He lets out a dry chuckle, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Nah. I’ve just gotten good at winging it.”
I lean back, folding my arms. “Winging it only gets you so far. You’re stuck now, aren’t you?”
His smile slips for a moment, like he wasn’t expecting that.
“Look, I get it. Asking for help can feel like admitting defeat. But it’s not humiliating. You just need a little extra time to let the words sink in.”
He meets my gaze, a flicker of something flashing in them. “Yeah? You think you can help with that?”
I nod and lean forward, resting my elbows on the table between us, closing the distance. “We’re going to slow this down. You don’t have to tackle everything at once. We’ll break it up. I’ll read some, you read some. Deal?”
He blinks, eyes narrowing for a split second. “You’re not gonna give up on me?”
Sometimes I think I’ve got him figured out. The cocky hockey player, used to getting away with murder and flashing a grin while he does it. But then he says something like that, and it hits me again how little I actually know about him.
“Not a chance,” I say, shaking my head.
His shoulders relax, and that smile of his comes back, slow and a little crooked.
I try to ignore the fluttering in my stomach when he does. But when it’s clear it isn’t going away, I let out a sigh. Screw it. I’m only human. And his smile is really freaking pretty.
No denying that.
We work for almost an hour.
I show him how to use the colored overlays I brought, just in case—blue seems to help him the most.
He jokes between every other line with dramatic sighs, terrible accents, asking if this counts as foreplay.
I don’t dignify that with a response.
But the thing is, I’m starting to realize it’s not because he doesn’t want the help. It’s the opposite. He’s just not used to getting it like this. Without strings. Without judgment. Without someone rolling their eyes or giving up on him before he even starts.
We make it through two whole paragraphs. It’s rough. He loses his place constantly. Misreads half the vocabulary.
But there are moments—quick ones—where it clicks. Where I see the flicker of something shift across his face. A line he reads without stumbling. A word he nails on the first try. There are no jokes, no flirting. He’s really trying.
And for a second, I start to think that maybe there’s more to him than the cocky guy I pegged him for.
But then he ruins it.
“Is it weird that your voice makes this stuff sound kinda sexy?” he asks, wagging his brows at me.
I narrow my eyes. “Do you want to learn, or get slapped?”
He laughs, leaning back in his chair. “You’re good at this.”
My eyes flick up. “Tutoring?”
“Yeah. But also…” He shrugs, eyes falling to the page. “Like, not being annoying about it. You don’t try to rush me. Or make me feel like I’m stupid. It’s kinda nice.”
I blink, caught off guard by the fact that he actually means it. Normally he flirts to mess around. Deflect. Keep things light. But this isn’t that. This is genuine.
He’s watching me, and it’s not the usual look he gives me. There’s no smirk, no teasing glint in his eye. Just curiosity.
“So,” he says. “What’s your deal?”
I raise an eyebrow. “My deal?”
