falcon if the feud still stands. As of last season, Law is the assistant coach and not a player anymore, so that might change the situation a bit. I make a mental note to check. Just in case.
Putting all those technicalities aside, though, if Law doesn’t get out of my seat, I’ll have to start a whole separate feud for a completely different reason.
I channel my best Sheldon Cooper impression as I stare at Law. “You’re in my seat.”
He frowns. “I didn’t know there was assigned seating.”
“There isn’t,” I reply with as much dignity as I can muster.
“This is my regular seat, and you’re not using it for its intended purpose anyway, so I figure you might as well ‘study’ your phone somewhere else.” I add finger quotes around the word study to fully express my disdain.
Law leans back in his seat and looks at me.
“Is that so?” he asks. Law is fighting a smile, and I make a valiant effort to not let it get to me. I’m supposed to be authoritative and resolute, but so far, Law only looks amused at my tentative display of alpha-maleness and shows no sign that he’s planning to move anywhere. Even so, I persevere.
“There’s an unwritten understanding that there are some seats that are always taken.” I point to the one Law is using. “That’s one of them.”
Law’s smile widens. “That seems unfair. How am I supposed to know about this nonverbal, non-written agreement?”
“You’re not. What you are supposed to do is free the seat when the official owner shows up.”
Project Hero Page 1