Good Grades & Mystery Games (North University Series Book 2)

It’s all fun and games when you go to a party on a Thursday night, forgetting you have a lecture the next morning and you have to turn up hungover. It’s already one thing to be hungover – my head is throbbing; my back is sore, and my thighs are aching for reasons it hurts too much to explain. It’s another thing to be hungover and listen to Evan Branson talk shit all morning.

Friday morning lectures are the one time of the week where I decide to switch my brain off for two hours. It’s the seminars where I am more interested in arguing with this fool, but today he’s been trying to get on everyone’s nerves for reasons I can’t find. He’s been arguing back and forth with the lecturer for the last five minutes about different marketing techniques that huge cities use to increase sales. It’s a topic that interests me as much as a jar of peanut butter. A total snoozefest.

I’m not the only one who has had enough of his bullshit. Everyone in the room is sighing quietly, scribbling aimlessly and Evan doesn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he does, and he just doesn’t care. The old professor, one of the most experienced and interesting teachers we have on the course, is reluctantly trying to change the slides, but Evan doesn’t give him a minute of leeway.

I finally try to put an end to it and raise my hand. “I actually have a question for Evan, if that’s okay, professor,” I say, a bored expression falling across my face. Evan turns around from his seat in the row below, the top of his cheeks a tiny shade of red, his green-ish-blue eyes rolling as he looks at me.

“Go ahead,” the professor murmurs, probably giving up on teaching. I give him a sympathetic smile before locking my gaze with Evan’s displeasing face.

“Is your head really that far up your ass that you think people will be dying to buy products just because a half-decent male is on the cover of a billboard?” I ask in the most serious tone I can muster. A few snickers scatter around the room and I cross my arms against my chest, titling my head to the side in challenge.

Despite the insult, he smirks. “It’s classic. Old school. It’s what works.”

I scoff. “Yes, fifty years ago when you’d have to sell your lung to afford a cell phone. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but technology has advanced since then. And if your family’s business knew that you’d be getting a lot more monthly sales than you are now.”

It’s a low blow and embarrassing to admit that I constantly check B&Co’s statistics. They’re almost too easy to access and sometimes when I’m having a bad day, it makes me feel better that they’re also doing just as bad.

Evan opens his mouth to speak, his eyebrows knitted in confusion, but the lecturer cuts him off, shaking his head. “You make a valid point, Scarlett. What would you suggest is a better marketing tool?”

“That’s easy,” I say to him. “Video advertising. It’s the best-”

“Of course,” Evan mutters under his breath, cutting me off.

I roll my eyes. “Think about it for one second before cutting me off, you moron. You’ve already had your moment,” I bite out. His eyes widen at the sharpness in my tone before another mischievous smirk spreads across his face. I swear he just loves to piss me off.

“Language,” the professor warns.

I take in a deep breath. “Right. Sorry. All I’m saying is that no matter how annoying they can be, a good commercial, a funny one, draws people in more than a billboard you pass by on the way to your grandparent’s house upstate. I’m sure everyone has those adverts from their childhood that they’ll never forget. It’s all about being memorable, something that’ll draw you into a particular brand.”

The room fills with hums of agreement, and I feel satisfied with my answer. Everyone except Evan seems to agree with my answer as he just frowns at me.

“And you don’t think a billboard could do that? Be memorable, I mean,” he argues, and I shake my head. “Not even with a naked man on the cover?”

   “Something so in my face just puts me off more than anything,” I say with a shudder, remembering the amount of posters and billboards I’ve seen with huge men on them. I can admit it draws you in, but not in the way you want to be drawn into a brand or product.

Evan tilts his head, leaning his forearms on the desk, the skin on his arms a golden and weirdly intriguing colour. He catches me looking at his arms and I snap my eyes up to his face. “You’re telling me you wouldn’t want to see Chris Evans in an underwear campaign on a huge poster that you could see from your apartment window?”

I actually laugh at that. “Of course, I would, but do I want to see his bulge when I’m having a bad day and it’s right in my face? No way,” I say, shaking my head again. I turn back to the professor, unable to look at his ridiculous face any longer. “I think some of us are forgetting that it’s not always the size that matters.”

*  *  *

Trying to nurse a hangover with your two best friends hovering around you as they very loudly tell you about their day is the worst thing in the world. I’ve been trying to get some peace and quiet in our apartment for the last hour since I came back early from campus. I thought that hiding in my room would work, but these girls will find a way to find me and annoy me.

I’m snuggled under my covers in sweatpants and a tank top, planning to hibernate for the rest of the day while I mentally prepare myself for having to meet up with Evan at some point to get started on our project. Just the thought of it makes me pull the covers around my head tighter.

Kennedy yanks them off my head, sitting beside Wren at the end of my bed.

