Chapter 5

Ava

Dear Moon Goddess,

I’m beginning to think You have a strange sense of humor.

Out of every student at Blackwood Alpha Academy…

You somehow convinced Mrs. Donnelly that I should tutor Jace Walker.

Really?

The same Jace Walker who’s been calling me “Puck Bunny” since sophomore year?

The same hockey captain who somehow manages to be both unbelievably talented and unbelievably irritating?

The same future Alpha who earned a sixty-two in English?

I don’t know if this is one of those mysterious lessons adults are always talking about…

Or if You’re simply entertaining Yourself.

Either way, I have a feeling this is going to end with one of us needing a lot more help than an English tutor can provide.

Please let it be him.

Love,

Ava

⸻

I carefully closed my journal before sliding it into my backpack, smiling despite myself. Writing to the Moon Goddess had become my favorite part of every morning. I wasn’t sure if She ever read my ramblings, but somehow putting my thoughts onto paper always made them feel a little lighter.

Unfortunately, my ribs reminded me almost immediately that not everything could be fixed with words.

I reached for the zipper on my backpack and sucked in a quiet breath as a dull ache spread across my side.

“Still there,” I muttered.

The athletic trainer had promised the bruises would fade within a few days. Judging by the way my shoulder protested every movement, those few days couldn’t come fast enough.

By the time the final bell rang that afternoon, I’d successfully convinced myself Mrs. Donnelly had changed her mind.

Maybe she’d found someone else.

Maybe Jace had refused.

Maybe Coach Daniels had pulled him from hockey practice to rewrite his essay himself.

The possibilities became more ridiculous with every class I survived, but I clung to them anyway.

Then Mrs. Donnelly stopped me outside the classroom.

“Don’t forget,” she said with a knowing smile. “Four o’clock. Library.”

There went every last bit of hope.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” I answered, trying to sound far more enthusiastic than I felt.

She laughed softly before disappearing down the hallway, leaving me standing there wondering if this counted as cruel and unusual punishment.

I stopped by my locker long enough to exchange my history book for my English folder before heading toward the library. Students poured out of classrooms around me, eager to escape another day of lectures, while athletes drifted toward the arena and training facilities. The familiar sounds of Blackwood echoed through the campus—laughter, lockers slamming, someone calling across the courtyard—but the closer I got to the library, the quieter everything became.

It was one of the reasons I loved the place.

The library never cared whether you had a wolf.

Books didn’t whisper when you walked past them.

Stories didn’t judge you because you were different.

They simply waited for someone willing to listen.

Mrs. Donnelly had reserved one of the study tables tucked into the back corner beneath a large window overlooking the courtyard. Late afternoon sunlight spilled across the tabletop, warming the polished wood as I unpacked my folder, grammar handbook, notebook, and several sharpened pencils. Everything had its place. Maybe it was silly, but organizing my workspace always helped settle my nerves.

I glanced at the clock.

Three fifty-nine.

A full minute early.

“You’re such a nerd,” I whispered to myself.

“I’ve been called worse.”

I looked up so quickly I nearly dropped my pencil.

Jace Walker stood a few feet away with his hockey bag slung over one shoulder. His academy tie had disappeared somewhere between class and practice, the sleeves of his white dress shirt were rolled to his forearms, and his damp blond hair suggested he’d showered in record time before heading over.

For a second, neither of us moved.

His gaze wandered over the perfectly organized table before settling back on me.

“You really came prepared.”

“I assumed one of us should.”

A slow grin tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“Fair enough.”

That wasn’t the response I’d expected.

He pulled out the chair across from me and dropped into it with a tired sigh that sounded like the weight of the entire academy rested on his shoulders. Up close, he looked different than he did surrounded by teammates. The confidence was still there, but so was exhaustion. For the first time, he looked less like Blackwood’s golden hockey captain and more like a seventeen-year-old who’d had a very long day.

“I’ll admit,” he said, resting his forearms on the table, “I’ve never been this excited to spend my afternoon discussing thesis statements.”

“I can tell.”

“I’m practically glowing.”

“That’s not excitement.”

“What is it?”

“Resignation.”

He laughed quietly.

“I was hoping you’d say sarcasm.”

“I figured sarcasm came naturally.”

“So you’ve noticed.”

“I think the entire academy has noticed.”

His smile widened for the briefest moment before he leaned back in his chair.

“All right. Hit me.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“My essay.”

He slid it toward me.

“Tell me how bad it is.”

I looked down at the paper before meeting his eyes again.

“It isn’t bad.”

His eyebrows lifted.

“Really?”

“No.”

I smiled sweetly.

“It’s frustrating.”

He groaned.

“That’s somehow worse.”

“It is.”

I turned the essay so it faced him before laying the assignment sheet beside it.

“You write well, Jace.”

“I do?”

“When you’re actually answering the question.”

