Professor Jenkins’s voice droned through the lecture hall, flat and unimpressed,

Nathaniel Archer—Nate on the ice, Nate to pretty much everyone—felt the muscles in his neck tighten. He ignored the snickers from a few rows back, his eyes fixed on the paper sitting on his desk. At the top of the page, a D- was scrawled in angry red ink.

A D-minus.

He wasn’t even aware that was a real grade.

Jenkins continued his lecture, but Nate didn’t hear a word. His phone vibrated silently in his pocket. He didn’t need to look to know who it was. The only person who texted him at this time was his father.

After class, as students flooded the aisles, Nate remained in his seat. He slowly crumpled the offending paper into a tight ball, the paper groaning in protest. Then, he unlocked his phone.

From: Alexander Archer
Jenkins just called me.

A simple statement, yet it carried more weight than any accusation. Alexander Archer, former NHL star and current sports agent powerhouse, never wasted a word.

Nate’s thumb hovered over the screen, unsure how to reply. A second message came through before he could.

From: Alexander Archer
That grade affects your eligibility for the All-Star media interviews. Your brand starts freshman year. Fix this.

Fix this. His father’s two favorite words. Whether it was a tied game, a sponsorship deal, or a goddamn Sports Media Relations class.

Nate took a deep breath and shoved his phone back into his pocket. He stood up, his eyes scanning the crowd of students pouring out of the lecture hall. He needed a solution. A fast, efficient one.

His gaze landed on a figure just about to exit. Scarlett Jones.

She’d spoken only three times in class all semester, and each time, she’d made old man Jenkins nod in approval. Her paper had been read aloud as an example of an A+. She was his solution.

“Jones!”

Nate strode through the crowd, catching up to her in the hallway.

Scarlett Jones stopped and turned. She wasn’t tall, dressed in a plain gray hoodie, jeans, and a backpack that looked heavy enough to be filled with bricks. Her expression was neutral as she looked up at him, her dark eyes focused, almost unnervingly so.

Her voice was flat. Tap water.

Nate flashed the million-dollar smile he reserved for team photos and post-game interviews.

Her expression didn't change. Not even a flicker. She said his last name like she was reading it off a roster.

So much for the charm offensive.

Nate cleared his throat, deciding to get straight to the point. He gestured with the balled-up paper in his hand.

she said, and turned to leave.

Nate moved, easily blocking her path with his larger frame.

Scarlett finally gave him a proper look, her eyes traveling from his meticulously styled hair, down his team-emblazoned jacket, to his sneakers, before meeting his eyes again. There was no admiration in her gaze, no curiosity. Just a cool, detached assessment.

she said.

Nate said immediately.

Her voice remained frustratingly level.

And with that, she stepped around him and walked away. No hesitation.

Nate stood frozen for a second, dumbfounded. It was the first time in his life that his face, his status, and his money had all failed him at once with a girl. She’d dismissed him as easily as someone swatting away a fly.

He watched her disappear down the hall and clenched his jaw.

Damn it.

***

For the next two days, Nate Archer showed Scarlett Jones what it meant to be a relentless forechecker.

He abandoned long-winded attempts at persuasion. He adopted a new strategy: presence.

Tuesday afternoon, Scarlett found her usual quiet corner on the third floor of the library. Not ten minutes after she’d settled in, a large shadow fell over her. She looked up. Nate Archer. He said nothing, just pulled out the chair opposite her, sat down, and slammed his brick-like copy of The Media Relations Casebook onto the table. Then he stared at it, perfectly still.

He didn't look at her, didn't make a sound, but his sheer presence was like a wall, making it impossible to concentrate. The faint, clean scent of his soap and something subtly expensive, probably cologne, filled the small space around them.

After thirty minutes of feigned reading, Scarlett snapped her book shut, packed her bag, and moved.

Wednesday, at lunch, Scarlett was in line for a salad. She’d just picked up her tray when she turned around and nearly walked right into him.

he said with a lazy grin.

Scarlett ignored him, found an empty table, and sat down. Five minutes later, Nate set his own tray—piled high with grilled chicken and pasta—down on the seat opposite hers.

he said, gesturing at the table with his fork.