“How was your day then, Scar-Scar?” Kennedy asks me, her whole face lighting up at the nickname she knows I hate.

  “Great, until you two came in here,” I mutter, playing tug of war with Ken as she tries to pull the covers away from me. “You went out too last night. How are you not dead?”

She laughs, giving up on our fight. “Because I know how to handle my drink,” she says easily. I roll my eyes, jealous of her unique talent to constantly stay tipsy throughout the night and can only get drunk if she really really tries to. I, however, don’t have that luck. And neither does Wren, which is why she stayed in with her boyfriend last night instead of coming out with us.

“You’re coming to the game today, by the way,” Wren says, her voice chipper as always as she stands off my bed, opening my closet.

“Am I?” I groan. I’ve gotten to the point where these girls make my decisions for me, and I just go along with them. I don’t mind it for the most part, but going to hockey games stresses me out more than I enjoy it. The NU Bears are notorious for causing fights and always having some sort of drama with either their own team or whoever they’re playing against.

“Yep,” she says, popping the ‘p’ as she reaches into my closet and pulls out the practice jersey that her boyfriend so generously gifted to Kennedy and I so we could represent their team at the games. She throws the shirt at me. “It’s only a friendly, but you know what Milesy’s like. Every game counts.”

“Fine,” I say, not wanting to argue over it. Wren’s face lights up when I agree, her cheeks turning the cutest shade of pink. If it means making her smile like that, I’d go to as many games as she wants me to. Plus, this also means I’ll won’t end up with a hundred texts from Miles asking why I didn’t go to one of his games.

Her smile twitches into a frown and I crook an eyebrow. “And, uh, I think Evan’s coming too. So, you know, prepare yourself.”

The minor – and I mean minor – excitement I had about going to the game completely dissipates. “Consider me prepared.”

Evan

You know it’s bad when your friend gives you a two hour notice before letting you know that the only seats left in the small stadium are the ones with your rival and her friends. I’m trying to be a better ‘friend’ to Miles and Xavier, and they’ve been complaining that I don’t go to their hockey games enough even though the season hasn’t started properly.

I don’t particularly like hockey games.

I don’t understand it and I don’t get why Greyson and Miles are constantly in and out of the penalty box like it’s a personal game between the two of them.  They’re constantly fighting the other team, whilst Harry, the youngest one on the Bear’s team, stands with his head in his hands, embarrassed. At least it’s entertaining.

What they didn’t prepare me for was how fucking sexy Scarlett would look.

I’ve always been attracted to her – I mean, I have eyes and I’m not a complete idiot – but it’s always been her wonderful and complicated mind of hers that drew me in. But seeing her here in a NU Bear’s training jersey, a blue cap on her head and her ponytail threaded through the back as she rocks the sexiest fucking leggings I’ve ever seen.

“If you look any longer, she’s going to notice,” Kennedy whispers. I don’t think I fully register that Kennedy is sitting on one side of me while Wren, and Scarlett walking down the aisle to our seats until I hear her voice. I’ll be honest, Kennedy scares me sometimes. She’s always sneaking around, trying to push me and Scarlett into the same room, the same way she used to scheme to get Wren and Miles together before they started fully dating.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I mutter, turning to Kennedy. She narrows her brown eyes at me, and I notice the blue face paint she has on her cheek with Harry Butler’s number nineteen on it. Weird.

“Yeah, sure you don’t,” she mocks, “you know, you could just-”

“Shhh,” I say to her, cutting her off with a wave of my hand. “The game is starting.”

Her eyebrows pull together in confusion as she glances to the ice and then back to me. “It’s not.”

I turn away from her as she sulks, crossing her arms against her chest and turning back to the ice. I feel bad for cutting her off, but she’s up to something, or she knows something she shouldn’t. And that fucking terrifies me. I know how close those girls are and if she caught me staring at her, she’s going to think more of the very subtle looks I’ve been sending Scarlett.

She takes her seat next to me, her fresh and crisp smell reaching me. She doesn’t even look at me as she says, “Branson.”

“Scarlett,” I greet, smirking to myself. I feel her gaze on me as I turn my head away from hers. It was only a few hours ago when she tripped me up in class, wanting to make a fool of me and like the idiot I can be, I let her.

“It’s a pleasure as always,” she says.

“I wish I could say the same,” I murmur. I turn to her then, and I can see the way she’s biting her cheek, trying not to laugh or smile. “I bet you’re proud of yourself, huh?”

“Oh, extremely,” she says, turning to me, a huge grin taking over her face. “You should have seen your face.”

I grunt in response, dying to roll my eyes. “Has anyone ever told you how insufferable you are?”

“No, but you must really love to suffer then,” she says.

