Play Your Way To My Heart

Chapter Three

Evie

By three twenty, I had checked the time six times, rearranged my pens twice, and decided that if Callum Reid didn't show up on time, I was going to enjoy five minutes of peace before reporting him to Dr. Bennett.

At three twenty-three, someone knocked on the open door.

I looked up, ready to tell him he was early.

It wasn't him.

A girl from another department asked where the postgraduate office was, then disappeared after I pointed her towards the stairs. I checked my phone again.

Three twenty-four.

This was ridiculous. I had never cared this much about a research participant's punctuality in my life.

Not that I cared about Callum Reid.

I cared about the study, the data, and the schedule I'd spent two weeks organising.

My phone buzzed.

Naomi: Have you started your date?

Me: It's a research session.

Naomi: With the hockey player.

Me: A research session with a hockey player.

Naomi: If he takes his shirt off, remember your academic integrity. Or don't. I wish you wouldn't.

I pressed my lips together, fighting a smile.

Me: I regret telling you anything.

Naomi: You told me he was cute. I didn't ask.

I locked my phone. I had not told Naomi he was cute. I'd said he had a nice face, which was an entirely different and much more objective observation.

A knock sounded against the doorframe.

"Am I interrupting something?"

I looked up.

Callum stood there in a black hoodie and grey sweatpants, his hair damp at the ends. A sports bag hung from one shoulder. He looked as though he'd come straight from the arena, and there was something unfair about how effortlessly he managed to look good while doing absolutely nothing.

My gaze caught on his hair, then his face, then the little smile that appeared when he saw me.

I looked down at my tablet.

"You're early."

"Is that a compliment?"

"No."

"Okay."

He pulled out the chair opposite mine and sat down.

I glanced at him. He glanced back.

"What?" he asked.

"Nothing."

"You're looking at me like I did something."

"You usually do."

He laughed, tipping his head back. That smile made him look younger than he did on the ice and far less intimidating than the photographs I'd seen of him in his hockey gear.

I busied myself with the folder in front of me.

"So, how's your day been?" he asked.

I looked up suspiciously. "Fine."

"Just fine?"

"Yes."

"Wow. You really know how to keep a conversation alive."

"Would you like me to ask you about yours?"

"I was actually going to tell you."

"Then why did you ask me first?"

He paused, searching for an answer.

"Maybe I was trying to be polite."

"How's that working out for you?"

"Not great, apparently."

I laughed before I could stop myself.

It was a small sound, but he didn't make a big deal out of it. He simply looked at me for a moment, as if he hadn't expected it, then smiled.

Something warm and inconvenient moved through my chest.

I reached for my folder. "Let's get started."

"Sure, Laurent."

"And please stop calling me Laurent like that."

"Like what?"

I gave him a look.

He grinned. "Sorry. Evie."

My name sounded different in his voice. I hated that I'd noticed.

"Thank you."

"You're welcome."

He said it so innocently that I almost threw a pen at him.

I opened the questionnaire on my tablet and explained the next stage of the study. Callum listened, though he occasionally glanced around the room.

When I finished, he nodded towards the window.

"Do you always work here?"

"Most of the time."

"Doesn't get lonely?"

"There are other researchers."

"Yeah, but do you ever get bored sitting in a room asking people questions?"

"Sometimes."

He looked surprised by my honesty.

"What do you do when you get bored?"

"Read. Sew. Annoy my roommate."

"Sew?"

I looked up. "Yes, sew."

"Like, clothes?"

"No, Callum. I sew blankets for ants."

He burst out laughing. I couldn't help smiling.

"Sorry," he said. "I just didn't expect that."

"What did you expect? That I spend all my free time reading research papers?"

"Honestly? A little."

"That's insulting."

"Now you know how I felt about that questionnaire."

I shook my head and returned to the tablet.

"Are you always this interested in other people's business?"

"Only when the other person is interesting."

My fingers stopped above the screen.

He'd said it so casually that I wasn't sure what to do with it. When I looked at him, he was watching me, but there was no smirk on his face.

Then he reached for the stylus.

"All right. What's first?"

"You're supposed to answer the questions, not interview me."

"Right. Sorry."

For the next fifteen minutes, I managed to convince myself the conversation hadn't happened.

Mostly.

The questionnaire focused on decision-making under pressure. I asked Callum how he responded when he had to make a quick decision with incomplete information.

"Depends."

"On what?"

"What's at stake."

"Can you give me an example?"

He leaned back, thinking.

"On the ice, you don't have time to consider every possible outcome. You see an opening, you take it. If you wait until you're absolutely certain, somebody else gets there first."

"And outside hockey?"

"Depends on the situation."

I gave him a pointed look.

He laughed. "You really don't like that answer, do you?"

"It's a way of avoiding one."

"Maybe I just don't like being boxed into one."

I considered that, then entered his response.

"That's fair."

