Brutal Crush

Chapter 1

The invitation sits on my desk like a threat wrapped in orange cardstock.

“I still can’t believe you got invited to a Sigma Titanus party,” Maya says, perched on the edge of my bed with her legs crossed. She’s examining the invitation like it might be coated in anthrax. “The Sigma Titanus. The one that’s basically the hockey team’s personal frat house.”

“Maybe someone felt charitable,” I mutter, but even I don’t believe that.

“Or maybe,” Derek adds from my desk chair, spinning to face us, “your stalker is escalating.”

I throw a pillow at him. He catches it with a grin.

“Don’t call them that.”

“What else would you call someone who’s been leaving you gifts for three weeks?” Maya asks. She’s using her serious voice, the one that means she’s actually worried. “Someone who clearly knows your schedule, your favorite coffee order, your—”

“Very attentive… new friend?” I offer weakly.

“Very attentive stalker,” Derek corrects. He stands up, and I notice he’s wearing his vintage Scooby-Doo shirt. Of course he is. “Maya and I need to investigate this party before you go.”

“Oh, here we go,” I say.

Maya’s already nodding enthusiastically. “I’ll be Willow, Derek can be Xander—”

“Excuse me, I was Willow already weeks ago when this started—” Derek says.

“You absolutely did not—”

“I literally have texts from you—”

“So you both think I’ll be Buffy?” I interrupt.

They both stop mid-argument and look at each other. Then they look at me. In perfect unison, they say: “Yes.”

I flip them off with both hands.

“Look,” I say, trying to inject some rationality into this conversation, “it’s probably just some asshole hockey player’s idea of a joke.

They’ll get me to show up, laugh at the nerd who thought he was actually invited, and that’ll be it.

End of story. My stalker is probably just some freshman who saw me in the library once and decided that I’m good material for a prank or something. ”

Maya doesn’t look convinced. Neither does Derek.

“The gifts have been weirdly specific, East,” Maya says quietly. “The first edition of that Poe collection you mentioned once in class? The exact brand of those pencils you like that you can only order online? That’s not casual observation.”

A chill runs down my spine, but I shove it away. I’m not doing this. I’m not going to be that guy who gets paranoid over some harmless joke.

“It’s probably nothing,” I say firmly. “Just someone being nice.”

“Nice people don’t stalk you,” Derek points out.

“And they usually sign their name,” Maya adds.

They’re not wrong, but I’m not ready to admit that out loud. Instead, I stand up and gesture toward the door. “Don’t you two have better things to do than psychoanalyze my maybe-stalker on a Tuesday afternoon?”

Maya sighs but gets to her feet. Derek follows, but not before giving me one of his concerned older-brother looks. We’re the same age, but he’s been mothering me since freshman year when he found me having a panic attack in the computer lab during finals week.

“Just think about it, okay?” he says. “Maybe don’t go to the party. Or at least let us come with you.”

“Sure,” I lie. “I’ll think about it.”

I walk them to the door of my room, still arguing about whether the stalker situation is cute or concerning. The answer is concerning, obviously, but I’m not ready to deal with that reality yet.

I open the door, and that’s when I see it.

Another package.

It’s sitting right outside my door, wrapped in the same black paper with the same silver ribbon as all the others. My stomach drops.

“Easton?” Maya’s voice sounds far away.

I bend down and pick it up. It’s heavier than the others. My hands are shaking as I unwrap it, and I hear Derek say something about not opening it, but it’s too late.

Inside are two photographs.

Of me.

The first one shows me standing at my bedroom window, wearing nothing but boxer briefs and a t-shirt. I’m holding my coffee mug, the one with the Edgar Allan Poe quote on it. I’m looking out at something, probably the quad. I remember this—it was three days ago, early morning.

The second photo is worse. I’m changing, halfway through pulling off my shirt. The angle is from outside, looking in.

Someone has been watching me. In my own room. Through my window.

Underneath the photos is a note, typed in the same font as always:

Don’t go to the party. If you do, everyone will see much more interesting photos than these. Stay home where you’re safe, little bee.

Little bee. That’s new. And absolutely terrifying.

“Oh my god,” Maya breathes behind me.

Derek takes the photos from my shaking hands. His face goes pale, then red with anger. “We’re calling campus security. Right now.”

“No.” The word comes out sharper than I intend. “No police. No security. I just—I need to think.”

“Easton, someone is watching you through your fucking window—”

“I know!” I snap. “I know, okay? But I can’t—I have to go.”

They both stare at me like I’ve grown a second head.

“Go where?” Maya asks.

Shit. I check my phone. 4:47 PM.

“I have tutoring,” I say weakly. “I’m already late.”

“You cannot be serious right now,” Derek says flatly. “You just received a threat from someone who’s been photographing you without your consent, and you’re worried about being late to tutoring?”

“It’s not just tutoring,” I say, grabbing my backpack and shoving my laptop inside. “It’s mandatory tutoring. For Zane Ivarsson.”

The name lands like a bomb.

“The Zane Ivarsson?” Maya’s eyes are huge. “Captain of the hockey team Zane Ivarsson? His family owns half of Boston Zane Ivarsson?”

“That’s the one.”

“The one who shoved you into a locker last semester?” Derek adds helpfully.

“He didn’t shove me into a locker,” I correct. “He shoved me toward a locker. There’s a difference.”

“A minimal one.”

“Professor Thornton assigned me to tutor him. I can’t just not show up. The professor specifically requested me, and you know I can’t say no to him.”

