Chapter 2 #2
I sank lower in my seat, the humiliation burning in my gut. I could hear the whispers of the students around me.
All brawn, no brain.
Just another dumb hockey player.
He’s going to wash out.
They didn't know. They didn't know that I wasn't stupid. I was just loud. My head was so full of instinct and noise that fitting facts into it felt like trying to stack playing cards in a hurricane.
And now, with Lydia Cross in the equation, the hurricane was a Category Five.
Dr. Aris’s office was small, cluttered, and smelled like old paper.
He sat behind his desk, peering at me over the rim of his spectacles. I sat in the chair opposite him, feeling too big for the room. My knees bumped against the desk. My shoulders felt wide enough to crack the doorframe.
"You're failing, Michael," Aris said gently.
"I got a C on the last midterm," I defended, though it sounded weak even to me.
"You got a C-minus," he corrected. "And your participation grade is abysmal. You stare at the wall. You break pens. You are clearly distracted."
He leaned forward. "Coach Cross called me this morning."
I stiffened. "Why?"
"He's worried about your eligibility. If you don't pass this class with at least a B, you are academically ineligible for the playoffs. The team loses their enforcer. You lose your scholarship. And likely, your shot at the NHL draft."
The air left the room.
The NHL was the plan. It was the only plan.
It was the only place where being a monster paid well.
It was the only way I could afford the specialized care I would need when the Feral Madness eventually took my mind—high-end facilities, isolation units, meds.
I needed that money to protect the world from me.
"I'll study harder," I said, desperation creeping into my voice. "I'll hire a tutor."
"Way ahead of you," Aris said, opening a folder. "The athletic department has a mandatory tutoring program for at-risk players. You have been assigned a specialized tutor. Someone who knows the material and understands the... unique temperament of the hockey team."
I narrowed my eyes. "I don't need a babysitter."
"You need a miracle, Mr. Holt. And this is it." He slid a piece of paper across the desk. "You have your first session in twenty minutes. The Library. Study Room 4B. It's the glass-walled one near the back."
"The Penalty Box," I muttered. That’s what the team called it. The fishbowl where dumb jocks went to be shamed into learning.
"Go," Aris commanded. "And try not to break anything."
I grabbed the slip of paper and stormed out.
I was furious. Furious at Aris, furious at Coach, but mostly furious at myself. I was losing control. The discipline I prided myself on was fraying at the edges.
I walked to the library, the wind biting at my face, but I barely felt it. I was in 'Game Mode' now. I would go to this tutor. I would intimidate them into giving me the cheat sheets. I would memorize the bare minimum, pass the class, and get back to the ice.
Simple.
I swiped my ID at the library turnstile and marched toward the back. The library was quiet, the smell of books and dust calming my wolf slightly.
I saw Room 4B ahead. It was a small, glass-enclosed cube in the corner of the Quiet Zone. From the outside, you could see everything inside. It was designed to prevent cheating—and other activities.
I couldn't see who was inside yet; the glare from the window obscured the occupant.
I reached the door, grabbed the handle, and yanked it open.
"Look, let's get one thing straight," I said as I stepped in, letting the door click shut behind me, sealing us in. "I'm not here to make friends, I'm here to—"
The scent hit me first.
It wasn't dust and paper. It wasn't the stale coffee of a grad student.
It was sugar. It was rain. It was the smell of the forest after a storm.
My words died in my throat. My heart slammed against my ribs, a chaotic, staccato rhythm that I couldn't control.
Sitting at the small, round table, surrounded by anatomy textbooks and a skeletal model of a hand, was her.
Lydia.
She looked up, her pen freezing mid-sentence. She was wearing a thick cream-colored sweater today, the sleeves pulled down over her hands. Her hair was pulled back in a messy bun, exposing the long, elegant line of her neck.
My gaze locked on the pulse point right below her ear. I could see it fluttering.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
"You," I breathed out. The word was an accusation.
Lydia blinked, her mouth falling open slightly. "Mikey?"
"No," I said, backing up until my back hit the glass door. I reached for the handle behind me. "No way. Absolutely not."
"You're the at-risk athlete?" she asked, her voice raising in disbelief. She looked down at her clipboard, then back at me. "Michael Holt. I thought... I assumed it was a common name."
"I am not doing this," I said, panic rising in my chest. The room was too small. Way too small. Her scent was filling every cubic inch of air. It was suffocating. It was heaven.
"You don't have a choice," Lydia said, standing up.
That spark of defiance was back. She squared her shoulders, looking ridiculous and brave standing up to me.
"Uncle Mac—Coach—said if I don't get 'the athlete' to a B-average, I lose my internship. And Dr. Aris said if you don't get a B, you lose your scholarship."
She took a step toward me.
"We are stuck, Holt."
I stared at her. I looked at the determined set of her jaw. I looked at the way her hands were trembling slightly at her sides, betraying her fear.
She was right. The door was locked behind me—metaphorically, at least. If I walked out, I lost hockey. If I lost hockey, I lost my future.
But if I stayed...
I looked at the small room. The table was tiny. Our knees would touch. I would have to listen to her voice for hours. I would have to smell her. I would have to sit three feet away from the only thing my wolf had ever wanted to hunt and claim, and I would have to talk about ligaments.
This wasn't a tutoring session. It was an endurance test.
"Sit down," she said, echoing her command from last night. She gestured to the chair opposite her.
I didn't move. I clenched my jaw so hard my teeth ached. The Wolf was scratching at the back of my eyes, begging to take the wheel.
Just a taste, it whispered. Just one bite.
"Fine," I growled, pushing off the door.
I stalked over to the chair and threw myself into it, sprawling my legs out. As I predicted, my knee bumped hers under the table.
Jolt. Fire. Electricity.
She gasped softly, pulling her leg back. I didn't move mine. I let it occupy the space she had vacated.
"Teach me, then, Mouse," I challenged, crossing my arms over my chest, watching her pupils dilate. "But don't say I didn't warn you."
"Warn me about what?" she asked, her voice shaky as she sat back down, opening the textbook.
"About being trapped in a cage with a starving animal," I murmured, leaning forward until I was inside her personal space. "Eventually... something is going to get eaten."
Her breath hitched. She stared at my mouth.
And in that moment, I knew. I wasn't going to pass this class.
I was going to ruin us both.