He seemed surprised. "What?"

"I can disagree with you without assuming you're wrong."

He watched me for a moment.

"That's actually a pretty good quality."

"Don't sound so shocked."

"I'm trying to work out whether that was a compliment."

"Don't get used to it."

His mouth curved, but he let it go.

Some questions made him think. Others produced immediate answers. He challenged the wording of one, insisting that being impulsive wasn't the same as trusting your instincts. Annoyingly, he had a point.

At one stage, he leaned across the table to read a question on my screen. I caught the clean scent of his soap, something fresh and faintly woody. There was a tiny scar near his eyebrow that I hadn't noticed before.

I found myself wondering how he'd got it.

Then I realised I was staring and sat back.

"Do you need your glasses?" he asked.

"What?"

"You keep squinting at the screen."

"I'm reading."

"Right."

He looked suspiciously amused.

"Do you have a problem?"

"No." He picked up the stylus. "I'm just trying to work out why you look angry every time you concentrate."

"I don't look angry."

"You do a little."

"Maybe that's just my face."

He laughed, and I pretended to check the next question.

Callum Reid had a talent for making me say things I wouldn't normally say to someone I'd known for less than a week.

We were halfway through the next section when I noticed him pause. His right arm stopped halfway as he reached for the stylus. His mouth tightened briefly before he lowered it and picked up the pen with his left hand instead.

I frowned.

"Does your shoulder hurt?"

His head came up. "What?"

"Your shoulder. You moved it like it hurt."

For a moment, he didn't answer. Then he rolled the shoulder once.

"It's fine."

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah."

"If you're uncomfortable, we can take a break."

"I'm good, Evie."

The way he said my name was different this time. Not teasing. Just firm.

I studied his face. He clearly didn't want to discuss it.

I could have asked another question. Pain could affect an athlete's concentration and decision-making, which made it relevant to my study. But he was also a person, not a collection of variables I was entitled to investigate whenever I became curious.

"Okay," I said. "Just let me know if you need to stop."

His expression softened.

"I will."

We carried on, but I couldn't quite forget the look he'd given me. Callum joked when he didn't know an answer, challenged me when he disagreed, and seemed perfectly comfortable being the centre of attention.

When I'd asked about his shoulder, something had shifted.

I just didn't know what it meant.

By the time we finished, the sky outside had darkened and the corridors had grown quieter. I saved the responses, checked that everything had uploaded properly, and gathered my things.

Callum stood and stretched.

"That's it?"

"That's it."

"You're sure there's no surprise exam?"

"Would you like one?"

"Not particularly."

"Then consider yourself fortunate."

He picked up his bag, but instead of leaving, he lingered beside the table.

"So, do I get to find out how I did?"

"Your results aren't ready."

"I meant today. Did I pass?"

I zipped my bag. "You completed the questionnaire."

"That's not what I asked."

"It's the answer you're getting."

He laughed and shook his head.

"You really don't make things easy, do you?"

"I wasn't aware I was supposed to."

For a moment, he looked as though he might say something else. His eyes stayed on mine, and the teasing expression slipped away just enough for me to notice the person underneath it.

Then his phone buzzed.

He glanced at the screen.

"I should go."

"Okay."

He took two steps towards the door before turning back.

"Hey, Evie?"

"Yeah?"

He hesitated, which was so unexpected that I waited.

"Nothing. I'll see you Thursday."

I blinked. "How do you know your next session is Thursday?"

"You sent the schedule."

"Oh."

He smiled. "You thought I was paying special attention?"

"No."

"Good."

He left before I could respond.

I sat there for a few seconds, staring at the doorway.

Then I muttered, "Unbelievable," to absolutely nobody.

My phone buzzed.

Naomi: Update. Now.

I sighed and typed as I walked towards the library.

Me: He's annoying.

Naomi: You said that already.

Me: He talks too much.

Naomi: And?

I stopped at the bottom of the stairs.

Me: And what?

Naomi: Evie.

I could practically hear her using that particular tone she saved for when she knew I was hiding something.

I typed three different responses, deleted all of them, and finally sent:

Me: There's no and.

Her reply came almost immediately.

Naomi: Okay, babe. Whatever helps you sleep.

I shoved my phone into my pocket.

The evening air was cold enough to make me pull my coat tighter. Students crossed the courtyard in small groups, their voices carrying through the damp air. Somewhere in the distance, a car horn sounded.

Everything was ordinary. Nothing had happened.

I'd completed a research session and collected useful data. I'd also noticed that one of my participants had an injury he clearly didn't want to discuss.

That was all.

So why was I still thinking about the way Callum had said my name?

I hated that I couldn't answer that question. Beneath the research, the schedules, and my carefully organised life, I was still a girl who could notice an attractive man—and feel the inconvenient little flutter that came with it.

And I hated, even more, that Thursday suddenly felt very far away.