The Puck and The President

Chapter 2

CHAPTER 2

"So," he said, standing up. "Let's talk about the gala."

I pulled my attention away from the still-steaming latte in my hand and glared at him. He stood there, all casual confidence, his hands in his pockets, a lazy smirk on his face. He looked entirely too comfortable, which was a state of being I only ever reached in my dorm room with a good book and a cup of tea. He was an outside element, a rogue variable in my carefully constructed life.

"Fine," I said, my voice clipped. "But not out here. I'm not discussing my council's budget in front of your entire fan club."

I gestured with my head toward his teammates, who were still watching us, openly amused. Liam’s smirk widened as he glanced over his shoulder.

"They're not my fan club, Prez. Just a bunch of blokes who appreciate a bit of proper banter."

"It's Nadine," I corrected, for what felt like the hundredth time. "And I don't do banter. I do budgets. So, are you coming, or do I need to send a formal memo?"

He chuckled softly, a low rumble that sent a weird, electric shiver down my spine. "Right. The formal memo. You're a riot, you are. Lead the way, then."

He fell into step beside me as I turned and walked toward the Student Union building. The air was cool, but his proximity made me feel warm. I could still smell his cologne—the intoxicating mix of pine and something else, something warm and clean. I walked a little faster, trying to put some distance between us. It was a futile effort. His long strides kept him effortlessly at my side.

"So, the gala," he began, his voice surprisingly serious. For a moment. "I'm thinking we need something... different. Something that isn't just a bunch of people standing around in uncomfortable clothes, drinking bad punch."

I stopped dead in my tracks and turned to face him. "The 'uncomfortable clothes' are called formal attire. And the 'bad punch' is a non-alcoholic beverage option in our carefully curated catering plan."

He leaned against a brick wall, his arms crossed over his chest, his eyes twinkling. "See? This is why we need to work together. Your spreadsheets and my... brilliance."

"Your brilliance?" I repeated, raising an eyebrow. "Your brilliance got you here twenty minutes late and landed your team with the entertainment committee."

"True," he conceded, looking entirely unbothered. "But a bit of chaos is a good thing, isn't it? It keeps things interesting. Keeps you on your toes, Prez."

I resisted the urge to smack him. "It's a gala, not a hockey match. We don't need to be 'on our toes.' We need to be on schedule. And on budget."

We continued to bicker all the way to the Student Council office. The small room was a sanctuary of order. My desk was perfectly arranged, my laptop open to the gala spreadsheet, and the whiteboards were filled with detailed timelines.

Liam took one look at the room and whistled low. "Crikey. You've really got it all worked out, don't you? This place is a monument to... organization."

"It's a workspace," I said, walking to my desk. "And yes, I have it all 'worked out.' I'm responsible for a budget of sixty thousand dollars and an event for eight hundred people. I don't have time for your 'brilliance.'"

He came over and leaned on the edge of my desk, a little too close for comfort. "All right, all right. Just hear me out. My team's ideas are... a bit out there. We were thinking of a live band. Something with a bit of rock and roll energy."

I stared at him. "A live band? Liam, our budget has a three-piece jazz quartet."

"A jazz quartet?" he said, throwing his head back and laughing. "No offense, but that's what my nan listens to. We need something that'll get people dancing. That'll get them talking."

"The goal is for them to talk about the event, not the questionable musical choices," I said, a defensive edge to my voice. "A jazz quartet is elegant. It's sophisticated. It's on budget."

"And it's boring," he finished, his eyes holding mine. He had a way of looking at me that made me feel entirely exposed, like he could see past my carefully constructed facade. "Come on, Prez. Just for a minute. Imagine it. The lights are low. The band starts playing. Everyone's on the dance floor. The energy is through the roof. It’s a proper good night out."

I closed my eyes, trying to conjure the image. Instead of a dignified gala, I saw a sea of people, all dancing, their faces flushed with excitement, and in the middle of it all, a dark-haired boy with a lazy grin and bright blue eyes, his arms around a girl with a perfectly organized spreadsheet of a life. The image was so vivid, so jarring, that I opened my eyes in a panic.

"No," I said, shaking my head. "No live band."

"Why not?" he challenged. "You're the Prez. You can make it happen."

"Because it would cost a fortune," I said, my voice tight. "And because I don't believe in last-minute changes. My job is to ensure this event goes off without a hitch. Your job is to make sure your team doesn't cause a riot."

"A riot? I love that word," he said, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "You're obsessed with riots, Prez. Is there a little bit of a daredevil hiding beneath that starched blouse?"

I felt my cheeks flush. "There's not."

He leaned in closer. "I think there is. I think you're tired of being the President of Perfect. And I think you’re just itching to get into a bit of trouble."

My heart was pounding so hard I was sure he could hear it. I wanted to tell him he was wrong. I wanted to tell him that my life was a work of art and he was just a splash of paint in the wrong place. But the words wouldn't come. All I could think about was the warmth of his breath on my face, the scent of him, the sheer, undeniable magnetism of his presence.

"Listen," I said, taking a step back. "This is not getting us anywhere. I have a meeting in twenty minutes. I don’t have time for this."

He straightened up, his smirk faltering for a second. "All right. Fine. I'll email you a list of ideas."

"No," I said, a little too quickly. "No emails. You can drop them off here tomorrow at ten a.m. sharp. And if you're late, I won't even look at them."

"Ten a.m. sharp," he repeated, a smile slowly returning to his face. "Are you going to be there with your clipboard and a stopwatch, Prez?"

"It's Nadine," I said, my voice low. "And yes. I will be."

He didn't move. He just stood there, looking at me, the silence stretching between us. He reached out and gently brushed a stray strand of hair from my face. The unexpected touch sent a jolt through my entire body. My breath hitched.

"Ten a.m. sharp," he said again, his voice a low, teasing whisper. "See you then, Nadine."

And with that, he turned and walked out of the office, leaving me standing there, my heart racing and my perfectly organized life feeling a lot less perfect than it had a few minutes ago. I looked down at my phone. I had no new emails. No new messages. But I had a feeling that was about to change. My spreadsheet had a new cell, a new task, a new challenge. And its name was Liam Hayes.