Chapter Two
Two
Kian
I jump out of the bushes before she’s even had the chance to exit her car.
The door to the gray Altima slams shut, and she steps out with folders upon folders, a laptop bag, and a mug of coffee. She has her phone wedged between her ear and shoulder as she talks.
After our early hockey practice, I only had one goal in mind: to make sure my courses were still confirmed. A five-credit course isn’t handed to someone with my GPA. Getting it approved was a fluke. Athletes aren’t a priority, and those spots usually go to prospective grad students.
“Ms. Lai!” I jump in front of my guidance counselor before I’ve thought this through.
Dorris Lai shrieks so loud I cover my ears.
Her coffee mug goes flying from her grip, the file folders she was juggling flutter to the wet ground, and her laptop bag slips from her shoulder and hits the concrete.
I cringe at the irreparable sound that comes from the bag.
She’s breathing hard, staring at the coffee splatters on her gray pants and fuzzy black sweater. “Mr. Ishida,” she says my name through clenched teeth. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
Sometimes I wonder why she’s so averse to my presence, but then I recall freshman year. I was covered in shaving foam for a rush week challenge and I bumped into her while I was bolting down the sidewalk.
I scratch the back of my neck, finally meeting her sharp glare.
“I need to talk to you about my transcript.” I try to help her gather her stuff.
“Don’t.” She takes a deep, deep breath. “Don’t touch anything.” Then she collects her papers and tosses the ones covered in rainwater and coffee into a nearby trash can. Then I follow her into her office.
“I’ll take those to the dry cleaner for you,” I offer. “Or wash them by hand. I’m great at laundry. Ask Coach.”
She sits at her desk, then gestures for me to take a seat. “That won’t be necessary. Are you here about your missing credits? I received all eight of your frantic emails from last week. I would have gotten back to you.”
I slide onto her desk, but the look she gives me forces me to the plastic seat. “But I need to make sure I’ve secured my spot in Advanced Stats. I got an email that even if it was approved during course selections, it’s subject to change for priority students.”
She raises a brow, typing on her computer. “That’s because it’s an advanced, senior-level course. It’s not an elective. There’s a reason it’s five credits.”
“Exactly. Paired with my electives, it’s the exact amount I need to graduate.”
“Mr. Ishida, you don’t need Advanced Stats. Your GPA is the minimum needed for hockey, and you’ve got a career ahead of you. There are many athletes who come through my office knowing they’re only here until they get called up.”
I’m trying to understand why my academic adviser is advising against academics. It probably doesn’t help that my super-senior status doesn’t inspire confidence.
Even at practice this morning, Coach Kilner ran us into the ground until we were nothing but sludge.
I’m sure the man was hoping he’d be done with us last semester.
But we had to rotate leadership, which means new captaincy and updating lines.
Dylan Donovan, my best friend, got the majority vote, and he was not happy.
He was even more pissed when he found out I voted for him. It was supposed to be a harmless joke.
Dylan prefers to live by his own rules without having anyone follow. Now everyone is looking to him for leadership.
Dorris stares back at me with an irritated look, but it’s nothing I haven’t seen before. “So you’re telling me I should just leave my degree incomplete, Dorris?”
“You have that option, yes.”
It might be the three classes I flunked in sophomore year, or the electives courses I never bothered to attend, but I was hoping for a little encouragement from the woman today.
“I can’t do that. I need to finish my classes.” I need to graduate.
I thought I was on track to do it, until we got our final transcripts last semester.
The plan was that either Dylan and I got called up early to the NHL or we’d finish school before heading to the big show.
But we only just got drafted to New York this summer, which means we still have until January to finish school.
It hit me like a bag of bricks that I’d get to live my lifelong dream of playing professional hockey…
only to lose my dad’s by not graduating before leaving Dalton.
“You can still walk the stage, if that’s what you’re worried about,” she offers.
That’s not what I’m worried about.
Four years ago, I got the worst phone call of my life. My dad died, and I had to get on the next flight to Japan for the funeral. He’d been diagnosed with stage four lung cancer six months earlier, and no one told me.
That whole year is a blur to me, and I’d rather it stay that way because I wasn’t myself. My friends noticed, but to everyone else I was coping excellently. Coping. What a joke.
“It’s not about that.” Not like there’s anyone to see me achieve that milestone anyway. “I want to graduate with my degree.”
She huffs before turning back to her computer. “Are you sure you want to take a five-credit course in your final semester? For psychology? That’s a lot to leave on the line.”
