by J. Sterling
“You looked good. So”—his tone changed, and I shifted in my chair, unable to sit still—“math.”
One word, and my stomach twisted. “I know.” I squeezed my eyes shut with a groan, embarrassed that it had come to this.
“Do you? Because if you don’t get a C or higher, you won’t pass the class. And if you don’t pass the class, you won’t have enough qualifying credits to play.”
I swallowed around the lump in my throat. No matter how well I’d played this past summer or how good of a player I was right now, it didn’t mean shit if I couldn’t play this upcoming season.
“I know, Coach. I’ll—” I started to say before he cut me off.
“I’ve arranged for tutoring,” he insisted, almost like he’d planned on me arguing. “I can’t risk you failing. You can’t either.”
“Of course. That’s fine. I’ll do whatever it takes,” I said because I meant it. There was no fucking way I wasn’t going to play in my draft year because I couldn’t pass a stupid math class. I’d do whatever I needed to make sure I passed.
“You start tomorrow,” he said before looking back down at some papers on his desk and shuffling them around.
Being a Division One athlete and passing all of my classes was a juggling act that I sometimes struggled with. Baseball required all of my time and attention. If I wasn’t on the field, working on my throws from home or in the cages, practicing my swing, I was in the gym to make sure my body stayed healthy or in yoga classes to keep my knees strong and limber from the inside out. Baseball was my passion and the only thing I saw in my future. It felt like there was little room for anything else during each day, especially school and all of its separate demands.
The ironic part was that unless I passed all of my classes, I couldn’t even play in the first place. No one cared that Algebra had nothing to do with baseball. All they cared about was that I played for a top-notch university and in a program that required athletes to take and pass classes each semester with a two-point-five grade point average or above. Which was how I’d found myself in my current predicament.
“Can I ask something?” I asked quietly.
Coach didn’t seem to be in a chatty mood.
“What is it?” He looked up at me, the large bags under his eyes telling me that he hadn’t been sleeping much.
He looked stressed, and I knew that my math problem had most likely added to it.
“I need a guy tutor. It can’t be a girl.” I was about to launch into some long-winded explanation about why I couldn’t have a female tutor when Coach simply agreed with me.
“I know that, Carter.”
“Cool. Thanks. Is that all, Coach?” I asked, hesitating to stand until he excused me.
“Yeah. But keep me updated if you aren’t going to pass. Any trouble or if the tutor isn’t working out, I need to know in enough time to turn it around. You hear me?”
“Of course.”
“Get out,” he said, and an uncomfortable laugh escaped me as I exited his office and prayed like hell I’d get a tutor who could actually help me.
Scanning my schedule one last time, I breathed out a sigh of relief. Every other class I had this semester wasn’t going to be an issue. For whatever reason, I’d been gifted with the ability to bullshit with the best of them. When it came to things like writing papers, public speaking, or anything else related to my speech communications major, I handled it like a pro.
But when it came to math, nothing seemed to stick. It was like my brain couldn’t make sense of whatever was needed to learn how it worked. It was hard. And I didn’t understand it. Whose idea was it to make letters stand for numbers anyway?
Walking into study hall with the rest of the team, I made my way over to one of the private rooms and walked inside to see my athletic counselor sitting there, waiting for me. Next to him was a girl dressed in all black who was too damn attractive for her own good—and probably mine. I hated that I’d even noticed.
“Chance, meet your tutor, Danika Marchetti.”
I frowned because I could not have a female tutor and Coach knew it. My counselor knew it. Hell, everyone fucking knew it. How was I supposed to trust that this girl genuinely gave a shit about helping me pass instead of just trying to get in my pants? I knew it sounded like an arrogant thing to say, but it happened all the time. And not just to me. Girls volunteered to tutor athletes, but they weren’t really there to help the guys at all. They used it as their chance to get close. It was an opportunity too good for them to pass up. They wanted a “ring by spring.” Swear to God. I’d heard them say that phrase to each other on more than one occasion. It was even a hashtag on social media.
Girls like that scared the hell out of me.
“Danika,” I repeated her name as I stared at her, trying to figure her out just by looking.
The all-black attire seemed to suit her.
“I’m sorry, do we know each other or something?” Danika asked, her attitude and New York accent permeating throughout the small space.
Her voice hit me like a slap to the face. It was her. The girl from the party. Little Miss I Have a Boyfriend.
“No. You’re just unexpected, is all.” I tried to come off uninterested, but I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t the least bit intrigued.
And her name, it fit her the same way her outfit did. It sounded like fire and strength, and that was all she’d been since the minute we met. Danika, the little spitfire.
Her head cocked to one side as she tried to size me up in response, and I wondered if she knew who I was or not.
Did she remember me from the other night? Did she know who she was going to tutor before she agreed to do it?
“I was unexpected? What does that even mean? You signed up for a tutor, did you not? Am I wasting my time here?” Her accent grew stronger, and I knew she was agitated as she directed the last question at my counselor, Bryant.
“We signed up for this. You’re not wasting your time. Everyone, just calm down.” Bryant tried to make peace, but the two of us were suddenly straddling an imaginary line, preparing for a battle no one else could see coming.
