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Danika
Tutoring male athletes had become my least favorite thing to do. Which was why I’d stopped doing it last year after a certain football player wouldn’t take no for an answer. He actually thought my signing up to help was some sort of ruse ... that I secretly wanted to get closer to him because he had a good shot at the NFL draft later that year. When I told him that I didn’t care about any of that, he didn’t believe me and suggested we go study somewhere more private—his bedroom. It took everything in me to not lose my temper and do something stupid.
My having a boyfriend didn’t deter him. Nothing I did or said made him stop his advances. It was like he didn’t understand how any girl in her right mind could not want to date him, no matter her personal situation, preference, or taste. The guy harassed me online, waited outside of my classes when they ended, and even showed up at my apartment twice. I threatened to go to the athletic director and the Compliance Department about his behavior if he didn’t stop.
Screw the cops. Going straight to the top of the university scared him more than anything else ever could have. I had grown up learning that money talked more than sense, so if someone could be paid off, they usually would be. I also knew that this guy could most likely talk his way out of a situation with the police or at least have someone of authority do it for him, and the last thing I wanted was to end up in some he said, she said situation that spun out of control and turned ugly.
I knew that if I filed a formal complaint with the head of Compliance, they were required to report it, and bigger institutions got involved, like the national committee for sports. He obviously knew it too. That was why he finally stopped trying to contact me and disappeared from my life like he’d never existed in the first place. And I’d stopped tutoring male athletes, only offering my services to females, from there on out.
It wasn’t like I needed the money from the tutoring gig, so I could have quit it altogether, but I liked the challenge. I hadn’t failed an athlete yet. I was the only tutor with a one hundred percent success rate going into my senior year. My boyfriend, Jared, never understood why I had even started doing it in the first place, but maybe that was part of the exact reason why I had.
When my freshman math professor had asked me to help out a basketball player in class, Jared hadn’t liked it one bit and told me as much. Apparently, his disapproval spurred my rebellious nature, and I said yes, partially out of spite.
That single tutoring job spiraled into one that paid. Word of mouth took off, and before I knew it, I was being requested by name. It felt good to get something on my own, with my own skill and talent, instead of my last name or my dad’s help. And the ironic thing was, I’d had no idea up until that point that I could even be a good teacher. Or that I’d like it as much as I did. People my age generally tended to annoy me and get on my nerves but not in this student-teacher scenario. I’d found myself genuinely enjoying helping someone understand a concept that had seemed completely foreign to them before I came along. It felt satisfying to know that I had a hand in a person passing their class so that they could continue to chase their dreams. I knew that I made a difference in someone’s life even if it was only for a brief moment.
So, when I’d gotten the call this morning, basically begging me to help one last male athlete, I’d almost said no without another thought and hung up. When they told me who it was for, I pretended not to care or be fazed, but Chance Carter was a legend on campus, whether he wanted to be or not. I assumed he wanted to be. Allegedly, without my help, he wasn’t going to be able to play this season. Not a single game.
“His draft year,” they had added.
As much as I hated to admit it, I did not want to be the reason that he couldn’t play. Not when I knew that with my tutoring, he’d be able to.
I stupidly cared about his eligibility and wanted to help. A perfect stranger who meant nothing to me. A stranger who I currently couldn’t stand. He was so arrogant and typical, thinking I wanted him the same way that idiot football player had once before.
I’d tried to convince Chance that he wasn’t my type, but I wasn’t sure he’d bought it. Which wouldn’t surprise me, considering the fact that it was a bald-faced lie. Chance Carter was definitely my type in the looks department—all dark-haired and green eyes that saw way too much and that I swore looked right through me. He was tall with broad, muscular shoulders and thick thighs. He was a freaking god, and I was certain he was more than aware of that fact.
But none of that mattered because I wasn’t available. And even if I were, dating an athlete sounded like the worst idea on the planet. Most of them couldn’t keep their dicks in their pants, and the last thing I needed was some cheating asshole in my life.
