Chapter 3

Ryder’s POV

My phone vibrated so hard it nearly rolled off the nightstand.

I cracked one eye open, groaning as a sharp beam of morning sunlight stabbed through the gap in the curtains. Beside me, Rebecca let out a soft, sleepy sigh and pulled the comforter higher over her bare shoulder, shifting away from the noise.

The screen flashed a single, terrifying word:

COACH.

Shit.

I rubbed a hand over my face and answered anyway, bracing myself.

"Get your ass to the rink! Now, King!"

Coach's voice exploded through the speaker, making me yank the phone away from my ear.

"You're late!"

I glanced at the digital clock on the wall.

Double shit.

"I'm on my way," I said, already throwing the blanket aside and swinging my legs out of bed.

Rebecca stretched lazily across the empty space I'd just left, a knowing smirk playing on her lips as she watched me scramble.

"Leaving already, Captain?"

"You know Coach," I muttered, searching the floor for my clothes. "He'd skate me into next semester if I'm any later than I already am."

She laughed softly, propping her chin on her hand as I yanked yesterday's crumpled jeans over my hips.

"Last night was incredible."

I paused and shot her a cocky grin over my shoulder.

"I'm pretty incredible."

She rolled her eyes, tossing a pillow at my back, though she was still laughing.

"You are so full of yourself, Ryder."

"Never said I wasn't."

She slipped out of bed and walked over, leaning in to press a lingering kiss against my cheek.

"We're doing this again, right?"

"If you ever need a stress reliever, baby, you know exactly where to find me."

Rebecca shook her head, a soft smile still playing on her lips.

"One day, that attitude is going to get you into serious trouble."

"Actually," I said, grabbing my keys off the counter, "it usually gets me out of trouble."

She laughed one last time before gathering her clothes from the floor.

I grabbed my hockey gear and headed for the door.

The second it clicked shut behind me, I sprinted down the hall. Five minutes later, my tires screeched into the athletic complex parking lot. The familiar blast of freezing air hit me as I pushed through the heavy doors and jogged toward the ice.

Coach was by the board, deep in conversation with Tristan. I took a breath and approached.

“Coach, I’m so sorry—I didn’t mean to be late. I was… stuck reading the Bible.” 

Coach turned slowly, arms crossed, face unreadable. “The Bible, Ryder? That’s your excuse today?”

“Yes, sir.” I kept my expression as innocent as possible.

Tristan coughed, failing miserably at hiding his smirk.

“I’ll get ready right now,” I added, already shifting toward the locker room.

“Office. Now,” Coach ordered, turning on his heel.

Tristan stepped in front of me, grinning. “You’re in massive trouble, Captain.”

I rolled my eyes. “Weren’t you passed out after that party last night? How are you even functional?”

He just smiled, offering zero explanation.

“Fuck this,” I muttered, heading down the corridor toward the athletic offices.

I pushed open Coach’s door with my hands raised. “Before you start lecturing me about being a responsible captain—”

“Sit down, Ryder.”

I dropped into the chair. “What’s this about?”

“Your grades.” Coach slammed a folder onto the desk. “You’re falling behind fast. If you don’t fix this, you’re risking eligibility. I can’t lose another captain this season.”

I blinked. “I took that art class because—”

“That art class did nothing for you,” he cut in. “Drop it or balance it out. Either way, get your GPA up. Now.”

I leaned forward, jaw tight. “I’ll go talk to the professor today. I’ll fix it.”

“Do whatever it takes,” Coach said, pointing at me. “Just pass.”

I left the rink fired up and marched across campus to the fine arts building. The bright, quiet hallways felt like another planet compared to the arena. I found the office, knocked, and stepped inside.

“Mrs. Zoey? Got a minute?”

She looked up, glasses sliding down her nose. “Ryder King. What a surprise to actually see you in my office.”

I gave her a tight smile and  stood in front of her desk“It’s about my grade. There must’ve been some kind of mix-up, right? I’m a pretty decent artist.”

“Decent?” She hummed, amused, and pulled out my portfolio. “Here’s your latest submission.”

I leaned in, expecting at least a C. “And?”

“I gave it a D.”

“D?!” The word came out like a groan. “Why?”

Mrs. Zoey tapped the sketch. “There’s no life in it, Ryder. It’s flat. Soulless. To pass my class, I need to feel something when I look at your work. Depth. Emotion.”

I rubbed a hand over my face, stomach knotting. “What do I need to do? Because failing isn’t an option.”

“You can submit a completely new piece,” she said, tapping her chin. “But I strongly recommend a tutor to help you with the fundamentals.”

Pride stung. “I don’t need a tutor for an intro class.”

“You do,” she replied firmly. “And you’re in luck—she’s right on time.”

I turned slowly.

There she was. 

The girl from the party last night.

 Tessy.

 Standing in the doorway with a notebook clutched to her chest like a shield, looking as shocked as I felt.

“Ma’am?” Tessy asked softly.

Mrs. Zoey smiled warmly. “Tessy, perfect timing. You’re going to tutor Ryder King.”

Tessy opened her mouth to protest, but Mrs. Zoey held up a hand. “It’ll look excellent on your resume, and Ryder will compensate you well for your time.”

I cleared my throat, suddenly uncomfortable under Tessy’s icy glare. “Any chance I could get a different tutor?”

“She’s the best student in the department,” Mrs. Zoey said decisively. “You’re in excellent hands.”

Tessy crossed her arms, jaw set, staring at me like I was a problem she didn’t want to solve. A knot twisted in my stomach.