Are you usually this late?

CALEB

The cold still clung to my skin when I pushed open the classroom door.

Snow dusted the shoulders of my hoodie, melting slowly as the warmth inside wrapped around me. My lungs still burned from practice, the familiar ache of skating drills sitting heavy in my legs. Morning practices always ran long and Coach had a habit of pretending the clock didn’t exist.

The room went quiet the second the door creaked open. I held their stares, I’d been the center of attention in this town since I was sixteen. A late entrance into a classroom wasn’t going to rattle me.

What I hadn’t expected was the man standing at the front of the room.

Tall. Dark coat draped neatly over the chair behind him. Sleeves rolled at the wrist. His posture was straight , one hand resting lightly on the edge of the desk.

His eyes lifted from the attendance sheet.

“Mr. Foster,” he said evenly.

His voice calm.

“I assume the ice rink does not operate on the same schedule as my classroom.”

A few students laughed under their breath.

My jaw tightened as I stepped inside, letting the door shut behind me.

“Practice ran over,” I said.

“Of course it did.” You could feel the boredom laced words.

I moved towards an empty seat halfway down the row, dropping my bag beside the desk. Then he spoke again.

“Let’s be clear about one thing , Mr. Foster.”

The professor had stepped away from the desk now, hands loosely clasped behind his back.

“While you may be the star of the ice rink…” His gaze flicked briefly to the hockey duffel bag at my feet. “…in this classroom, you are simply another student.”

A ripple of silence passed through the room.

“You will arrive on time,” he continued, “You will complete your assignments to the same standard expected of everyone else in this room. And you will participate as a student, not as a campus celebrity.”

A couple of people shifted awkwardly in their seats.

Silverpine was a small town. Everyone knew who I was. The captain of the university hockey team didn’t usually get called out like this.

“Is that understood ? "

I leaned back slightly in my chair, arms crossing over my chest.

“Yes, Professor.”

“Good.”

Just like that, he turned away and picked up the marker again.The lecture resumed. As if nothing had happened.

I stared down at my notebook for a few seconds before flipping it open. My pen hovered over the blank page.

Professor Elliot Ward.

The name was written neatly at the top of the syllabus he’d handed out last week. New faculty. Transferred from some university back east.

I’d barely paid attention then . Now it was impossible not to.

He spoke clearly, pacing slowly across the front of the room while discussing about narrative perspective. His words were precise, every sentence carefully structured.

There was no hesitation in the way he taught.

Just confidence. And the annoying part was… he was good at it.

Every now and then his eyes moved through the class.

Whenever they reached my row, I felt it immediately. He treated me exactly the same as everyone else. Which, strangely enough, felt worse.

Most professors either loved the hockey team or ignored us completely. Half the time, they gave us extensions because of games or travel.

Ward didn’t look like the kind of man who bent rules.

By the time the clock ticked towards the end of the hour, my legs had finally stopped aching from practice.

Ward capped the marker and glanced once at the time.

“That’s all for today.”

Chairs scraped against the floor as students began packing their bags.

I shoved my notebook back into mine, standing as the crowd started filtering towards the door.

“Mr. Foster.”

I paused . Turning slowly, I faced the front of the room again.

Most of the class had already slipped out, leaving only a few lingering students near the door.

“Stay for a moment.”

I stepped forward a few feet, stopping in front of him.

“Something wrong?” I asked.

His expression remained neutral.

“Your reputation precedes you.”

“Good things, I hope.”

“Mixed.”

Ward picked up the syllabus from the desk, flipping it open.

“I’m aware that athletics demand a significant portion of your time,” he said. “However, that will not excuse incomplete work or missed deadlines.”

“I didn’t ask for special treatment.”

“No,” he agreed calmly. “But students in your position often expect it.”

I held his gaze.

“Well, I’m not most students.”

“Then we shouldn’t have any problems.”

Silence stretched between us for a moment. Snow drifted lazily past the classroom windows behind him, soft white flakes against the grey morning sky.

“You’re dismissed, Mr. Foster.”

I slung my bag over my shoulder and headed for the door. But before I stepped into the hallway, I glanced back.

Ward had already turned towards the board again, erasing the notes from the lecture.

A small, reluctant grin tugged at the corner of my mouth.

Professor Elliot Ward might not care who I was on the ice. But something told me this class wasn’t going to be boring.