No, thank you.
I wish someone would tell my body that we aren’t interested because it clearly hasn’t gotten the memo. No, we can’t touch him! No, we can’t sit on his lap and talk about the first thing that pops up! No, you cannot kiss those luscious-looking lips.
Chance was staring at me from his seat next to mine at the worktable, those ridiculous green eyes boring right through me. Staring. And not saying a word.
“What?” I asked in my most annoyed tone.
“Nothing,” he said in response.
Even though I couldn’t read his mind, I knew he was definitely thinking about something. I wished I knew what.
“I want to get this out of the way before we start,” I admitted before I could freaking stop my mouth from spilling stupid secrets. I wasn’t sure why I felt the need to confess this to him anyway, but it was too late to take it back now.
“Get what out of the way?” He actually looked amused as he pulled some papers and pencils from his bag and placed them on the table.
“My dad’s a big fan of your dad.”
Chance laughed. “Really? He is?” He sounded honestly shocked.
“Is that so surprising?”
He shrugged. “Well, you are from New York. At least, I’m assuming you are with that accent and all.”
“He’s a genius, ladies and gentlemen.”
He rolled his eyes before continuing, “Most New Yorkers I know are Yankees fans.”
“I never said my dad wasn’t a Yankees fan,” I argued. All I seemed to do was argue with this guy. It was like I couldn’t stop myself.
“So, he’s a Yankees fan with a sweet spot for my dad?”
“Something like that. I guess they met at one point, and my dad really liked him. Always rooted for him,” I added with a smile as I thought about how much my dad liked Jack Carter. He even had a framed signed jersey on the wall of his office. “Even when the Mets were playing the Yanks.”
Chance matched my smile with a grin of his own, and a single dimple appeared.
How have I never noticed that adorable thing before this moment? Down, girl.
“Your dad sounds rebellious. I like him already.”
I laughed out loud because I’d never thought of my dad as a rebel, but maybe Chance was on to something.
Ralph Marchetti was a big-time real estate mogul who had built his business from nothing but hopes and dreams and eventually a few investors. He’d started from the bottom and worked his way into becoming one of the most respected guys in Manhattan real estate.
“Let me ask you something,” Chance said as he shoved his papers and pencils to the side, leaning his body on the table.
I grew nervous, wondering what he possibly wanted to know. “What?”
“Do you really have a boyfriend?” he asked, his eyebrows rising in question as he waited.
My jaw dropped open slightly before I narrowed my eyes. “You think I’d lie about that?”
He shrugged, all nonchalant, and I wanted to hit him.
“Yes, I really have a boyfriend, you arrogant ass.”
Chance arched back in his chair and huffed, “You call me a lot of names.”
“Well, you act like a lot of things,” I fired back.
For every thought he had, I had one in response. It was like a verbal chess match, and I planned on winning.
“Who is he?”
“Who’s who?” I asked before putting it together that he meant Jared. “Oh, my boyfriend?”
Chance nodded.
“His name’s Jared.”
“How long have you been together?”
“Why does it matter?”
“Are you always this closed off?”
“Me?” I let out a brisk laugh because Chance Carter apparently had a reputation for being as hard to get to know as a bank vault locked up after hours.
He was supposedly unbreakable, his innermost thoughts hidden behind a fortress of impenetrable walls, and I hated that I knew that about him. I blamed Sunny for all of my additional Chance Carter knowledge. She had heard me on the phone this morning and put two and two together, and as soon as I hung up, she’d launched into a sixty-second diatribe, detailing everything she had heard about him over the years, including the rumor that he hadn’t gone on a single date since coming to school here.
“We aren’t here to be friends, Hotshot. We’re here to work, remember?” God, why am I like this with him?
Chance’s face twisted into an unreadable expression before he reached for the papers he’d pushed aside earlier and pretended to sort them.