“Trust me, I’ve got it handled. My study group starts in an hour, and the girl who leads it is like a mega genius. Once I get her to tutor me, I’m clear. And I’ve cut down on partying. I got home at, like, two last night—or this morning—anyway I’m practically living like an honor student.”
She’s not impressed. “Have you heard of Dr. Dunn?”
My eyes nearly bulge out of my skull. Dr. Dunn was supposed to retire, like, ten years ago.
The man is every psychology student’s worst nightmare.
Last year, he took a leave of absence, and the entire cohort cheered.
His replacement is the reason I wasn’t worried about the course. But if he’s back, I’m screwed.
“From your facial expression, I’m assuming you’ve heard about him. So I’m asking you again, Kian. Are you sure about this?”
I don’t need to think it over. It was my dad’s one wish when he sent me here. “Yes.”
She sighs. “Based on your academic history, I’d normally discourage such sudden optimism when taking a highly intensive course, but who am I to turn you away from education?”
I straighten. “So I can keep this schedule and still meet all my requirements?”
“Yes, if—”
“When.”
“—you complete this course with a C average.”
I take the freshly printed course schedule. “I’ll make you proud, Dor.”
···
Bunny Patrol
Cole: *Sent an image* Shirt or no shirt for tonight?
Dylan: Since when do you have nipple piercings?
Sebastian: And where can we get some?
Aiden: I think we’ve been assaulted by enough needles in this house.
Eli: I second that.
Kian: I haven’t.
Dylan: Your body is so inked up, I can barely see skin.
Kian: You’ve been checking out my body, Dill?
Dylan: You wish, Ishida.
I’m snickering at my phone when it chimes with the reminder for my study group.
The librarian eyes me when I push past the turnstiles, her gaze running down my tattooed arms.
“Can I help you?” she asks, her tone clipped.
“I hope so.” I lean against her desk, letting my fingers walk over to the book she was reading. “But I’d hate to take away from your reading time. That’s a great book.”
Her head rears back. “You’ve read this?”
“Twice. Chapter nineteen is my favorite.”
A blush creeps onto the librarian’s face. Alice, I read on her name tag.
“What has you stopping by the library, Mr. Ishida?”
Of course she already knows who I am. In the past four years at Dalton, I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve been in this library.
“Call me Kian.” I toss her a smile. “It’s my first day at study group. Wish me luck, Al.”
It’s at a far table, with a sign that reads Senior study group in loopy handwriting.
There’s a tiny heart cutout glued to the corner, and I don’t miss the glitter.
I’m taking the attention to detail as a good sign because if there’s anyone who can help me ace this course, it’s going to be the smart-asses who find their purpose in helping the less academically inclined.
They’re all staring at me as I sit down, and then one guy jolts with recognition. “Ishida? What the hell are you still doing here? I thought you and Donovan got called up.”
“January start date. We’re finishing our degrees.”
“Man, I’d be outta here before the ink on the contract dried.”
Everyone’s always confused why I chose to stay and finish my degree, especially with the amount I’m getting in my NHL contract. But they won’t get it, and I don’t bother explaining.
I glance around—eleven faces. Exactly what I’d counted on the sign-up sheet. I scan for the rumored genius and spot her instantly: Post-its, textbook, and laptop all lined up and already scribbling notes. Bingo.
“So, should we get started?” I ask. There’s a guy beside her—probably her boyfriend, judging by the way he watches her—but I’m already planning to wedge my chair between them when breathless apologies drift toward the table, then a girl stumbles up beside me.
Her red hair spills over her shoulders, flyaways lit by the sunlight slanting through the library windows, like a pink halo.
Brown eyes dart nervously around the table as binders and textbooks slide from her arms and land with a loud thud.
When she pushes her thick, clear-framed glasses into place, her brows pull together in faint frustration, like she forgot she had them on.
A wave of citrus scent, and cherry-colored locks engulf my vision.
It’s hard not to stare as she sweeps her hair into a clip, a few pieces falling loose and framing her face in wavy outlines.
I swear I almost see a flash of ink on her hands before she pulls her sweater over them.
“I’m so sorry I’m late! I promise it’s not a habit,” she says.
Eleven heads nod back at her. “No apology needed. We’ve known you long enough to know you’re never late,” one of them says.
It hits me that I was wrong about the other girl being the genius. It’s her. She’s the academic weapon.