Scarlett kept her eyes on her salad, chewing slowly and deliberately.

Thursday evening, Scarlett was power-walking toward the performing arts center, backpack bouncing with every step. It was the weekly rehearsal for her a cappella group. She hated being late.

She stopped dead at the entrance.

Nate Archer was leaning against the brick wall, hockey helmet tucked under one arm, scrolling through his phone. He wasn't in his team jacket, just a simple black t-shirt that did nothing to hide the width of his shoulders or the muscles in his arms. He looked less like he was waiting for someone and more like he was just…there.

But Scarlett knew better. He was waiting for her.

She took a deep breath, feeling her patience fraying. She marched up to him.

she said, her voice tight with suppressed anger.

Nate looked up from his phone. He pushed himself off the wall to his full height, towering over her.

“And I already gave you my answer.”

“I’m not accepting that answer.”

Scarlett could feel her voice rising despite her best efforts.

Nate’s voice dropped, the easy-going charm gone.

“So what? Everyone’s classes are important. My organic chemistry class is important. My communications theory class is important. I’m not obligated to sacrifice my time for your importance.”

They stood there, facing off in the evening breeze. A few girls walking by pointed at Nate, whispering amongst themselves. Scarlett could feel their stares like insects crawling on her skin. She hated being the center of attention.

Just as she was about to give up and walk away, the sound of a piano drifted from inside the building, followed by the familiar melody of vocal warm-ups.

Nate heard it too. His eyes flickered past her shoulder toward the sound, then back to her face. He was quiet for a moment, a thoughtful, calculating look entering his eyes.

she said, her patience gone.

Nate said suddenly. His tone had changed. It was no longer just pestering. It was…strategic.

he asked.

Scarlett’s heart did a painful little stutter-step.

Justin. The lead singer and guitarist of their group. With his soft brown curls and gentle voice. She had…noticed him. For a while. But she was sure she’d been discreet.

she said, her face becoming an unreadable mask.

But Nate just smiled. It wasn’t his usual sunny grin. This one was sharp, knowing.

“Don’t, Jones. I saw you in the library the other day. You were staring at your music theory textbook, but your laptop screen was open to Justin’s Instagram. And at lunch today, you were watching him so intently you dripped salad dressing on your book.”

Scarlett’s lips pressed into a thin, hard line. Humiliation and anger washed over her. She felt exposed, like an insect pinned to a board.

she said, her voice dangerously quiet.

Nate agreed, stepping closer. The space between them shrank until she could smell the faint scent of sweat and clean laundry on his shirt.

Every word was a perfectly aimed dart.

she asked coldly.

he said, his voice low and conspiratorial.

Scarlett’s eyebrows shot up. The term was from her own world.

Nate said, his eyes locked on hers.

Scarlett was silent, but her mind was racing.

she said, her voice barely a whisper.

Nate snapped his fingers.

Scarlett finished, her throat dry.

Nate concluded, his voice full of smug confidence.

It was a dirty, shallow, stereotypical tactic. She had written entire papers critiquing this exact kind of social maneuvering.

But damn it, she also knew, in the real world, it often worked.

Nate laid out his final terms.

Scarlett stood there, frozen. Her brain, a machine built for logic and analysis, was running a frantic cost-benefit calculation.

Risk: Getting entangled with a complicated, high-profile athlete. Becoming the subject of campus gossip. The plan itself was absurd and had a high probability of failure.

Reward: A chance. A small, pathetic, but real chance to get Justin to actually see her.

She looked up at Nate Archer. He wore a confident smirk, but she could see the flicker of desperation deep in his eyes. He needed this deal as much as she did. They were equals.

she heard herself ask, her voice shockingly calm, as if discussing a class project.

Nate’s smirk broadened into a genuine grin. He knew he’d won.

he said. He held out his hand. It was a large, capable, athlete’s hand, with calluses on the palm and knuckles.

Scarlett hesitated for half a second. Then she reached out and put her hand in his. Her own hand felt small and lost in his grip.

she said.

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