I feel my skin heat, and I glare at him, biting back the urge to punch him in the arm. “Unbelievable,” I mutter, shaking my head. “I’m not going to tutor you.”
He points at me with a grin that only grows wider. “Yet?” he asks, his brows lifting in hope.
“Ever,” I correct firmly, crushing that hope.
He shrugs. “Eh, I’m good at waiting.”
“You’ll be waiting a lifetime,” I mutter under my breath, opening my laptop again, trying to focus on the lesson plan in front of me.
But I can still feel him next to me, his presence uncomfortably close. I let out an exasperated sigh before stealing a glance at him from the corner of my eye. “Are you going to stay here the whole lesson?”
He nods, his lips curling into a smile. “I like the view from here.” He stretches his arm across the back of my seat. “Comfy,” he adds, with a wink.
Dear god… Help me.
3
AUSTIN
Tonight’s already a shitshow, and I just walked through the door.
The place reeks of cheap beer and even cheaper cologne. Some guy’s doing a keg stand in the kitchen, his face so red I half expect him to pass out. In the living room, a group of girls are playing beer pong against some frat guys.
Normally, this is my scene. The noise, the drunken fun, the dumbass decisions that’ll be the highlight reel of practice on Monday. This is where I shine.
But tonight? Feels like I’m wading through wet cement.
Coach benched me. My grades are trash. My scholarship’s hanging by a thread, all because I bombed a damn anatomy test. And now, instead of worrying about my next game, I get to spend next week in a meeting with my academic advisor, which is basically a formality before they slap me with academic probation. One more fuck-up, and my scholarship’s gone. No hockey, no future, no nothing.
I shake it off. Not the time to think about it. Right now, I just need a drink.
“Austin!” Logan yells from across the room, already a few beers deep and standing on a chair—fuck knows why. “Look who finally decided to show up! Thought you were gonna flake, man.”
I grab a beer and lift it in the air. “And miss this? This is my natural habitat.”
Logan squints at me. “Yeah? Then why do you look like someone just kicked your dog?”
I smirk, letting out a laugh, even though it feels like someone just landed a slap shot straight to my gut. “Because my dog’s named ‘my hockey career,’ and it’s dying a slow, painful death. Thanks for asking.”
Nathan slides up next to me. “You’re being dramatic.”
“Tell that to your dad. Pretty sure he’s looking into getting “benchwarmer” stitched on the back of my jersey.”
Logan snorts. “Maybe buy him some flowers—whisper sweet nothings about power plays in his ear.”
I huff out a laugh, cracking open the beer. “Think he’d prefer red roses or a nice mixed bouquet?”
Nathan rolls his eyes. “You guys are idiots.”
Maybe. But making jokes is easier than thinking about the fact that my entire hockey career is circling the drain.
I tip my head back, downing half the beer. It’s warm and tastes like piss. Perfect. Nothing like a frat party to remind me that rock bottom has multiple levels.
“Austin!”
I barely have time to react before a girl steps into my space, glossy lips and a smirk that says she’s here for a good time.
That’s why I come to these things.
