Page 1 of The Equation of Us
Chapter One
Controlled Variables
Nora
I’m not the kind of girl who gets flustered.
Not by midterms. Not by my advisor’s sudden obsession with oxytocin data models. And definitely not by dumb-hot hockey players who can’t keep their grades up.
Except Dean Carter isn’t dumb.
Or loud. Or late.
He’s early—already in the tutoring center, long legs stretched out under the table, flipping through a battered biomechanics textbook with that same silent focus that’s made me look twice in every shared class since sophomore year.
I clear my throat as I step inside. “You’re early.”
Dean looks up slowly. “You’re surprised.”
“A little,” I admit, dropping my bag in the chair across from him. “Most guys in your position show up late and pretend they forgot.”
“I don’t pretend,” he says, then adds with a shrug, “Not about this, anyway.”
I work on tugging my notebook from my bag. It takes more effort than it should.
“Plus.” His mouth quirks. Barely. “Academic probation will do that to a guy.”
I sit down across from him, my laptop thunking softly onto the table. “You’re not on probation. Just flagged. Big difference.”
“I stand corrected.” He holds my gaze.
I open my laptop and pretend to concentrate on the tutoring dashboard.
Dean’s only here because he missed too many biomechanics deadlines and the athletic academic support office flagged him. My advisor thought pairing him with someone who had “zero tolerance for bullshit” would scare him straight.Lucky me.
“You and Daphne still good?” I ask.
His brow lifts slightly. “You always start a tutoring session with personal questions?”
I clear my throat, sharper than I mean to, as if I can cough the words back down. “You’re dating one of my closest friends. I think I’m allowed a temperature check.”
“Right.” He leans back in the chair, the corners of his mouth turning down slightly. “Yeah. We’re fine.”
The same way a house is fine right before the roof caves in.
I click open the tutoring portal. It’s not my business. Whatever’s unraveling between them has nothing to do with me. Except it is confusing. They used to be so solid, and Daphne’s been sparse on details.
They’ve been the it-couple since last year. The kind of couple you build your assumptions around. The kind you don’t expect to fall
apart.He passes me his latest graded quiz without me having to ask. I scroll through it, scanning the formulas until one detail makes me pause. “You wrote ‘moment arm’ instead of ‘center of pressure.’ Twice.” I glance up.
“I know.”
“You’re usually better with mechanical analogs.”
“I got distracted.”
I pause. “By what?”