Professor Thornton is the only reason I have a full scholarship to this pretentious private college. He went to bat for me when I was a nobody high school student from nowhere Vermont with decent grades and no money. I owe him everything.

Even if that means spending two hours twice a week trying to teach basic composition to a hockey god who can barely string together a coherent paragraph and who seems to take personal pleasure in making my life miserable.

“The professor probably got pressured by the athletic department,” Derek says. “Or by Ivarsson’s family. They donate like millions to this school.”

“I know,” I say tiredly. “Everyone knows. It’s why Zane can do whatever he wants and no one says anything about it.”

“This is insane,” Maya says. “You’re getting stalked and threatened, and you’re rushing off to tutor some asshole jock?”

“Some asshole jock who could make my life even more of a living hell if I don’t show up,” I point out. “The first three sessions have already been… challenging.”

Challenging is putting it mildly. The first session, Zane showed up thirty minutes late and spent the entire time texting.

The second session, he showed up drunk. The third session, he actually stayed sober and on time, but spent two hours arguing with me about whether grammar was “classist” and “a tool of oppression.”

I disagreed. He called me a “stuck-up little bookworm.” I called him an “intellectually lazy manchild.” Professor Thornton received complaints from the library about our volume levels.

It was not my finest moment.

“You know what’s weird though?” Maya says, tilting her head thoughtfully. “The way Ivarsson bullies you.”

“What’s weird about it?” I ask. “He’s an asshole. That’s what assholes do.”

“No, I mean—it’s not like regular bullying.

It’s almost… harmless? Like, he shoves you toward lockers but never actually hurts you.

He makes comments but they’re more annoying than cruel.

And now these tutoring sessions.” She exchanges a look with Derek.

“If it wasn’t Zane Ivarsson, you’d almost think—”

“Don’t,” I cut her off, my stomach twisting.

“—that he has a crush on you,” she finishes.

“What? That’s impossible. That’s—no. Absolutely not.”

“I’m just saying—”

“No way.” My voice comes out more panicked than I intend. “He’s Zane Ivarsson. He’s straight, he’s definitely an asshole, and he’s been making my life miserable since last year. There’s no universe where that means he has a crush on me.”

“Okay, okay.” Maya holds up her hands. “I’m just saying the thought crossed my mind. The way he focuses on you specifically, the way he always seems to know where you are—”

“Because he’s following me to find new ways to humiliate me. That’s how bullies think,” I say firmly, even though my hands are shaking slightly. “Not because he likes me. Jesus Christ, Maya.”

“All right, forget I said anything.” But she’s still giving me that look, the one that says she’s not convinced.

Derek clears his throat. “How much longer do you have to do this? The tutoring?”

“Rest of the semester. Twice a week. Two hours each session.” I check my phone again. 4:51 PM. “Shit, I really need to go.”

Maya grabs my arm as I head for the door. “Promise me you’ll be careful. And that you’ll think about what I said. About the party.”

“I promise,” I say, and I mean it this time.

I take the stairs down from my room two at a time, my mind still reeling from those photos. Someone was watching me. Someone knows where I live, what I do, how I spend my mornings.

The Halloween party suddenly seems like the least of my problems.

But I don’t have time to worry about stalkers or threatening notes or mysterious admirers who call me little bee.

Right now, I need to get to the library, find whatever private study room they’ve reserved for us this time, and spend two hours trying to explain the difference between “your” and “you’re” to a six-foot-four hockey player who looks at me like I’m something stuck to the bottom of his skate.

The first few sessions were hell.

I have a feeling the worst is still ahead.

And no scary Halloween party could possibly compare.

~ ~ ~

The library is mostly empty when I arrive at 5:03 PM. I’m late, which means Ivarsson is going to be even more insufferable than usual. If he even showed up. There’s a fifty-fifty chance he just decided tutoring wasn’t worth his time today and went to practice instead.

I head to the third floor, where the private study rooms are located. Professor Thornton always reserves Room 3C for us—it’s in the back corner, away from other students, probably because he knows how loud we get.

The door is closed.

Through the small window, I can see him.

Zane Ivarsson, in all his golden-boy glory.

He’s sprawled in one of the chairs, long legs stretched out, one arm thrown over the back of the seat.

He’s wearing a fitted black t-shirt that does nothing to hide the ridiculous muscles underneath, and his dark hair is messy in that intentional way that probably takes him twenty minutes to achieve.

He’s staring at his phone, jaw tight with irritation.

I take a breath, push down every instinct that’s screaming at me to turn around and leave, and open the door.

He looks up. Those ice-blue eyes lock onto mine.

“You’re late again,” he says.

“I’m aware,” I reply, dropping my backpack onto the table with more force than necessary.

“Oh, traffic?” he asks, his tone dripping with sarcasm.

“Something like that.”

He studies me for a long moment, and I can feel his gaze taking in every detail. My flushed cheeks. My slightly shaking hands. The way I can’t quite meet his eyes.

“You look like shit today,” he says finally.

“Thanks,” I say flatly. “Really feeling the positive learning environment here.”

“Just an observation.” He leans back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest. The movement makes his biceps strain against his sleeves. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong.”

“Bullshit.”

“Can we just get started?” I snap. “I don’t have all night.”

Something flickers across his face—surprise, maybe, or irritation—but it’s gone before I can identify it.

“Fine,” he says coldly. “Let’s get started. Since you’re so eager, Beeler.”

I pull out my laptop and open it with shaking fingers.

This is going to be a very long two hours.