No matter how I felt, it was vital that someone fucking help me with this class and not give me attitude about it the whole time.
“I didn’t expect a chick, is all I meant,” I explained and instantly knew that I’d said something wrong.
She tossed her long, dark ponytail from her shoulder as she squared off to face me, her hazel eyes ablaze. “First of all, girls don’t like being called chicks. Second, you can get a new tutor if you want, but you’ll have to wait. Everyone’s already paired up for the semester. I was a last-minute add, and they begged me to help you,” she said, emphasizing the word.
“Why would they beg you to help me?” I asked, not believing her.
“Because I’m the best math tutor they have on campus, and they know it. And apparently, you need me.”
“Ha! Need you,” the words escaped from my lips in defiance. I definitely needed the help, but I didn’t need her.
“I don’t have to be here,” she argued back, smacking a piece of gum between her lips before reaching for her bag.
“Dammit.” Bryant sounded exasperated. “Will you two just calm down?” he demanded.
I stopped fidgeting, and Danika put her bag down on top of the table.
“Danika, we do need you,” he said first, and she looked at me with a shit-eating grin, like she’d won this round. “And, Chance, we’re out of time. There isn’t anyone else, and we’ve put this class off for as long as we can.” He looked desperate, and it’s because we were.
Waiting wasn’t an option. If I didn’t pass the class this semester, I could kiss my entire junior season good-bye. “He’s right. I can’t wait.”
“Then, I guess you’re stuck with me, Hotshot.” Her gum snapped again, drawing my eyes to her mouth.
“Hotshot?” I guessed that answered my question from earlier; she knew who I was even if she didn’t ac
t like it.
That was why girls couldn’t be trusted. They were too good at pretending to be innocent.
“Don’t get all worked up over it. I’m not flirting with you.” She serious, and I would have believed her if her eyes hadn’t given her away. No matter how hard Danika tried to hide it, she was attracted to me.
Bryant cleared his throat. I’d almost forgotten he was even in the room. “Now that that’s settled”—he sounded uncomfortable—“can I trust that you two won’t kill each other if I leave you alone?”
“No promises.” Danika batted her eyes in his direction quickly, and he looked like he couldn’t wait to get away from us.
“Chance?” he asked, apparently needing my verbal confirmation that I wouldn’t kill my tutor before he could actually leave the room.
“Give me a break,” I said, slightly annoyed. “Little Spitfire and I will be fine.”
Danika huffed out a noise in response to the nickname, and Bryant attempted to ignore it altogether.
“Okay. Good. Great. Just let me know if you have any issues.” He moved to exit the room before stopping and turning back around to face us both. “But don’t”—he held up a finger—“have any issues. I mean it. You two need to make this work. It’s this or nothing.”
“I get it,” I said, my tone forceful. “I understand.”
“Little Spitfire?” Danika fired at me the second the door shut and we were alone.
“Hotshot?” I fired back, and she grinned.
“I’m not little,” she argued, and I found myself laughing.
“That’s the part you didn’t like?”
Her hazel eyes narrowed, and she refused to answer, cutting off whatever briefly peaceful moment we had allowed ourselves to have. “Anyway, is your counselor guy always that rattled?” she asked, and I shrugged.
“I think he’s just nervous about the whole situation,” I said, as if that explanation told her everything she needed to know.
“What situation exactly?” She was confused. “Us working together?” She wagged a finger between our two bodies.
“I just wasn’t supposed to have a girl tutor, is all.”
“I gathered that much. If it makes you feel any better, I have a boyfriend. And even if I didn’t, I’m not interested.”
“Oh yeah? Never heard that one before.” I rolled my eyes.
She shook her head, taking two small steps toward me. Even with her “not little” height of five foot six, I still towered over her.
“You’re infuriating, you know that? And full of yourself. And you don’t listen.” She stopped walking, her temper flaring as she glared up at me. “I. Have. A. Boyfriend,” she enunciated each word slowly, as if it reinforced her point somehow. As if it mattered. “And even if I didn’t, you. Are. Not. My. Type.” Her finger poked my chest with each word.
Her eyes betrayed her yet again. The attraction that simmered behind them flared to life.
“You’re not mine either,” I lied because she was fucking gorgeous and mouthy, and if I had a type, she might be exactly it. “What’s with the all black?”
“It matches my soul,” she spouted, and I could tell that my question had annoyed her.
I truly hadn’t meant to come off like such a dick, but I couldn’t help it. She pushed all the buttons I hadn’t even known I had, and this verbal battle only served to fuel whatever else it was that existed between us. It sparked in the air, creating little bursts of energy that I felt like I could reach out to touch and put in my pocket to keep for later.
“Your boyfriend’s one lucky guy.”
“He knows.” She shot me a look as she tried to fight back a grin.
I could deal with her being attracted to me. I was used to that from girls. But I couldn’t deal with the fact that I was attracted to her. That, I wasn’t used to. I wanted to grab Danika by the back of her neck and shut her little sassy mouth up. I wanted her lips on mine, so I could do whatever I wanted to them. I wanted to taste her tongue, to feel it everywhere.
