He walked away before I could clarify. I had no choice but to go to class. I sure as heck wasn’trunningafter him. Nevertheless, I pulled my phone from my pocket.
Me: Tonight?
The reply was almost instant.
QB10: You suck at subterfuge. I told you to lie better
I licked my lips as I walked to my class.
Me: I don’t know when you’re pretending to be a dick, or when you are an actual dick
QB10: Funny, I always know when you’re being savage
Asshole.
By the time I left my last lecture, I’d convinced myself I wasn’t going.
Not because I was scared of him — please — but because I had better things to do than sit across from a quarterback with the emotional range of a brick wall and the ego of a small country.
Like work on my sculpture. Or binge a documentary. Or just lie on my bed and stare at the ceiling until the tight coil of irritation in my chest loosens.
But every time I tried to focus on something else, my mind kept circling back to the text thread, to his stupid casual wave, to the way he’d said “you tutor me tonight” like it was a fact, not an invitation.
If I were honest, I wasn’t even sure I was supposed to be here. He’d said subterfuge, so was it an act? Or would he actually be there? I didn’t know, and I’d be damned if I texted and asked for clarification.
Which was how I found myself walking along the hallway to meeting room C, at six fifty-nine, muttering curses under my breath like I was preparing for battle. Part of me hoped he wouldn’t be here — I could just take the win, put in an hour with my own work, and call it a night. The other part... Well, that was another problem for another day.
When I pushed the door open, he was already there, hoodie pulled up, laptop open, but — of course — dark. No work in sight. The lazy sprawl of his frame made the oversized chair look too small.
His eyes flicked up as I walked in, and one corner of his mouth curled like he’d just been handed proof of a bet he’d won.
“Hey, Sav.” He smirked, like the morning hadn’t happened.
“Don’t call me that,” I said automatically, sliding into the seat across from him.
“You came,” he said, leaning back in his seat like he’d known I would all along.
I dropped my bag onto the chair opposite. “Don’t sound so smug. I wasn’t sure you’d bother.”
His grin widened. “I always bother when it’s you.”
I rolled my eyes, but my pulse quickened anyway. “Let’s just get this over with.”
I pulled out my notebook and a pen, mostly for show, since we both knew I wasn’t here to drill him on governance structures. He didn’t even pretend — with his laptop in sleep mode, no books in sight, just that steady, assessing stare like he was trying to figure out which version of me had walked in tonight.
“Where’s your reading list?” I asked.
He reached into his bag, handed over the piece of paperIgave him, without breaking eye contact. “Right here. Signed, sealed, delivered.”
I glanced at it. The thing was pristine — no dog-eared corners, no highlighting. “So you haven’t even cracked the spine of a book, have you?”
“You saw the one I sent last night. I skimmed it,” he said, leaning forward like it was a confession. “Enough to know I could ace the class if I wanted to.”
My eyebrows shot up. “And yet here you are, close to failing.”
He smirked. “Some of us like a challenge.”
I snapped my notebook shut. “Good. Here’s mine — stop making me look like an idiot to the academic board, and I won’t mention that the quarterback of Wrighton U thinks ‘skimming’ is a study method.”
