Chapter 5
FIVE
“Um, here, come on. I’ve got a table set up this way.”
“Great,” he said, although there was a hint of something in his voice that lacked sincerity. I took a covert glance at him and noticed his smile was still on his face, but there was a stiffness to it I hadn’t seen before.
Not that I made a habit of noticing Foster Kane.
I led him to my table and gestured to the seat across from me, tucked safely out of sight from the entrance. Not wanting to extend our time longer, I got right to work and pulled out my notebook. “So, you need help with math? What math class are you taking?”
He glanced over to where the door would be if he had a clear shot of it and grabbed the back of his neck in what was clearly a nervous gesture.
“Uh, do you guys do, like, um, confidentiality agreements here or anything?”
I arched a brow. “Why?”
He leaned forward and I caught a whiff of his clean and woodsy scent. I hated the way it made my stomach tighten.
Maybe I just ate something bad, and my stomach was cramping. That was preferable to admitting there was anything I still found attractive about Foster.
“I don’t really want people to know I’m getting tutoring,” he said.
His blue eyes pierced into me with a hint of desperation like he was genuinely concerned about people finding out he was at the tutoring center.
I swallowed thickly, ignoring the way my heart was racing.
Maybe I was coming down with a cold.
“We don’t go advertising who we tutor,” I told him, keeping my voice even and gentle and not giving away how much his anxiety concerned me.
I’d never seen Foster as anything but completely confident and sure of himself.
This version of him was…disconcerting.
Foster let out a sigh of relief as his shoulders dropped, and he took a breath like he’d been holding it this whole time.
“Okay, cool.” Then, taking another deep breath, he pierced me with those eyes again, his face pinched like he was embarrassed about what he had to say.
“I need help with Mitchell’s math class. ”
My pen had been poised over my paper, expecting him to say one of the notoriously hard math professors like Hopkins or Kenney, but Mitchell was one of the easier math professors at CFU and typically only taught intro math classes.
“Which section?” I asked, wondering if maybe Mitchell had added an upper-level section this semester.
“104,” he said.
Only practice kept the surprise from showing on my face. I’d tried to ignore Foster’s presence over the last couple of years. But when I had paid attention to him freshman year, it seemed like he excelled at everything he did.
He’d brought the hockey team back to life in a way that most people said was impossible, especially considering hockey wasn’t the most popular sport in Montana.
So to find out he was struggling with a math class that was considered easy by most students was shocking.
“What exactly are you struggling with in his class?”
Those vivid blue eyes met mine again, and I fought every urge in my body not to suck in a breath. There must’ve been some dust or something in the air here that was affecting my allergies. That could be the only explanation for why my body was suddenly going haywire.
He looked reluctant to answer my question, but eventually said, “Here, let me show you.”
He removed his laptop from his backpack and pulled up the student portal where we had access to all our courses.
He spun it to fully face me, displaying what looked like a test. It only took me a quick glance to realize it was a basic math skills test that I knew Mitchell used to see what his student’s baselines were, so he could meet them where they were.
“This is helpful,” I told him, as I started looking at the problems and his answers. There were some notes throughout the test from the professor, and I nibbled my lip as I scrolled down. Some of these problems were fourth-grade math basics, but Foster got them wrong.
Some of his answers look flipped—like instead of 35, he put 53.
I’d think some of these errors were careless errors if it wasn’t for the anxiety that was rolling off Foster in waves the longer I looked at his screen.
He was really stressed about this.
“We can work with this,” I said, even though I was worried it would take a miracle to help him pass a college level math class when he was struggling with basic elementary skills. “Do you mind if I get a copy of this test so we can use this as our baseline?”
His whole body stiffened, and I looked up at him to see pure panic on his face. “You’re not going to show anyone, are you?”
Who was this person sitting in front of me? The confident jock I’d crushed on so hard freshman year and saw on campus over the last two years was definitely not the same guy sitting in front of me.
I placed a hand over his and sucked in a sharp breath at the zap of electricity that shot up my arm and felt like it went straight to my heart.
Ignoring it, I focused on him, hoping he could see the sincerity in my eyes.
“I’m not going to tell anyone, Foster. Your secret is safe with me. I promise.”
He stared at me for a moment longer, and something passed through his gaze that made me hold my breath—a look of familiarity that passed so fast, I would’ve missed it if I’d blinked.
“Thanks,” he said, his voice low and hoarse. “I-I’m not a guy who fails, but math seems to be my Achilles’ heel.”
I squeezed his hand. “We all have one.”
The panic that had been on his face receded, replaced with warmth and gratitude.
I broke our gaze and slid my hand back to my lap. I needed to remember that I didn’t like Foster Kane. I could be nice and professional, but I couldn’t let myself get soft around him again.
I already knew that road only led to disaster and humiliation. Not to mention that Foster was now so far out of my league, it wasn’t even funny.
Clearing my throat, I said, “I’ll make a game plan for where to start and strategies we can try. We should probably meet at least twice a week.” Truthfully, depending on how busy he was, we might need to make it three days a week to get him where he needed to be for Mitchell’s class.
We made a plan for the next few weeks with our first official tutoring session happening in a few days. That would give me enough time to go through his skills test and figure out where to start.
He stared at me again with what looked distinctly like gratitude in his eyes, and then said wholeheartedly, “Thank you, Abby.”
“Sure,” I said lamely.
With a wave, I watched him walk away, angry at myself, but angrier at him.
Of all the guys to walk in looking for a tutor, did it really have to be him?
But the question that ate away at me was the one that whispered through my mind every time I tried to work on a strategy for him and thought about how he looked at me like I was a stranger.
Was I really so forgettable?
I wasn’t sure I wanted the answer.