I stand abruptly, knocking my knee into the table. “Hi, I’m Kian. You must be the woman of the hour.” I smile, trying to balance the fact that I’m towering over her. She’s gotta be five two or three max.
Her gaze jolts to mine, first wide with surprise, then shifting into something closer to quiet horror.
Now, that’s a reaction I’ve never had from a woman. Excitement, laughter, teasing, sure. But horror? No way.
“Scarlett,” she says softly, not shaking my hand and instead turning away to study the sign-up sheet.
I lean in and tap the bottom margin where I penned my name last week. “Right there.”
“I—I must’ve missed you. I didn’t bring enough printouts of our schedule.”
I nudge her arm lightly. “That’s okay. I’ll just peek at yours.”
She stiffens, and I instantly regret the touch. I forget that everyone’s not wired like I am. I had my mom and my older sister, which made it feel like I had two mothers, and my dad. He was the most affectionate man on the planet.
Scarlett sits, and I follow suit. She’s close enough that I have to be careful my knee doesn’t touch hers. Her sweet citrus scent fills the air around her.
She passes out the papers to the group. “Most of you already know me from our online study group last semester, but I’m Scarlett. I’m in my senior year, finishing my social work degree, but I took a lot of biology and math courses when I was doing premed.”
Scarlett glances at me again. “This group is meant to keep us on track and be a collaborative support while we work hard through the semester. It’s not tutoring—”
“It’s not?” I blurt in disbelief.
“No,” she says, without facing me. “If any of you require a tutor, you can go to the student aid center. Anyway, we will meet here every Thursday and go over your assignments.”
“But the sign-up sheet said this is for seniors with an intense course load. I thought it would be more than once a week,” I say.
She turns toward me. “It’s once a week in person. We’ll still have asynchronous sessions throughout the week.”
“Will you be there?”
Scarlett stiffens. “Most of them, yes. But we’ll work together as a collaborative group and help anyone who is struggling with their course material.”
“You seriously don’t tutor?”
“I used to, but not anymore.”
This can’t be happening. “Why not? Aren’t you, like, the best?”
I was hoping she’d blush, maybe be so charmed by me that she’d agree. But this girl doesn’t budge. “I don’t have time,” she says.
“I can pay you,” I offer.
She blinks several times, clearly taken aback.
Or maybe considering it? “Your hockey money won’t just magically make time in my schedule.
” As soon as the words are out, she slaps a palm over her mouth, her face turning almost as red as her hair.
Okay, so not considering. “Sorry—I didn’t mean to say it like that.
I don’t need your money. I don’t tutor anymore. ”
Hockey money? I didn’t expect this girl to know much about hockey—hell, I didn’t think she recognized me.
“Are you a hockey fan? I can get you rinkside seats. Maybe a little meet and greet with the players?”
She looks at me like I’ve slapped her, and the blush I was hoping for earlier only grazes her face in a deeper color of…embarrassment? I’m blowing this.
“I don’t need bribes. I’m not available.”
Reel it in, asshole. “I wasn’t— Shit, I’m sorry. I just really need to do well.”
She softens. “Do you need me to find you a tutor, Kian? Because I’m not sure if this is the right group for you.”
It’s so polite I barely register the rejection. One day, and I’ve managed to get kicked out of a study group. That’s a new record for me.
“No, no. This is fine. Once a week is perfect.” I don’t mention that I’ve been banned from the student aid center since freshman year.
You streak naked across campus one time, and people treat you like a criminal. Though it didn’t help that I invited the tutors to our party and they got so hammered that all the tutoring sessions the next day had to be canceled.
Scarlett goes over midterm dates and holidays. “And we have a group chat going, so—”
“I’m not in it.”
Her brows crease at my accusatory tone. “I’ll add you in later.”
“Why not right now?” I point to her phone on the table. I’m not the biggest fan of group chats, namely the ones the guys make without me.
She sighs, handing it to me to put my number in, and my phone pings. My shoulders relax.
“Today we’ll study for a few hours, and if anyone has questions, just ask.”
“How many hours exactly? I promised a friend I’d meet him later…”
She glares at me. Barely. I don’t even think she could muster a glare with those soft brown eyes.
“Kidding! I’m good. This is good.” I turn away, shooting a text to Dylan.
He and I promised each other we were done with parties. But then I got the text from the Beta Phi sorority, and he was upset about the whole captaincy thing, so it was only right that we go.
What harm could one party do?