Below Zero (The STEMinist Novellas #3) by Ali Hazelwood

            “Fuck yeah.”

            She leans forward over her bowl of cereal with a small smile. “It’s on, baby. Let the best bitch win.”



* * *



            • • •

            Sadie, naturally, wins.

            After the doctor tells me stuff I already knew—high sprain, yada yada—and gives me a better brace I can walk on, I take Sadie and Mara to my favorite coffee shop. Their planes are leaving late tonight, and we squeeze as much as we possibly can out of the day. When we get to Ian’s apartment, I expect . . .

            I don’t know, actually. Based on what I know of the guys’ personalities, I figured we’d find them brooding in silence, checking their work emails. Occasionally clearing their throats, maybe. But Ian buzzes us into his place, and when we walk into the wide living room, we discover all three of them sprawled on the huge sectional, each holding a PlayStation controller as they yell in the direction of the TV. Further inspection reveals that Liam’s and Ian’s avatars are shooting at some gelatinous monster, while Erik’s huddles in the far corner of the screen. He’s yelling something that could be Danish. Or Klingon.

            None of them look like they’ve bothered to shower or change out of their pajamas. There are two empty pizza boxes on the wooden coffee table, beer cans scattered all over the floor, and I’m pretty sure I just stepped on a Cheeto. We stop in our tracks at the entrance, but if the guys notice our arrival, they don’t show it. They keep on playing until Liam gets hit by a stray bullet and grunts like a wounded animal.

            “I hate that I love him,” Mara mutters under her breath.

            Sadie sighs. “At least yours isn’t running against the wall because he can’t use the controller?”

            “Guys,” I tell them, shaking my head, “maybe I was wrong in approving of your relationships. Maybe you can do better.”

            Mara snorts. “Excuse me? Is that a slice of pepperoni on Ian’s shirt?”

            Sure is. “Touché.”

            Sadie clears her throat. “Hey, guys, it’s great that you’re having fun, but we should really get going if we want to make our flights—”

            They groan in a chorus. Like ten-year-olds asked to clean their rooms.

            “I just . . . can’t believe they actually like each other,” Mara says, befuddled.

            Sadie nods. “I don’t know how I feel about this. Seems . . . dangerous?”

            I cover my mouth to muffle my laughter.





Chapter 9


            Ian drives me home after we drop everybody off at the airport, following a disturbing phone number exchange among the guys and a few tears from Mara and Sadie. I’m definitely feeling more like myself, because I send them through TSA with a stern “Stop whining” and gentle slaps on their butts.

            “Try not to fall into a glacier for at least six months, okay?” Sadie yells at me from within the roped area.

            I flip her off and limp back to Ian’s car.

            “I see why you love them so much,” he tells me while driving back to my place.

            “I don’t. Love them, that is. I just pretend to avoid hurting their feelings.”

            He smiles like he knows how full of bullshit I am to the very milligram, and we’re quiet for the rest of the ride. The oldies radio station plays pop songs that I remember from the early 2000s, and I stare at the yellow glow of the streetlights, wondering if I, too, am an oldie. Then Ian slows down to park at my place, and that relaxed, happy feeling wanes as my heart picks up speed.

            I told Sadie and Mara that I’d see if he’s interested in going out with me, but it’s easier said than done. I’ve propositioned plenty of people, but this . . . it feels different. I’m not going to be good at it. I’m going to be total, utter shit. And Ian will realize it immediately.

            “You could . . .” I start. Then stop. My knees suddenly look incredibly interesting. Works of art that require my most dedicated inspection. “I was thinking that . . .”

            “Don’t worry, I’ll carry you upstairs,” he says. He’s wearing jeans and an ocean-blue shirt that matches his eyes and contrasts with his hair and—