Chapter 2

Ivy

I sat down opposite him and opened the folder with more force than necessary, refusing to look at him for longer than a second. The hockey academic room smelled faintly of floor polish and old coffee. Afternoon light cut across the long table, catching on the edge of Ryder’s jersey.

He didn’t move.

He just watched me, that same lazy half-smile still stuck on his face like he had all the time in the world and zero intention of using any of it productively.

“You’re late,” I said without looking up.

“Am I?” His voice was slow, amused. “Didn’t realize tutoring came with a time clock.”

“It comes with basic respect for other people’s schedules.”

“Cute.” He stretched his long legs out under the table until the toe of his shoe nudged my chair. “You practice that line in the mirror, or does the attitude just come free with the glasses?”

I finally lifted my eyes. “Do you always talk this much when someone is trying to help you pass a class, or is this a special performance for me?”

Ryder’s smile widened. He leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table, and the movement made the fabric of his jersey pull tight across his shoulders. Everything about him screamed money and zero consequences—expensive watch, messy dark hair that somehow still looked intentional, the easy confidence of a guy who had never once worried about an electricity bill.

“I don’t need help,” he said. “I need the university off my back so I can keep playing. There’s a difference.”

“There isn’t. You’re failing.”

“Temporarily.”

I slid his transcript across the table. “Your last three quizzes say otherwise.”

He glanced at the paper like it personally offended him, then pushed it back toward me with one finger. “Paper doesn’t mean much. I play better when I’m not stuck in a classroom listening to someone drone on about equations.”

“Lucky for you, I’m not here to drone. I’m here to make sure you understand enough to pass the next exam so you don’t get benched.”

“And if I don’t feel like studying today?”

“Then you fail. And I still get paid either way.” I kept my voice flat. “Your choice.”

Something flickered in his eyes—surprise, maybe, or the first real spark of irritation. Most people probably laughed at his comments or rolled over the second he smirked. I wasn’t most people.

He sat back again, folding his arms. “What’s your name again? Ivy something?”

“Bennett.”

“Right. Ivy Bennett.” He said it slowly, tasting it. “Scholarship kid, right? The one who always sits in the front row like the professor’s going to give out gold stars.”

I ignored the jab and pulled a practice worksheet from the folder. “We’re starting with the material you failed last week. Open your textbook.”

“Didn’t bring it.”

Of course he hadn’t.

I stared at him. “You were told to bring it.”

“Was I?” He shrugged one shoulder, the picture of spoiled indifference. “Must’ve slipped my mind. Practice ran long. Coach kept us late. Priorities.”

“Hockey is not a priority if you get pulled from the team for grades.”

“It is when your family name is on the donor wall of the rink.” He said it casually, like he was commenting on the weather. “My dad writes checks. The university writes exceptions. Until now, apparently.”

I felt my jaw tighten. “Open the online version on your phone, then.”

He pulled out his phone, unlocked it with a flick of his thumb, and held it up so I could see the lock screen—some blurred photo of the team celebrating. “Battery’s at four percent. Tragic.”

I closed my eyes for half a second, counted to three, and opened them again. “You are unbelievable.”

“Thank you.”

“That wasn’t a compliment.”

“Sounded like one.” He tipped his chair back on two legs, balancing with the easy arrogance of someone who had never fallen on his face in his life. “So what’s the plan, Tutor Girl? You going to lecture me until I magically absorb knowledge through pure boredom?”

I shoved the worksheet across the table hard enough that it slid into his arm. “Read the first problem. Out loud.”

He glanced down at it, then back at me. “Nah.”

“Excuse me?”

“I said nah.” He pushed the paper away. “I’m not in the mood to perform for you. Sit there and look all serious with your little glasses if you want. Doesn’t mean I’m playing along.”

Heat climbed up my neck. I could feel my freckles standing out the way they always did when I was angry. “You understand that if you fail this class, you’re off the team, right? Captain or not.”

“I understand that someone higher up than you will figure it out. They always do.” He gave me a slow once-over, eyes lingering on my oversized sweater and the braces I always tried to hide when I spoke. “You, on the other hand, look like you actually need this job. So maybe stop pretending you’re in charge and just… I don’t know. Do whatever tutors do. I’ll sit here and look pretty.”

I stood up so fast the chair scraped against the floor.

Ryder’s eyebrows rose, but he didn’t straighten. He just watched me with that same infuriating half-smile, like my anger was the most entertaining thing he’d seen all day.

“You think this is a joke,” I said, voice low. “You think because your family has money and you can skate in a circle with a stick, the rest of us exist to clean up after you.”

“Pretty much.”

“I have seventeen dollars in my account until Friday. Seventeen. I am tutoring you because I need the money, not because I find your personality even remotely tolerable. So either you open that worksheet and attempt the first problem, or I walk out and tell Dr. Miller you refused to cooperate. Your choice, Captain.”

Silence stretched between us.

For the first time since I’d walked in, Ryder’s smile faded. Just a fraction. He studied me like he’d finally realized the quiet girl with the glasses and the braces wasn’t going to fold the way everyone else did.

Then the smile came back, sharper this time.

“Feisty,” he murmured. “Didn’t see that coming.”

He reached for the worksheet, dragged it closer, and looked down at the first problem with exaggerated reluctance. “Fine. But if I get this wrong, you’re explaining it without the attitude. Deal?”

“No deal. Just read it.”

He sighed like I was asking him to donate a kidney, then began reading in a deliberately slow, mocking tone that made every word sound like a personal insult.

I sat back down, jaw locked, and started correcting him the second he finished.

Outside, the afternoon light kept shifting across the table. Inside, Ryder Knox made every single minute feel like a deliberate test of how much arrogance one person could pack into a single body.

And the worst part?

Somewhere under all the irritation, I already knew this was only the beginning.