Page 73 of Ruthless Edge

Fine. He's funny. Great. I'm funny too. I'm genuinely very funny and right now Emma is six inches away from me laughing at someone else and I am going to be normal about it.

"Hey." I lean toward Emma. "So at the away game in February, Noah actually⁠—"

"Oh, Emma," Marcus says, turning to her like I haven't started talking, "I forgot to tell you. Professor Aldridge moved the Thursday deadline."

Emma turns toward him. "To when?"

"Friday at five. He sent the email like an hour ago." Marcus puts his hand briefly over hers on the table. "I figured you hadn't seen it yet."

"Oh thank god," Emma says. "I've been so stressed about that."

"I know." He squeezes once and lets go. "You're fine."

I look at Jace. Jace looks back at me with an expression that's far too innocent. I look back at Emma, who is thanking Marcus like he just solved something, her hand still near his on the table. I want to ask if anyone cares about what I was going to say about the away game. Nobody cares. I pick up my drink and remind myself I'm an adult.

The conversation moves. I get back in it, talking to Ethan about the upcoming schedule, and it's fine, it's a normal Saturday, and I'm almost relaxed when Marcus says something to Emma that makes her throw her head back and laugh so hard that Paige looks over and says, "What, what did I miss?" and Marcus retells it just as well the second time, and Emma's hand lands on his arm while she's still laughing.

"Stop," she says, breathless. "Stop, I can't."

"I'm just telling the truth," Marcus says, deeply pleased with himself.

I set my glass down carefully. I'm watching Emma's face, looking for some signal that this is just how she is with friends, that Marcus means nothing in particular, that she's going to look over at me in a second and include me in whatever this is. She doesn't look over. She's wiping tears from the corners of her eyes and Marcus is watching her do it with an expression I don't like. I've looked at Emma like that. That's my expression. He doesn't get to have it.

About twenty minutes later I start telling a story about a road trip the team took over break, the one with the rental van and Noah's navigation, because it's genuinely a funny story and I want to make her laugh the way Marcus keeps making her laugh. I want one laugh out of her tonight that's mine. One.

"So we're somewhere in the middle of absolutely nowhere," I say, "and Noah is insisting with complete confidence that we're exactly where we're supposed to be, and then Declan points out the window and says⁠—"

"Emma." Marcus leans across me toward her, not quite touching me, just passing through my space like I'm not in it. "Did you ever end up reaching out to Professor Hale about that independent study? Because I was talking to her last week and she specifically mentioned you."

Emma blinks, pulled out of my story. "Wait, really? What did she say?"

"She said she thought you'd be perfect for it." Marcus turns slightly so his full attention is on Emma. "I told her you were interested and she seemed genuinely excited. You should email her Monday."

"Marcus, that's so nice of you." Emma puts her hand on his arm again. "Seriously, thank you."

I'm sitting here with the end of my story still in my mouth.

Jace catches my eye from across the table. He gives me one small, cautious look and then finds something fascinating on the ceiling.

"Anyway," I say.

Nobody asks what happened to Declan and the window.

What nobody says, but what I'm now trying to reconcile, is that Emma is smart. Emma notices everything. Emma does not miss things. So either she doesn't notice Marcus doing any of this, or she notices and doesn't mind, and I genuinely cannot figure out which possibility is worse. I've been looking for a signal from her all night, some glance in my direction, some small acknowledgment that she knows I'm here and it matters, and I keep coming up empty, and it's making my whole chest feel tight.

It keeps going. Every time I'm in a conversation with Emma, Marcus finds an angle in. He's not obvious about it, that's the thing. He doesn't shout over me or wave his hands. He just redirects, effortlessly, like a river finding a new channel. Emma, did you hear about this? Emma, I meant to tell you. Emma, remember when. And Emma turns toward him each time, because why wouldn't she? Because he's warm and attentive and clearly interested in what she has to say. I feel myself getting quieter with every rotation. I came here tonight thinking about the auction, thinking about Emma, thinking this was going to be a good night. I am not having a good night. I am having what is shaping up to be a genuinely miserable night, and the miserable part is that Emma Lawson is four feet away from me and I've barely spoken to her.

I never thought being around her could feel like this.

Then Marcus starts on me directly.

It begins small. I mention the hockey program and he says, pleasantly, "I actually don't know much about hockey, although I imagine if a jock can learn about it, it wouldn't be hard for me to figure out." The words are polite. The tone is the tone of someone asking about a hobby they consider minor. Emma explains the basics and Marcus listens to her with complete attention and thanks her, like she's the one who would know. Like I'm not the one who plays it.

I count to five in my head.

Later I say something about managing the event schedule and Marcus tilts his head and says, "It's lucky you have Emma to help you. I imagine after so many pucks to the head it's got to be hard to do things like schedules, math, or even basic skills."

"Knox has been a huge help," Emma says, and she means it, but Marcus is already nodding at her like she's being generous.