He silences the phone and bends over the work, but the space between us still hums.
I force myself back to the numbers, though they blur. This is about Theo, I remind myself. Steady, predictable Theo—not Kieran O’Connor, who feels like a free-fall.
“Done,” he says, handing me the paper.
“All correct. Again. So why did you need a tutor?”
“Maybe it had something to do with the five no’s you threw at me in the first five minutes.”
“All part of your master plan?”
“Obviously. Worked, didn’t it? You’re in my house, about to come to my game and wear my jersey.” He leans back, smug. “That’s a win.”
“You really are your own biggest fan.”
“Someone has to be.”
I shove another worksheet his way. “Focus before your ego implodes.”
“Wasted tutoring this is not,” he murmurs, pencil moving again.
The only sounds are graphite and, faintly, the house settling.
“Why’s it so quiet?”
“Game night. They’re napping.”
“And you?”
“I will. You could keep me company.”
I nearly drop my pen. “Keep dreaming, superstar. Done?”
He passes the sheet, fingers brushing mine—intentionally. My pulse accelerates.
“Looks right,” I manage.
“Of course.” His voice softens. “Hey, about tonight. You don’t need a ticket. Friends and family entrance at the side of the rink.” He pauses. “And I was serious about the jersey. Will you wear it? It’s good optics.”
“Oh. Sure. Whatever.”
He studies me for a beat, like he’s making a decision. Then his mouth curves.
“Good,” he says quietly. “I’ll bring it before warm-up. South end locker room, security’ll know you.”
“Because I’m your tutor?”
His smile goes slow. “Because you’re with me.”
My breath catches before the eye-roll lands. “You really can’t turn it off.”
“Not when I get to watch you pretend I don’t get to you.”
I snap my binder shut and grab my jacket. “See you at seven,babe.”
His laugh follows me—low, satisfied, impossible to shake.
Outside, the cold air hits my overheated face. I make it three blocks before I realize I just spent two hours at Kieran O’Connor’s house.
