Page 56 of Arctic Titans of Northwood U: Volume 3

I snorted. “I’m more than just a pretty face.”

That earned me a genuine smile. “Thanks, Griff. That actually made me feel better.” He glanced back at his phone, shaking his head. “They’re still lazy writers if this is the best they can come up with.”

“I’m playing a flirt,” I admitted. “I think they selected our roles randomly.”

Phoenix threw his head back and laughed, the sound echoing off the basement walls.

I tuned in to the conversations around us, catching fragments of everyone else’s assigned personas. Toby was meant to be the rising star, all fresh-faced enthusiasm and untapped potential. Damon got tagged as the hardworking grump, which wasn’t far off, considering his perpetual scowl during morning practices. Mason was labeled the rebel, complete with attitude problems. Trevor, another freshman, was everyone’s little brother, which I could see, considering he looked like he was way out of his depth, excited to the point of being naive and pretty much missing only a lollipop before being confused for a wandering kid.

Most of them made sense, at least on a surface level. But why was I the playboy? Why not the friendly neighbor or the devoted teammate? Why did they zero in on charm and flirtation as my defining characteristics?

It felt wrong. Yes, I flirted with girls. Who didn’t? But I wasn’t some silver-tongued devil with a little black book. Half the time when I tried to be charming, girls would laugh and pat my shoulder like I was their harmless golden retriever of a friend. The other half, even when there seemed to be mutual interest, something always held me back. Maybe I was tired from practice. Maybe I didn’t want to leave Andrei nursing a beer alone at whatever bar we’d wandered into. Maybe the conversation just felt forced, like I was going through the motions without any real investment.

Most nights, I ended up back in our room with blue balls and confused, forgetting about whatever girl I’d been talking to by morning. Not exactly the behavior of the campus Casanova that Jen Harding apparently thought I was.

They’d made a mistake. That had to be it. But we were scheduled to film our first confessionals in two days, and the email had come with an attachment full of bullet points covering the topics they wanted me to discuss. My supposed conquests, my approach to college romance, my thoughts on commitment versus casual fun. The list made my stomach turn.

I headed back upstairs, stopping in the kitchen to grab two bottles of water from the fridge. I could hear muffled voices from various rooms, teammates settling into their evening routines.

When I pushed open our door, I found Andrei at his desk with his camera plugged into his laptop. A photo of me filled the screen, captured during that day’s practice. My hair was flying in all directions, I held the helmet in one hand, a huge grin plastered across my face as I looked up at something beyond the frame. The image was sharp and vibrant, colors perfectly balanced.

“No one ever takes such good photos of me,” I said, setting a water bottle on his desk.

Andrei laughed, his fingers moving across the trackpad to adjust something in the image. “I have a feeling you’re gonna be famous soon. I better piggyback on your success.”

I flopped onto my bed with the other bottle, unscrewing the cap. “I wouldn’t have it any other way. It’d be lonely to be famous on my own.”

“Right.” Andrei’s laugh was louder this time, tinged with disbelief. “Sorry to break it to you, Shaw, but I’m not following you all the way to the top. I’m happy just the way things are.”

“Yes, you’re positively glowing with pleasure,” I shot back.

He flipped me off without looking away from the screen, his face settling into that familiar sullen expression. The blue light from his laptop highlighted every sharp feature, the strong line of his jaw, the way his eyebrows flattened when he concentrated. Even scowling, Andrei was striking in a way that should have made him the obvious choice for any romantic storyline.

That’s what I didn’t understand. If the producers wanted a heartthrob, why hadn’t they picked him? Andrei had the mysterious thing down to an art form. He was quiet, brooding, with those pale eyes that seemed to see straight through you. Girls noticed him. I’d seen them staring when we walked across campus or sat in the dining hall. But he never seemed to notice them back, never made an effort to engage beyond basic politeness.

I watched him work, making tiny adjustments to the photo with the patience of someone who genuinely cared about the craft. His camera had been a constant companion since high school, always appearing at team events or casual hangouts. He had an eye for catching moments that felt real and unguarded. The photos he took of our teammates were better than anything the official team photographer produced.

“You could have been the charmer if you ever tried,” I said.

“What?” He looked up from the laptop, confusion creasing his forehead.

“Nothing. Just thinking out loud.”

Andrei shook his head and returned to his editing, but I caught him glancing at me in his peripheral vision. The silence stretched between us, comfortable but charged with something I couldn’t name. Outside, I could hear car doors slamming as evening activities ended across campus, the distant sound of music from someone’s open window.

The email attachment was still open on my phone, bullet points glowing accusingly. I scrolled through them again, each suggestion making less sense than the last. How was I supposed to talk about my “dating philosophy” when I wasn’t even sure I had one? What was I supposed to say about being a heartbreaker when most of my romantic encounters ended with me feeling more confused than victorious?

“Do you think I’m a player?” I asked suddenly.

Andrei’s hands stilled on the trackpad. “What brought that on?”

“The show. They want me to be this playboy who breaks hearts across campus. I just want to know if that’s actually how people see me.”

He was quiet for a long moment, considering. “You’re friendly,” he said finally. “You talk to everyone. Girls included.”

“That’s not the same thing.”

“No,” he agreed. “It’s not.”