“I think you’re failing,” Karter said, his voice drop-dead flat. “And I’m the only one who can bother to help you fix it.”
The blunt response caught me off guard. Pushing people around was my standard routine because it was the only thing anyone responded to. The kid was supposed to back down or get defensive. Instead, he held his ground.
“I can pass my own classes.”
“Your GPA says otherwise.” Karter dropped the highlighter onto his notebook. “So sit down, shut up, and let me save your scholarship.”
A laugh scraped out of my throat, dry and humorless. “Save it. Like you’re doing me a favor.”
“I am doing you a favor.” He tilted his head, studying me. “You just haven’t figured out how to say thank you yet.”
“My mother raised me with manners.” I braced both hands on the table, the wood grain rough under my palms. “But I save them for people who deserve it.”
“Good thing I’m not here for your manners.” His pen tapped once against the empty chair across from him. “Sit. Or are your legs as tired as your GPA?”
The sheer nerve of the guy threw me off. Seeing right through my bluster, he refused to play along, which was incredibly annoying.
“If you tank my grades to get me off the roster,” I warned him, “Corby is gonna bench you too. Remember that.” I wasn’t exactly sure if that was true, but I would not give in so easily.
“I like playing hockey too much to let you drag me down,” Karter said, pointing his pen at the empty chair across from him.
The legs of the cheap plastic chair scraped against the linoleum floor as I pulled it out. Dropping into the seat, I unzipped my bag and tossed Corby’s folder and my battered notebook onto the table between us.
For the next sixty minutes, the hostile silence made the small table feel entirely too cramped as Karter scratched red ink across my notebook pages. The dry, stagnant heat of the basement pressed in on us, brewing a dull ache behind my eyes.
“You missed the entire second half of this lecture,” Karter said, keeping his eyes on my notebook.
“I was at morning lifts.”
“They record the lectures, Zotov.”
“I work nights at the mart,” I told him. “I don’t have time to watch videos.”
Karter sighed, his pen never slowing.
My eyes zeroed in on his hands. Dark purple bruising colored his knuckles, a jarring difference from his expensive clothes and perfect hair. Blocking shots on the ice meant his skin showed the damage.
Staring at the same chemistry equation three times yielded zero comprehension. Especially when the scent of Karter’saftershave kept filling my lungs, and my eyes tracked the movement every time he shifted in his seat.
“You’re not even trying,” Karter said.
“I’m trying.”
“Aleks.” His pen jabbed at the page. “The answer’s right there. You just have to actually read it.”
I stiffened. The shortened name felt a little too familiar.
Nobody called me that. Not my mother with her softLekha, not the scholarship guys who barkedZotovat me across the ice. Just him. Karter dropped the nickname like he had a right to it.
The silence stretched one beat too long.
Pushing his boundaries earlier was supposed to be my attempt to get the upper hand, but sitting this close only made my skin run hot.
Reaching across my open textbook, his fingers brushed near my notes once again to grab a different pen.
My hand moved before my brain gave the order. I leaned hard across the table, my fingers clamping around his wrist, pinning his arm to the wood.
His head snapped up. The sudden movement brought our faces so close that I felt the erratic hitch of his breath. His eyes went dark, the pupils blowing out fast, but instead of pulling away, he just froze.
