Chapter 7
“Mr. Ames, do you have a minute?” I’m silently praying my boss says no, because I’m not sure how to go through with the rest of what I need to say.
“Sure, what is it?”
My throat clogs and I stare at him as if he’s the one who just asked for a minute of my time.
“Well,” I release a breath. “I noticed you took me off the schedule for the weekend, and that’s actually when I have the most time to put in without classes inter—”
“It’s the second week you’ve done more than thirty hours and you know that’s against student policy.
The work-study program should not take up more time than classwork.
” He closes his laptop as if he’s done with this conversation and about to walk away.
“And I’m not about to be in violation of taking advantage of the program. ”
“But I need the extra hours.” I find myself pleading. I’ve blown through nearly every dollar I had after tuition and housing just by settling in.
He sighs. “I understand. But I can’t risk losing students under the program because I’ve violated the terms.”
I nod. “Of course. I’m sorry I put you in that position.”
He watches me for a moment. “You know if you’re looking for weekend work, you could offer tutoring sessions. We have students coming in for extra help all the time. Is that something you might be interested in?”
“Tutoring?” The idea doesn’t terrify me. I can typically do one on one’s just fine, especially if my head’s in a book most of the time and we have one topic to focus on. “It’s not like a big group thing?”
“Oh no. Students would come in and sign up for study sessions or tutoring. You don’t even need to major in the subjects. Just have enough general understanding of the textbook.”
“Sounds reasonable,” I rationalize, buying time as I consider this.
“Tell ya though, the hourly rate is pretty impressive.”
My eyes dart up.
“Fifty an hour,” he confirms, and that’s after the library takes their small cut.
That pretty much seals the deal for me. “Great, when can I start?”
Me: I signed up to tutor on weekends. That’s something, right?
Bree: Schoolwork all week long. Fun.
Me: Not like I’ve got much else going on.
Bree: When do you start?
Me: When someone signs up.
Bree: Secretly hoping no one does?
Me: You know me well. But the hourly rate is hard to pass up.
Bree: At least you’re honest. But making friends and forming relationships shouldn’t be work. It should come naturally, not be forced because both parties need something from each other and in reality, don’t really want to be there.
Me: I know.
Bree: What about a social activity?
Me: Well hockey’s really big here…
Bree: Be more specific. Are you joining the team or buying tickets closest to an exit row?
How the hell does she do that?
Me: The exit row one.
Bree: That’s not exactly standing out and making friends.
Me: Well, I didn’t make friends, but…I think I’m making an impression.
Bree: I’m moving up our next video session.
Curiosity gets the better of me during an unproductive shift at the library on Wednesday. Before I know it, I’m scrolling through Northwind U’s athletics page, glancing over my shoulder every few seconds like I’m doing something I shouldn’t.
His photo stares back—helmet off, jaw sharp, eyes steady, that cocky kind of grin that looks too good to be real.
He’s unnaturally gorgeous.
Each page leads to more links about Kane Andrews, and I click on each and every one.
It shouldn’t matter, but somehow the simple facts feel like secrets I’m not supposed to know. Like I’ve stumbled into his orbit without permission.
I notice an article on one of the pages, under another glorifying shot of him. Top scorer… leader on and off the ice…early attention from NHL scouts.
Holy shit. The Rangers? I don’t follow sports and couldn’t name players of any team if they lived next door to me—but as a New Yorker, that hits home for me.
The following statement makes me frown.
No surprise for the offspring of legendary Lucas Andrews. The name is linked and of course, I follow it.
It opens to a page of an older, good-looking man in a New York Rangers uniform
Dad’s good looking too. Oh. Was good looking. Died five years ago.
Sadness settles in me as I do the math. He must have been in high school.
I don’t spend much time on the countless links and articles about the great Lucas Andrews. I’m sure he was terrific. But I’m here for the main attraction and find myself clicking back several times just to get to him again. Jeez, they sure are pushing the whole father-son aspect.
But I’ve seen this man on the ice. Whether it’s genetic or years of hard practice—or both, the man is clearly his own entity.
That’s not just campus-level admiration—that’s the kind of future people dream about. The kind of spotlight that makes someone…untouchable.
And here I am, stalking him because he offered me a few hearts. While mine still hammers over those reactions. Like it’s proof he might not be as untouchable as he seems.
“Excuse me.”
