8. Maisie
MAISIE
T he library’s mostly empty when I get there.
I head straight for the back table. It’s tucked in the corner, quiet, with a good overhead light and two outlets.
I drop my bag onto the chair beside me and start unpacking.
Textbook, lecture slides, flashcards, notebook, pens.
Everything’s already organized, but I double-check anyway.
Color-coded notes. Diagrams. Flashcards grouped by chapter.
I don’t half-ass tutoring sessions. Especially not when the guy I’m helping is already hanging on by a thread in this class.
Five minutes go by.
Then ten.
I tap my pen against the side of my notebook, flipping to the next page even though I’m not reading. The library’s so quiet I can hear the hum of the overhead lights and the faint tick of the old clock by the front desk.
Still no sign of him.
I check my phone. No texts. No missed calls.
Where the hell is he?
I very clearly said 4 p.m. Not ‘around four’, not ‘sometime tonight’. Four.
I let out a breath and sit back in my chair, crossing my arms. Maybe I should just leave. I’ve got an exam of my own next week. I didn’t clear my schedule so he could flake.
I’m reaching for my pencil case when I hear footsteps echoing across the floor.
I glance up just in time to see Austin Rhodes walking in like he’s got all the time in the world. His hoodie is unzipped over a tight gray shirt, his backpack dangling from one shoulder.
He spots me and heads over. He doesn’t rush, even though he’s ten minutes late. Just strolls right up, drops into the chair across from me, and slouches down so low he might slide off entirely.
His backpack hits the table with a loud thud.
“Sorry I’m late,” he says, dragging a hand through his hair. He pulls a crumpled bag of chips from his hoodie pocket and holds it up. “Vending machine robbed me. I retaliated.” He flashes me a lazy grin, then reaches into the bag and pops a Cheeto into his mouth.
I blink at him. Is this guy for real?
“Congrats on your win,” I say dryly. “Can we get started now? We’re already behind.”
I pick up my highlighter and go back to marking the notes in front of me.
He’s quiet for a beat. I can feel him watching me, but I keep my eyes down, even when his chair creaks as he shifts forward.
“Want one?” he asks, holding the bag of chips in my face.
I shake my head without glancing up.
“So…” he says, placing the Cheetos back into his backpack. “What’s the game plan?”
“You read,” I say, pushing a piece of paper toward him. “I help.”
“Oof,” he says, his brows lifting into his hairline. “You’re strict.”
I sigh and finally meet his eyes. “Austin. You’re failing. This isn’t the time for jokes.”
He blinks, like I’ve caught him off guard. His eyes meet mine and hold. Just for a second. Long enough to make me wonder if I’ve got something on my face. Then he shakes his head and that slow, crooked grin slides into place.
“There’s always time for jokes.”
I roll my eyes and slide the packet across the table and tap the first paragraph with the end of my highlighter. “Start reading.”
Austin groans. “Do I have to?”
“Yes.”
He drapes himself across the table, his chin hitting the wood with a soft thunk. “Can’t you just explain it to me?” he asks, his eyes flicking to mine. “You’ve got that student-teacher thing going for you.” He breaks out into a cocky smirk. “Very sexy, by the way.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “Read.”
He lets out another groan as he grabs the packet and opens up the worksheet. At first, he’s loud. Making jokes, trying to distract me. But when he starts reading, he slows down. Words trip him up. He stumbles over a sentence and mutters something under his breath.
Another line. Another pause. He scratches the back of his neck, sighs, and starts over.
He stares at the next sentence a beat too long before starting. “The… mar…ginal… u…tility… of… consump…tion…”
“Keep going,” I encourage him.
He does, but it’s halting. Uneven. And the longer it goes on, the more tense he gets. His knee starts bouncing under the table. He rubs the back of his neck, then leans forward like getting closer to the page will help.
Then, finally, he exhales and drops the packet on the table. “This font is, like, aggressively small.”
I glance at the packet. It’s literally standard twelve-point Times New Roman.
I don’t say anything. Just wait.
He messes with the hem of his hoodie, twisting the fabric in his hands. “Okay, look. I’m trying, alright? This just isn’t…” He makes a frustrated sound and doesn’t finish the sentence.
“Do you always struggle to read like that?” I ask, even though I already kind of know the answer.
He hesitates, eyes flicking away like he’s trying to disappear into the chair. Then he shrugs, like it’s no big deal. “Yeah.”
I nod slowly, noticing how he avoids my gaze. “Have you ever been tested for dyslexia?”
He looks up at me sharply, his brows knitting together. “Yeah. When I was a kid.” He blinks, a little surprised. “You could tell?”