He frowned.

“I thought I was.”

“You answered half of it.”

“I answered the important half.”

“You answered the half you wanted to answer.”

He looked back and forth between the two papers, reading the assignment more carefully this time. As the realization settled across his face, he let out a long breath before dropping his head dramatically onto the table.

“Oh…”

“That’s generally the reaction.”

“I didn’t even read the second paragraph.”

“I noticed.”

“I thought the rest was just explaining things.”

“It was.”

He looked up.

“So I skipped the explanation.”

“You skipped the actual assignment.”

For a moment he simply stared at me.

Then, despite himself, he started laughing.

Not the cocky laugh he used with his teammates.

A genuine one.

“I deserve that.”

“You really do.”

He rubbed a hand over his face before sitting up again.

“Okay.”

He picked up his pencil.

“Teach me.”

There was something unexpectedly sincere about the way he said it.

Not proud.

Not defensive.

Just… willing.

I pulled a clean sheet of paper from my notebook.

“Can I ask you something first?”

“I’ll answer if I can.”

“Why hockey?”

His expression softened immediately.

“What do you mean?”

“Your essay compares leadership to hockey.”

“I know.”

“Why?”

For a long moment, he stared out the library window toward the arena.

“When I’m on the ice,” he finally said, “everything makes sense.”

I waited.

“The captain isn’t the best player.”

He glanced back at me.

“The captain’s job is making everyone else better.”

Something about the way he said it felt honest.

Not rehearsed.

Not like something he’d tell reporters after a game.

It sounded like something he actually believed.

I nodded slowly.

“I like that.”

“You do?”

“It’s a good comparison.”

He looked genuinely surprised.

“I thought you’d tell me it was cliché.”

“It would be…”

I smiled.

“…if you stopped there.”

I drew five circles across the blank sheet of paper.

“This is your hockey line.”

He leaned forward.

“The center starts the play.”

I pointed to the first circle.

“The body paragraphs keep the puck moving.”

I tapped the next three.

“And the conclusion?”

I smiled.

“Scores the goal.”

He stared at the page for several seconds before looking back at me.

“No one’s ever explained writing like that.”

“My dad always said hockey tells a story.”

“And you believed him.”

“I still do.”

His eyes drifted back to the little diagram.

“So every paragraph has a job.”

“Exactly.”

“And if one player stops doing theirs…”

“The whole play falls apart.”

A slow smile spread across his face.

“That…”

He shook his head.

“…actually makes sense.”

“I’m glad.”

“No.”

He laughed softly.

“I’m annoyed.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re making English sound like hockey.”

“And?”

“I don’t have an excuse to hate it anymore.”

For the next forty-five minutes we rebuilt his outline from the ground up. To my surprise, Jace didn’t argue when I suggested moving paragraphs around or cutting sentences that wandered off topic. Instead, he asked questions. Good questions. The kind that made me realize he wasn’t struggling because he lacked intelligence.

He struggled because no one had ever explained writing in a language that made sense to him.

As he scribbled another note in the margin of his paper, his eyes drifted toward the black notebook resting beside my backpack.

“You carry that everywhere.”

Without thinking, I rested my hand on top of it.

“I do.”

“It’s not for class, is it?”

I shook my head.

“No.”

“So what’s in it?”

I hesitated.

“Thoughts.”

“That’s mysterious.”

“And stories.”

His expression brightened with genuine curiosity.

“You write stories?”

“A little.”

“That’s actually…”

He searched for the right word.

“…really impressive.”

I blinked.

“You think so?”

He shrugged.

“I can play hockey because somebody taught me.”

He nodded toward the notebook.

“You create something that wasn’t there before.”

For just a second, I forgot who I was talking to.

The arrogant hockey captain who’d spent two years calling me Puck Bunny disappeared.

Standing across the table was simply a boy who seemed genuinely interested.

The silence stretched between us until the old grandfather clock near the circulation desk chimed half past five.

Jace looked up in surprise.

“We’ve been here an hour and a half?”

“I guess we have.”

He gathered his papers, sliding the newly organized outline into his folder before standing.

“I should probably rewrite this before Mrs. Donnelly decides I need another tutor.”

“I don’t think that’s how tutoring works.”

“Let’s not test the theory.”

He slung his hockey bag over his shoulder, then hesitated.

“…Thanks.”

The words were quiet enough that I almost missed them.

I smiled.

“You’re welcome.”

He nodded once before disappearing between the towering bookshelves.

I remained seated for another minute, staring at the empty chair across from me.

The future Alpha of Silver Ridge was still stubborn.

Still frustrating.

Still entirely too sure of himself.

But somewhere between discussing thesis statements and comparing essays to hockey…

I’d caught a glimpse of someone I hadn’t expected to find.

And for reasons I couldn’t quite explain…

That bothered me almost as much as it intrigued me.