I wanted all of her soft parts pressed against all of my hard ones. Her long ponytail was practically begging to be wrapped around my hand until she stopped thinking that she was the one in control here. I wanted Danika whimpering my fucking name as I drove myself inside her and made her see stars until we both collapsed, sweaty and thoroughly fucked.
And I’d never in my life, up until this exact moment, wanted to do any of those things the way I wanted to do them to her.
This was going to be a problem.
A big fucking problem.
And it was only day one.
Tutoring Athletes
Danika
Tutoring male athletes had become my least favorite thing to do. Which was why I’d stopped doing it last year after a certain football player wouldn’t take no for an answer. He actually thought my signing up to help was some sort of ruse … that I secretly wanted to get closer to him because he had a good shot at the NFL draft later that year. When I told him that I didn’t care about any of that, he didn’t believe me and suggested we go study somewhere more private—his bedroom. It took everything in me to not lose my temper and do something stupid.
My having a boyfriend didn’t deter him. Nothing I did or said made him stop his advances. It was like he didn’t understand how any girl in her right mind could not want to date him, no matter her personal situation, preference, or taste. The guy harassed me online, waited outside of my classes when they ended, and even showed up at my apartment twice. I threatened to go to the athletic director and the Compliance Department about his behavior if he didn’t stop.
Screw the cops. Going straight to the top of the university scared him more than anything else ever could have. I had grown up learning that money talked more than sense, so if someone could be paid off, they usually would be. I also knew that this guy could most likely talk his way out of a situation with the police or at least have someone of authority do it for him, and the last thing I wanted was to end up in some he said, she said situation that spun out of control and turned ugly.
I knew that if I filed a formal complaint with the head of Compliance, they were required to report it, and bigger institutions got involved, like the national committee for sports. He obviously knew it too. That was why he finally stopped trying to contact me and disappeared from my life like he’d never existed in the first place. And I’d stopped tutoring male athletes, only offering my services to females, from there on out.
It wasn’t like I needed the money from the tutoring gig, so I could have quit it altogether, but I liked the challenge. I hadn’t failed an athlete yet. I was the only tutor with a one hundred percent success rate going into my senior year. My boyfriend, Jared, never understood why I had even started doing it in the first place, but maybe that was part of the exact reason why I had.
When my freshman math professor had asked me to help out a basketball player in class, Jared hadn’t liked it one bit and told me as much. Apparently, his disapproval spurred my rebellious nature, and I said yes, partially out of spite.
That single tutoring job spiraled into one that paid. Word of mouth took off, and before I knew it, I was being requested by name. It felt good to get something on my own, with my own skill and talent, instead of my last name or my dad’s help. And the ironic thing was, I’d had no idea up until that point that I could even be a good teacher. Or that I’d like it as much as I did. People my age generally tended to annoy me and get on my nerves but not in this student-teacher scenario. I’d found myself genuinely enjoying helping someone understand a concept that had seemed completely foreign to them before I came along. It felt satisfying to know that I had a hand in a person passing their class so that they could continue to chase their dreams. I knew that I made a difference in someone’s life even if it was only for a brief moment.
So, when I’d gotten the call this morning, basically begging me to help one last male athlete, I’d almost said no without another thought and hung up. When they to
ld me who it was for, I pretended not to care or be fazed, but Chance Carter was a legend on campus, whether he wanted to be or not. I assumed he wanted to be. Allegedly, without my help, he wasn’t going to be able to play this season. Not a single game.
“His draft year,” they had added.
As much as I hated to admit it, I did not want to be the reason that he couldn’t play. Not when I knew that with my tutoring, he’d be able to.
I stupidly cared about his eligibility and wanted to help. A perfect stranger who meant nothing to me. A stranger who I currently couldn’t stand. He was so arrogant and typical, thinking I wanted him the same way that idiot football player had once before.
I’d tried to convince Chance that he wasn’t my type, but I wasn’t sure he’d bought it. Which wouldn’t surprise me, considering the fact that it was a bald-faced lie. Chance Carter was definitely my type in the looks department—all dark-haired and green eyes that saw way too much and that I swore looked right through me. He was tall with broad, muscular shoulders and thick thighs. He was a freaking god, and I was certain he was more than aware of that fact.
But none of that mattered because I wasn’t available. And even if I were, dating an athlete sounded like the worst idea on the planet. Most of them couldn’t keep their dicks in their pants, and the last thing I needed was some cheating asshole in my life.
No, thank you.
I wish someone would tell my body that we aren’t interested because it clearly hasn’t gotten the memo. No, we can’t touch him! No, we can’t sit on his lap and talk about the first thing that pops up! No, you cannot kiss those luscious-looking lips.
Chance was staring at me from his seat next to mine at the worktable, those ridiculous green eyes boring right through me. Staring. And not saying a word.
“What?” I asked in my most annoyed tone.
“Nothing,” he said in response.
Even though I couldn’t read his mind, I knew he was definitely thinking about something. I wished I knew what.
“I want to get this out of the way before we start,” I admitted before I could freaking stop my mouth from spilling stupid secrets. I wasn’t sure why I felt the need to confess this to him anyway, but it was too late to take it back now.
