HIS LITTLE PET

CHAPTER 1

/NATHAN/

I walked down the hallway of the humanities building feeling a slight mix of nervousness and excitement. I was finally going to get my recommendation letter today.

I adjusted the strap of my backpack, checked my watch and knocked on the door of office 304.

"Come in," called Dr. Marshall’s muffled voice.

I walked in, already priming my polite smile. Dr. Marshall, the Head of the Economics Department, was buried behind stacks of midterm assessments.

"Ah, Nathan. Right on time, as always," Marshall said, peering over his reading glasses. He gestured to the leather chair across from him. "Sit."

I sat down, keeping my posture straight. I didn't want to waste time. "Thank you, sir. I assume you called me in regarding the recommendation letter for the SiporaTech Internship?"

"Straight to the point." Marshall smiled, leaning back. He pulled a sealed envelope from his top drawer and laid it on the desk. "I wrote it this morning. And honestly, Nathan, it’s one of the best letters I’ve ever penned. You’re the top student in the department and I know SiporaTech would be lucky to have you."

I could literally die of happiness right now. That internship was my ticket out of standard post-grad panic. It meant a guaranteed job at a top-tier firm. "Thank you, Dr. Marshall. That means a lot. I’ll take that and get it sent over right away—"

I reached for the envelope, but Marshall’s hand clamped down on top of it.

The smile on my face froze.

"There is, however, a slight catch," Marshall said, his tone shifting into something a little too casual and transactional. I didn't like the sound of this. "A special assignment, if you will. Think of it as a final capstone project for the department."

My hand dropped back into my lap clenched. I tried not to allow the strain and annoyance show on my practically twitching face. "And what kind of assignment would that be?"

Marshall sighed, rubbing his temples. "We have a situation with a student who offers Advanced Statistics. His current grade is… abysmal. If he fails the upcoming finals, he faces academic suspension. Which means he’s barred from playing."

I blinked. "Okay? With all due respect, Dr. Marshall, the peer tutoring center is open from nine to five every day. I'm sure one of the juniors could—"

"The athletic board requested a senior," Marshall interrupted smoothly. "Someone who's exceptionally brilliant, won't get distracted by who this student is, and who has the spine to actually make him study. I told them you were the only choice."

I felt a cold knot forming in my stomach. I hated where this was going. I hated campus politics, and I especially hated sports culture. "Who is the student?"

"Maverick Rockwell."

I stared at him. "You’ve got to be kidding me."

"I rarely joke about things like this, Nathan."

"Maverick 'Maybe' Rockwell? The hockey captain?" My voice cracked slightly, my usual composure slipping. "Sir, the guy has his face on banners outside the stadium. He has a literal fan club and he's a partying freak, disruptive, and quite frankly, his crowd is exactly what I spend my entire life avoiding."

"He is also an NHL draft prospect," Marshall countered, his voice firming up. "The university gets a massive amount of funding and publicity from the athletic department, Nathan. If Rockwell gets benched for the winter finals, it looks bad on the team, it looks bad on the sports program, and frankly, it looks bad on our department for failing him."

"Then he should have studied," I said flatly. "Why is his lack of time management my crisis?"

"Because," Marshall said, sliding the envelope just an inch closer to his side of the desk, "I am making his passing grade a condition for this recommendation letter. If Maverick passes, I mail this to SiporaTech myself. If he fails, or if you refuse… well, I’ll have to reevaluate your commitment to the department."

My jaw clenched so hard my teeth ached. I looked from Marshall’s calm, unyielding face to the white envelope. I wanted to remind him that this was considered blackmail and I could report this but knowing that the department was with him on this, I couldn't ruin my chance of getting into a top firm just to call out a blackmail packaged as a polite academic request.

"That's not fair," I muttered, dropping the overly respectful tone.

"Life rarely is," Marshall replied, completely unfazed. He pulled out a yellow pad and scribbled a phone number on it, ripping the sheet off and sliding it across the desk alongside the envelope—which I still couldn't touch. "That’s his contact info. I’ve already told his coach you’d be reaching out today. You session twice a week. He needs a B on the final to scrape a passing average."

I stared at the phone number like it was a death warrant. My quiet, perfectly curated life was about to be invaded by a golden-boy jock who probably thought a median was the concrete strip in the middle of the highway.

"Two weeks," I said, my face focused on my feet. "I tutor him until the finals. That's it."

"Deal," Marshall said, offering a satisfied smile.

I grabbed my backpack, slung it over one shoulder, and snatched the paper with the phone number off the desk. I didn't say goodbye. I just turned on my heel and walked out, slamming the door slightly harder than necessary.

I pulled out my phone as I stepped out of the building, staring at the crumpled piece of paper in my fist.

Why did I have to suffer because he couldn't study? And what the fuck was my business if was an NHL draft prospect? Maverick was standing between me and my future, which meant Maverick was the enemy.

I opened my messaging app and typed out an aggressive text.

“This is Nathan Tanner, your statistics tutor. Be at the ibrary study room 4B, tomorrow at 4:00 PM sharp. Do not be late.”