I open my mouth, a witty comeback on the edge of my tongue, but the lights in the stadium dim and the blue lights light up the rink and everyone’s attention is turned to the ice. As the players skate onto the ice, the student commentator announcing each player, the girls jump up out of their seats, cheering them on. It baffles me how easily Scarlett can switch from being a complete ass towards me and then becomes this loveable ball of energy when she’s with her friends. Beats me.

For once, I let myself get engrossed in the game, desperately trying to understand the rules of the game. Miles and Harry both manage to get a few shots in, and Xavier too. They make it look so easy. So effortless. Either the other team is really shitty or they’re just that good. I can see why it interests people so much – the chants, the music, the fighting, the celebrations. Something about watching a hockey game turns the least competitive people into complete animals and it’s hilarious.

I watch Scarlett sulk and groan when the other team catch up in points with the Bear’s and I hate myself for finding it so fucking adorable. The team finally gets back up in points as Miles scores a goal which seems humanly impossible.

When the shot lands, Wren jumps up from her seat, screaming and yelling like a complete mad woman. Miles sees her and points his hockey stick at her before making a heart with his hands. Kennedy lets out a dreamy sigh and Scarlett gags beside me.

When the second period ends with the teams tying, Kennedy and Wren talk across me as they converse over tactics I can’t seem to understand. Scarlett must get the same out of place feeling I do because she jumps up from her seat, smoothing out her shirt.

“I’m going to get some snacks. Do you want some more popcorn, Ken?” she asks, and Kennedy shakes her head, still talking to Wren.

“I’ll come,” I say, standing up out of my seat too. She rolls her eyes at me, walking off without me, but I chase after her, almost tripping down the steps. How is she so fucking fast? I’m practically panting when I reach her, but by the time I get there, she’s talking to a dark haired guy by the vending machine.  

This is not how I saw this going. Really, I don’t know why I said I’d come with her, but I also didn’t want to sit in the middle of Wren and Kennedy’s conversation either. Instead, I’m torturing myself, watching her openly flirt with this guy who hasn’t stopped dropping his gaze to her chest when there’s nothing really to see.

I try to tune out their conversation as I watch her fiddle with her ponytail, leaning against the vending machine. I hear the word flowers and a few other sickly sweet things that make my stomach turn. I can only imagine how she’s looking at him as her back is to me. I know what she’s like. She’s a playgirl, she’ll probably get his number, fuck him once and never speak to him again, but that doesn’t make this whole thing any less painful.

When he’s finally gone after giving her his number and she slips it into her pocket, I finally stand closer to her next to the vending machine. She doesn’t even look at me as she punches in the code to get the snacks she wants.

“Are you seriously that easy to win over, Angel?” I mock as the machine whirs. “A few flowers and some sweet words are all it takes, huh?”

“Hm,” she hums, picking up her chips from the bottom of the machine. She steps aside as she twists the packet in her hand. “Not really.”

I scoff, punching in the code for some M&M’s and push a few pennies into the machine. “Really? What more could you possibly want?”

“Flowers and sweet words are a nice start,” she begins. The packet of chips opens with a pop as she adds, “Throw in a couple orgasms and I’ll be good.”

  A lump in my throat forms at her words, but I style it out with a cough. “Oh, so still easy to get?”

She barks out a laugh as I pick up my M&M’s. “You have a lot of faith in the male species, Branson. You’d be surprised how many boys our age have no idea what to do with their hands.”

“I play piano,” I blurt out. What the fuck am I doing?

Abort.

Abort.

Abort.

Don’t talk about your hands when she just mentioned how guys can’t get her off. What are you doing, you fool?

Her eyes connect with mine and my face feels like it’s on fire. She seems unfazed, as always, and I probably look like a prepubescent teenager who has never spoken to another girl before in his life.

“I know,” she whispers, almost to herself. Her eyes drop to my hands which are tight around the poor candy packet as my veins become clearer on my hands. My breathing quickens as she looks at them and then back to my face. Before I can question it, she starts to ramble. “I mean, I already knew. Greyson told me right after New Years. I was planning on using it against you. Well, that, and I could just tell. I mean, your hands are-”

“Scar!” Kennedy’s voice booms as she appears out of thin air into the corridor. “They’re fighting again. You’re going to miss it.”

She doesn’t even say anything as she turns away from me and walks towards Kennedy, leaving me absolutely dumbfounded and dying to know what she was going to say. When Scarlett reaches her, Kennedy turns back and she fucking winks at me like this is a huge game.

Rambling is one of Scarlett’s many annoying yet endearing traits, so I’m not surprised she was talking a lot. She does it all the time in seminars or lectures or when we get forced to hang out by our friends.

Today was the very first time she has ever rambled like that with me.