I HATE THIS GUY

CHAPTER 2

/MAVERICK/

My lungs were still burning when I jogged up the library stairs. I was twenty minutes late, my damp hair was sticking to my forehead, and my duffel bag slung over my shoulders. Coach had kept us on the ice an extra half hour to drill power plays, completely ignoring the frantic looks I kept throwing at the arena clock.

I pushed through the doors of the library and instantly fixed my posture. I slapped a practiced, easy smile on my face as a couple of freshmen girls recognized me and started whispering. I gave them a quick nod, but inside, I was worried about everything.

Between morning skates, afternoon film sessions, scouts flying in from Chicago next week, and my dad calling every single night to ask about my stats, I felt like I was getting to my limit. And now, I had to deal with this statistics tutor. I pulled out my phone to check the text he’d sent me yesterday. I could tell from how he typed that he was an uptight person who'd try to give me a hard time.

I found the stairs and headed up to the fourth floor which was the quietest part of the library or so they say. I navigated the rows of bookshelves until I saw the glass-walled study rooms at the very end.

Through the glass, I spotted a guy sitting at the table. He was leaning forward, staring intensely at a laptop, a giant paper coffee cup sitting next to his hand. He looked like the definition of a textbook overachiever—crisp button-down shirt, a decent look, and a pencil tucked behind his ear.

I took a deep breath, wiped my sweaty palms on my sweatpants, and opened the door.

"Hey, sorry I'm behind," I said, letting my voice carry that friendly charm that usually got me out of trouble with professors and parking enforcement. "Coach held us over. I'm Maverick by the way."

The guy didn't look up immediately. He slowly closed his laptop, unplugged his mouse, and then finally turned his head.

"Twenty-two minutes," Nathan said. "I don't care about your coach, and I already know who you are. Sit down."

I blinked, my smile faltering for a fraction of a second before I recovered. I dropped my heavy duffel bag into the corner and pulled out a chair across from him. "Right, straight to business. I like it."

Nathan didn't answer. He reached into his backpack, pulled out a thick textbook, and slammed it onto the table between us.

"Open to page 142," Nathan commanded, sliding a packet of printed worksheets toward me. "We’re going over probability distributions. Since you skipped the last three lectures, we have to cover two weeks of material in thirty-eight minutes."

I stared at the worksheet. The numbers and symbols swam before my eyes, looking less like math and more like a foreign language. That familiar, uncomfortable feeling settled right back into my stomach. I just didn't get this stuff. I’d tried reading the chapters before, but after ten minutes, my brain would just shut off.

"Look, Nathan, right?" I leaned back, crossing my arms and flashing my best smile. "Can we just take a second here? I know I'm starting from behind. But honestly, I'm a visual learner. Maybe you could just… walk me through the shortcuts? Just give me the highlights of what’s actually going to be on the test so we don't have to waste time on all this extra text."

Nathan stared at me, his face completely blank. "Shortcuts."

"Yeah, you know, the cheat codes," I joked, shifting closer. I let my eyes linger on his face, lowering my voice a bit. "Come on. You’re the genius here and I’m just a guy trying to keep his head above water. Help a guy out, and I promise I’ll make it worth your while. I can get you premium tickets to the winter finals or anything else that's within my power that you'd like."

Nathan looked down at the worksheet, then looked back up at me. For a second, I actually thought my charm had worked.

Then he spoke. "Are you stupid?"

My jaw dropped. "What?"

"I asked if you are stupid," Nathan repeated, his tone entirely conversational, as if he were asking about the weather. "Because only a genuinely stupid person would think that a premium ticket to watch men hit a frozen piece of rubber with sticks is equal compensation for my time."

I felt a hot flush of anger rise up my neck. Nobody talked to me like this. "Hey, watch your mouth. I was being nice."

"No, you were trying to manipulate me and it's pathetic," Nathan shot back, leaning across the table, his eyes drilling straight into mine. "Now open the book."

I swallowed my pride, fighting the urge to just stand up and walk out. As much as I'd love to give him a piece of my mind, I couldn't afford to walk out on him. If I failed, I was off the team.

The next fifteen minutes were absolute torture. Nathan didn't explain things gently, he either rattled definitions, pointed at equations, or expected me to understand them instantly. When I stumbled over a basic formula, he just sighed with irritation and tapped the paper with his pencil.

"No, Maverick. Look at the variable. Why are you dividing by the variance?"

"Because… it’s under the line?" I guessed. I felt completely humiliated. I was twenty-three years old, a grown man who led a team of thirty guys on the ice, and this nerd was making me feel like an idiot.

"It’s under the line because you didn't read the steps," Nathan snapped, rubbing his temples. "We don't have time for guessing games."

I stared at the numbers, the pressure in my chest building until I couldn't take it anymore. I slammed my hand lightly on the table. "Look, let's just be real for a second."

Nathan stopped, looking up.

I sighed, leaning back and rubbing the back of my neck. I just needed to find a way out of this room. "Clearly, this isn't working. You’re frustrated, I'm frustrated. How about we make a deal? You need to tutor me, right? The department assigned you. What if you just… write up a study guide with the direct answers for the homework assignments? I’ll copy them down and I’ll pay you of course. Three hundred? Five hundred? Just name your price and we won't have to waste your afternoons sitting here listening to me guess."

I watched Nathan’s expression change. He slowly laid his pencil down on the table, stood up and packed his laptop into his bag.

"What are you doing?" I asked, a sudden spike of panic hitting me.

Nathan zipped his bag, swung it over his shoulder.

"Let’s get one thing straight," Nathan glared at me. "I don't care who your dad is, I also don't care about your draft, and I certainly don't care about your money. You think you can just smile, toss some cash around, and buy your way out of doing actual work because you’re the star athlete?"

"I didn't mean—"

"Shut up," he cut me off. "You listen to me. I am here because I have to be, not because I want to look at your face. If you are so much as thirty seconds late to our next session, I will walk out. If you miss a session without a doctor's note, I will also walk out. And if you ever, ever imply that you can buy me or buy your answers again, I am going straight to the athletic board with a report for academic dishonesty."

“Are you really being for real right now?” I stared at him in disbelief. Sure, I thought he was going to be uptight but not to this degree.

"Try me," Nathan said, his eyes flashing with genuine malice. "I will personally make sure you spend the winter finals sitting in the bleachers watching your team lose. You want to save your career? Then you show up, you shut up, and you do exactly what I tell you to do. Do we have an understanding?"

I stared at him, suppressing my anger.

No one had ever spoken to me like this. No one had ever looked at me with such total contempt.

I swallowed hard, my throat completely dry. I looked at the textbook, then back up at his icy glare. My entire life, everything I’d worked for since I was six years old, was currently in the hands of a guy who looked like he’d gladly chew me up and spit me out.

"Yeah," I muttered, my voice barely audible. "We understand each other."

"Good," Nathan said flatly. He turned around, pushed the glass door open, and marched out of the study room without looking back.

I sat there alone in the quiet room, staring at the empty doorway. I ran a hand through my hair, feeling a mix of anger, panic, and frustration.

“I thought we'd at least start off on the right foot but damn, I hate that guy.”