I lift my shoulder. “You read ‘vertebrae’ as ‘vegetable.’ Twice.”
The tight line of his mouth softens, and a quiet laugh escapes him. His smile spreads slow, dimples popping on both sides, and his eyes crinkle just enough that I have to look away for a second. I know without a doubt he gets away with so much just by showing off those dimples.
“Most people just think I’m an idiot,” he says after a beat. “Or lazy. Or both.”
I lift my eyes to his, seeing the vulnerability flashing in them.
“You’re not,” I assure him. “You just learn differently.” I pause, tilting my head. “Did you ever get help for it?”
He lets out a dry chuckle, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Nah. I’ve just gotten good at winging it.”
I lean back, folding my arms. “Winging it only gets you so far. You’re stuck now, aren’t you?”
His smile slips for a moment, like he wasn’t expecting that.
“Look, I get it. Asking for help can feel like admitting defeat. But it’s not humiliating. You just need a little extra time to let the words sink in.”
He meets my gaze, a flicker of something flashing in them. “Yeah? You think you can help with that?”
I nod and lean forward, resting my elbows on the table between us, closing the distance. “We’re going to slow this down. You don’t have to tackle everything at once. We’ll break it up. I’ll read some, you read some. Deal?”
He blinks, eyes narrowing for a split second. “You’re not gonna give up on me?”
Sometimes I think I’ve got him figured out. The cocky hockey player, used to getting away with murder and flashing a grin while he does it. But then he says something like that, and it hits me again how little I actually know about him.
“Not a chance,” I say, shaking my head.
His shoulders relax, and that smile of his comes back, slow and a little crooked.
I try to ignore the fluttering in my stomach when he does. But when it’s clear it isn’t going away, I let out a sigh. Screw it. I’m only human. And his smile is really freaking pretty.
No denying that.
We work for almost an hour.
I show him how to use the colored overlays I brought, just in case—blue seems to help him the most.
He jokes between every other line with dramatic sighs, terrible accents, asking if this counts as foreplay.
I don’t dignify that with a response.
But the thing is, I’m starting to realize it’s not because he doesn’t want the help. It’s the opposite. He’s just not used to getting it like this. Without strings. Without judgment. Without someone rolling their eyes or giving up on him before he even starts.
We make it through two whole paragraphs. It’s rough. He loses his place constantly. Misreads half the vocabulary.
But there are moments—quick ones—where it clicks. Where I see the flicker of something shift across his face. A line he reads without stumbling. A word he nails on the first try. There are no jokes, no flirting. He’s really trying.
And for a second, I start to think that maybe there’s more to him than the cocky guy I pegged him for.
But then he ruins it.
“Is it weird that your voice makes this stuff sound kinda sexy?” he asks, wagging his brows at me.
I narrow my eyes. “Do you want to learn, or get slapped?”
He laughs, leaning back in his chair. “You’re good at this.”
My eyes flick up. “Tutoring?”
“Yeah. But also…” He shrugs, eyes falling to the page. “Like, not being annoying about it. You don’t try to rush me. Or make me feel like I’m stupid. It’s kinda nice.”
I blink, caught off guard by the fact that he actually means it. Normally he flirts to mess around. Deflect. Keep things light. But this isn’t that. This is genuine.
He’s watching me, and it’s not the usual look he gives me. There’s no smirk, no teasing glint in his eye. Just curiosity.
“So,” he says. “What’s your deal?”
I raise an eyebrow. “My deal?”
“Yeah.” He nods, his arms folded across his chest. “You figure skate, right? I saw your videos.”
I freeze.
My stomach drops, just for a second. “You… saw them?”
He shrugs. “You followed me the other day. I clicked on your profile. Sue me.”
Heat crawls up the back of my neck. Great. Austin Rhodes, king of hockey, professional flirt, has now seen me twirling on the ice. Fantastic.
I brace myself for the smirk, the joke, some sarcastic jab about glitter or twinkle toes. Because of course, that’s what a hockey player would do.
Instead, he smiles. “You’re good,” he says. “Like… really good.”
And I don’t know what to do with that.
My skating life has always been separate from everything else. A world I keep walled off from people who wouldn’t get it. It’s not that I’m ashamed of it. I love it, but I’m used to being able to decide when and how people see that part of me.
With him, I didn’t get that choice.
“You’re blushing,” he adds with a grin, those damn dimples making an appearance again.
“I’m not.”
“You totally are. It’s adorable.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “Do you ever stop talking?”
“Nope,” he says, unapologetically. “It’s part of my charm.”