LOOSERS CAN'T BE CHOOSERS

CHASE

"TELL ME YOUR LAPTOP SCREEN IS LYING TO US" Bree muttered, leaning so close over my shoulder that her hair brushed my cheek.

We were both staring intensely at the glowing monitor in our room. There it was, blinking in black and white on the university's official academic portal: *Tutee: Scott Isaac Lawrence. Tutor: Chase Barbara Thomas.*

"It’s not lying," I sighed, dropping my head into my hands.

"Reject it. Click the decline button right now," Bree ordered, crossing her arms defensively. "The guy completely hates you for no reason. Plus, I heard some of the girls talking—they say he's kind of a cheapskate. He’s on a strict scholarship, but aren't college hockey stars basically rolling in money and NIL deals? Aren't they like super rich?"

I shook my head, staring at Scott's stark profile picture on the portal. "Not all of them are. It might look super glamorous from the outside, Bree, but trust me, they aren't all swimming in cash. He might not have it all."

Bree snorted, rolling her eyes. "Yeah, with a face like that? Sure, he doesn't have it all. So, you're rejecting it, right?"

I shook my head again, a strange spark of determination lighting up in my chest. "Even if I reject the tutoring gig, I'm still going to see him on the ice every single day for my management job. If I take this, it’s actually a good thing. Maybe I can finally get him to tell me what the hell I did wrong to make him hate me so much."

Bree stared at me for a long moment, her expression softening into pure adoration. "Oh, my child, you are entirely too sweet for this world," she said dramatically, leaning down to place a warm kiss on my forehead. "Fine. If you're going to face the beast, I'll drive you to wherever he is."

"Wait, where is he even?" I muttered, scrolling down the page looking for a location.

Right on cue, my phone chimed on the desk. I picked it up to see a long text from the head coach.

'Coach: Hey Chase, Scott is currently at a mandatory team meeting, so he asked me to coordinate. He would like the tutoring session to be at his apartment, the hockey house, if you don't mind.'

'P.S. Please help him pass this course. I don't know why he did what he did on the ice today, but Scott really is a nice kid underneath it all. And you still haven't sent me that laundry bill!'

Bree peeked over my arm to read the screen and let out a loud whistle. "No shit. He has the head coach playing butler for him? Unbelievable. So, are you actually going to meet Prince Charming at his castle?"

"Yeah," I said, a wave of exhaustion suddenly hitting me. I quickly typed a reply to the coach, asking him to send the exact time and the full address. "I'm doing this."

With a few hours to spare before the session, I decided to take a short nap to shake off the lingering stress of the morning.

But when my eyes snapped open, a jolt of pure panic shot through me. I checked my phone. It was 5:20 PM. Twenty minutes past five! Which the coach had told me was the time to see him.

"Oh my God, Bree, I'm late!" I screamed, scrambling out of bed. I threw my notebooks, laptop, and pens into my bag, nearly tripping over my own sneakers as I rushed out the door.

Bree sprinted down to the parking lot with me, revving up her car and driving like a stunt pilot across campus.

Within ten minutes, we pulled up outside a massive, slightly chaotic-looking off-campus house with hockey sticks propped up against the porch.

Bree leaned over the steering wheel, looking up at the building. "Wow. The wild man actually lives in civilization with the rest of us."

I smacked her arm lightly, throwing open the passenger door. "Be nice."

"If you're not back by ten o'clock, I'm putting up pictures of a missing person on every lamppost!" Bree screamed out the window, giving me a wave before she drove off down the street.

I took a deep, steadying breath, my heart thumping against my ribs as I walked up the wooden steps and knocked on the door.

The door swung open, and the heavy tension in my shoulders instantly evaporated. A group of the hockey players from this morning stood there, and the moment they recognized me, their faces lit up with pure joy.

"Look who it is!" one of them shouted.

"The Queen has arrived!" another yelled, and right there in the entryway, three massive, broad-shouldered athletes bent at the waist, performing ridiculous, mock-royal bows.

A genuine chuckle escaped my lips. "Hey guys. Thanks for the welcome, but I'm actually here to see Scott."

The entire room went dead silent. The players stopped bowing, their faces dropping in unison.

"Oh, no," one of them whispered, pouting his lower lip. "The poor maiden has come to see the Count of Gloominess."

They all let out a dramatic collective sigh. One of the guys stepped forward, putting a hand over his heart, and began reciting a sad, mournful poem about tragic fates as he pointed toward the stairs. "His room is up there, brave traveler. May the hockey gods protect your soul."

I couldn't help but laugh out loud. Their ridiculousness completely lightened my mood and washed away my nerves. Shaking my head, I walked past them and headed up the wooden staircase.

When I reached the top landing, I found Scott’s room at the end of the hall. The door was already halfway open. I raised my hand to knock, but the force of my knuckles pushed the door fully open, swinging it wide.

I froze in the doorway, the words catching in my throat.

Scott was standing in the center of the room. He was completely shirtless, wearing nothing but low-slung sweatpants.

His back was turned to me, showing off the sharp, powerful muscles of his shoulders and spine, but my eyes locked onto the dark, nasty purple bruises everywhere across his skin some were faded while some were very fresh.

He was in the middle of gently rubbing a soothing balm over the injured muscle.

I stood there, completely locked in place, staring at the lines of his back.

I was so distracted by the sight that I didn't even notice him turn his head. With an agonizingly slow, smooth motion, he turned around to face me, his dark eyes locking directly onto mine.

A mocking, dangerous smirk touched his lips.

"Didn't anybody teach you it's rude to stare, Thomas?" Scott asked, his voice low and very, very rough.