I yelp, jerking back and angling my computer screen away like I’m watching porn.
Nope. Just stalking athletes. Sure, he’s half-naked in a few of these, but still not porn.
A young woman, likely a student, glances between the screen and me. She has wild, curly red hair, an almost-there smirk, and striking green eyes. “Uh, you alright?” she asks, her perfect brow perked.
I huff out a breath. “Of course. How can I help you?”
She places both hands on the counter, gripping a piece of paper. “I just transferred here from Highland University.”
“Oh,” I croak.
She stares and waits for a proper response, which only leaves me like a deer in headlights. When I give her nothing, she holds up the sheet and snaps. “Books. I need help finding books.”
“Oh, of course.” I jump, shifting to the student computer at the end of the desk.
“You can type in the class code here and it will tell you where to pick up the ones for that class. If the number starts with a one, it’s on the first level.
Two would be on second. Then just bring them here and we’ll check you out. ”
“Awesome.” She looks at me again but doesn’t seem to be judging. Her eyes appear a little too knowing, though. Like she’s got me pegged.
“Sorry I spooked ya,” she offers with a lazy grin. “I tend to come off defensive right off the bat. Used to people giving me a hard time because I’m from…”
“Our rival school?” I blurt out.
She purses her lips but doesn’t glance away awkwardly—I envy that. “I’m Tisch. Tisch McKenna. Northwind's got a cool drama department, so I’ll take my chances at getting stuffed into a locker.”
“Isla. And I don’t think we have lockers here except in the gym maybe...”
She scoffs and my shoulders sag. “You were joking. Of course. Sorry.”
“Well, I’ll let you get back to…work.” Her brows jump at the last word.
I let out a breath when she walks away.
Way to play it cool, Isla.
Now more than ever, I hope no one signs up for tutoring, because I clearly don’t have this one-on-one thing down like I thought I did.
An hour later, like my fingers have a mind of their own, I’m back on Kane Andrews. Grasping at every detail about the guy that I can find like an obsessed fan.
I’ve pretty much learned everything anyone needs to know about him. He’s a senior, business major, rich—of course. Mostly money from his father’s career, but apparently has a few brands he’s partnered with.
His stats read like something out of a highlight reel.
The kind of numbers and consistency scouts drool over, one headline reads.
I don’t understand. So then what’s all the hype about his dad?
Born in New York while his father played for the Rangers, but both parents originally from Montana. Drives a black Jeep, and lives with two of his teammates in a house off campus that they call The Castle.
Oh. And that on Wednesday evenings…he has a late practice.
The arena is colder without the large crowd. Quiet too.
Silently, I hope someone stops me as I make my way down the long hall. Like some security guard will tell me it’s a private practice, no students allowed.
But no one comes when I stop in front of the steel door, not quite ready to go in but knowing there’s no way I could turn around now.
I peep through the narrow window, fogged at the edges from the chill on the other side.
I grip the cold doorknob and ease the door open, glancing over my shoulder before slipping inside. I stay close to the back wall as the scrape of blades echoes through the empty arena.
My breath clouds the cool air as I move down a few steps for a closer look, searching for Kane among the blur of helmets and jerseys. I spot him by his number, but also his shape—like I’ve memorized it.
He’s cutting across the ice like it’s his personal stage. Confident, fast, completely in control. I draw closer then pause when I see the Coach a few rows down.
My pulse picks up. Oh god—I’m a stalker.
This is what it has come to. I find a cute boy I can’t talk to, so instead I send him creepy messages under an alias and sneak into private practices like a horny teenage girl.
No. No.
I’m here because I’m…curious. Getting to know the thing I’m supposed to be using as my path to a social life.
Who am I kidding?
I’m here because he’s here.
I’m here because every nerve in my body comes alive when I see him.
And it’s only a matter of time before I’m going to want a whole lot more.
More than I’ll ever get with Kane Andrews.
I may be pretty. But I’ve got more layers than any man will have the patience to peel.
And I’ve never met a man willing to work that hard.
Reaching for the only connection I have with him, I open the app on my phone.
Shadow: Peel my layers, Dark Knight.
I watch practice for a while after sending the message. It feels a little rebellious, sending love off game days. But nothing about what I’ve been doing lately is staying inside the lines.
I doubt the team checks the app between games—but somehow, I also doubt Kane19 will miss it.