002.

ETHAN ♠

I slammed my locker harder than I meant to, mainly because I was pissed. 

Mr. Hargrove, the science teacher, had demanded to see me. That either meant that I was in trouble or... I was in trouble.

I'd been slacking in my assignments but I hoped I could wiggle away with my charm. I'd done it before.

I stopped outside the science lab door, took a deep breath, and knocked twice. Then I pushed it open without waiting for an answer.

The room smelled like chemicals and old textbooks. Gross.

Mr. Hargrove was at his desk, grading papers or something, his glasses perched on the end of his nose like some cartoon professor.

He looked up, not smiling. That wasn't a good sign...

“You asked for me, sir?” I said, leaning against the doorframe like I owned the place.

He set down his pen and nodded. “Yes, I did, Ethan. Come in and shut the door.”

I did, but slowly, buying time. My stomach twisted a little as I walked over.

Hargrove wasn't the yelling type, but he had this way of looking at you like he knew all your crap.

“Have a seat,” he said, gesturing to the stool across from him.

I dropped into it, slouching back. “So, what's up? Is this about that lab report? I can turn it in tomorrow, no sweat.”

He sighed, rubbing his temples like I was already giving him a headache. "No, Ethan. It's about your grade. You're failing science."

Failing?

The word hit like an unexpected slap on my cheek. I mean, I slacked a little but... failing!?

“What? That can't be right. I mean, I passed the last quiz, didn't I?”

“You barely got a D-minus,” he said, pulling out a printout of my grades. He slid it across the desk.

There it was in black and white: 48%.

“And that's after I curved it. You've missed three assignments, bombed the midterm, and your participation in class is non-existent.”

I stared at the paper, embarrassment creeping up my neck. “Okay, fine. I'll catch up. I'll do extra credit or something? Come on, Mr. H, you know I'm good for it.”

He leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms. “It's not that simple. Coach Ramirez called me this morning. The school policy says that if you're failing a core class, you're ineligible for extracurriculars. That includes hockey.”

My heart dropped straight to my gut. “Wait, what? You mean I can't play? Like, at all?”

“Until your grade's up to a B or better, yes. You're off the team starting now.”

“No way.” I shot up from the stool. “Mr. Hargrove, please. Hockey's my thing. We've got regionals in a month—I'm captain. The team's counting on me. I can't just sit out.”

He watched me, his expression softening just a bit. “I get it, Ethan. You're talented on the ice. But rules are rules. You need to learn to prioritize.”

“Prioritize? I've been prioritizing! I practice every day, I have games on weekends—”

“And that's why your homework's piling up,” he cut in. “Look, I don't want to bench you. But you have to earn it back.”

I stopped pacing, gripping the back of the stool. “Fine. What do I gotta do? I'll do whatever. Retake tests, clean the lab, anything.”

He sighed again, like he was debating with himself. “Alright. Here's the deal: if you can score an A on the next quiz and keep your grades up for the rest of the semester—no slips, no excuses—you can stay on the team.”

“An A?” I blurted, eyes wide. I'd never pulled an A in science. Hell, a B was a miracle. “You're kidding, right? That's impossible.”

“Yep, an A,” he said firmly, no room for negotiation. “Anything less, and you're off. No partial credit on this one, Ethan. You need to prove you can handle it.”

I ran a hand through my hair, frustration boiling over. “An A. Great. Just great.”

“You should probably get started,” he added, glancing at the clock. “The quiz is in a week. Covers chapters five through eight—thermodynamics, mostly.”

“A week? Come on. This is brutal.”

“I'd recommend getting a tutor,” he said, standing up like the conversation was over. “Someone who knows the material. Ask around—there are plenty of smart kids in AP who'd help for extra credit.”

A tutor. Like I needed some nerd breathing down my neck. “Whatever,” I muttered, grabbing my backpack and heading for the door. “Thanks for the pep talk.”

“Ethan,” he called as I yanked it open. “I'm rooting for you. Don't blow this.”

I didn't answer. 

The hallway was dead quiet now, everyone had already gone home.

My mind was racing— I couldn't lose hockey it over some stupid formulas. It was all I had.

I pushed through the main doors into the parking lot, the afternoon sun instantly hitting me.

Kathleen was there, leaning against my truck, scrolling through her phone. She looked up and smiled the moment she caught sight of me.

"Hey, babe," she said, straightening up. "What took so long? I was waiting forever. You wanna grab shakes at Dairy Queen? My treat."

"Not now, Kath," I said, brushing past her toward the driver's side.

She followed, frowning. "Wait, what's wrong? You look pissed."

"I said not now." I unlocked the door, my voice sharper than I meant.

"God, Ethan, chill. I was just asking. Did Hargrove chew you out or something?"

I ignored her, yanking the door open and tossing my bag inside. She kept talking—something about practice or whatever—but it blurred into noise. I wasn't in the mood for her drama on top of mine.

Finally, she huffed. "Fine. Be a jerk. Call me when you're over it."

She stormed off toward her Beemer, her heels clicking angrily. Whatever. I'd deal with her later.

I was about to climb in when movement caught my eye across the lot.

Mia.

She was walking toward the bus stop with her weird friends—Riley, the veggie freak, and Jaden, the gay guy who thought he was hilarious.

They were laughing about something, Mia in the middle, her head thrown back.

Her face lit up animatedly, her eyes crinkling at the corners, that smile hitting like... damn. It was pretty. Genuinely pretty.

Her hair caught the light, swinging as she gestured wildly, probably telling some story.

I froze, hand on the door handle. What the hell? Did I just think that?

Mia? The girl I'd been calling whale since middle school? Pretty?

Nah. There must be something wrong with me. Stress from Hargrove, maybe. Or low blood sugar. Yeah, that was it.

I shook my head hard, like I could rattle the thought away, and slid into the truck.

But as I pulled out, I caught one last glance in the rearview. She was still smiling.

And I still think she looks pretty.

Shit.