I found myself apologizing. “I’m sorry. You bring out the worst in me for some reason.”
Green eyes met mine as he held my gaze. “I noticed,” he agreed before adding, “But you’re right. We’re not here to be friends.”
Six words that kicked me right in the gut. It was irrational, considering the fact that I had been the one to say them in the first place, but they sounded harsher, coming from his lips. I wanted to reach back in time, tear the words from my throat, and shove them into a grinder, where they could disappear forever instead of coming out and crash-landing between us.
“Do you even have friends who are girls?”
“No,” he answered without even taking a breath.
I was curious about what made a guy like Chance Carter tick. I wasn’t sure that I’d ever met anyone who didn’t have at least one friend of the opposite sex. It was possible to be just friends, no matter what people said.
“Have you ever?”
He cocked his head to the side and studied me before responding, “I have a hard time finding girls who just want to be friends with me.”
Ten seconds ago, I would have launched another grenade in our verbal war, but I suddenly didn’t want to anymore. I believed that Chance wasn’t trying to sound arrogant or come off like a typical jock. Somewhere deep inside me, I knew that he was telling the truth. I remembered seeing it on campus—the way girls followed him around or watched him while he ate in the commissary. And even though I didn’t follow Chance on any social media platforms, I had come across his pictures before and had gotten lost in the sea of flirtatious and downright scandalous comments that had been left for him.
Without thinking further, I extended my hand toward him. He stared at it a beat before gripping it, his palm pressing against my own. A multitude of fireworks exploded inside my body with that single touch, but I fought them back, pretending that I felt nothing.
“Then, I’ll be your first,” I said with a grin, and he cocked an eyebrow.
“My first what?”
“Girl who’s a friend.” I gave his hand one hard shake before dropping it, breaking our contact and hoping like hell I wasn’t sweating. I felt hot and flushed all over.
“Now, you want to be friends? You just told me a minute ago that we were here to work.”
He started to jump into whatever else he was going to say next, but I interrupted him, “I know, but I think you need one. You can’t just have guy friends your whole life. You need at least one girl who won’t lie to you. Who can give you a female perspective on stuff.”
“I have a sister for that.”
“I’m sure you have a mom too. Neither one of them can ever be impartial. Oh my gosh, why are you making this so hard?”
He laughed. “I don’t know. You’re like an emotional tornado, whipping things up, changing them all around, and then expecting me to like the chaos.”
A tornado, huh? I’d never been called that before. At least, not to my face. “You do like it.” The verbal jousting was back on.
“Is this what being friends with a girl is like? I’m exhausted already, and I need a nap.”
It was my turn to laugh. “I think it’s what being friends with me is like. So, are you in or what?”
He shifted in his seat and ended up leaning closer to mine. “What’s expected of me in this ‘friendship’?” He used air quotes around the word.
“I-I don’t know,” I stuttered because I hadn’t thought that far ahead, and I didn’t usually have to plan out requirements for people I wanted to be friends with. You just decided to be friends, and then you were. “Normal stuff, I guess?”
“Like what? Braiding hair and shit?”
I jerked my head back and gave him a look. “Chance Carter, do you know how to braid?”
His cheeks started to color, and all I wanted to do was tease him more about it, but I stopped myself when he answered, “I told you, I have a sister.”
“That’s actually kind of adorable.” I felt myself softening. All of this internal melting was happening too quickly; it was too unexpected and far too unlike me. I cleared my throat and sat up straighter. “I think being friends for us means that we can talk about things other than math.”
“Like baseball?” he asked, and I wasn’t sure if he was being a smart-ass or being serious.
I shrugged. “I mean, sure. Yeah. If you want to talk about baseball, we can. Or girls. Or guys on the team pissing you off. Whatever.”
“And in return, you’ll talk to me about what? Your boyfriend and how romantic he is?” He sounded unhappy at the mention of Jared.
And that shouldn’t have excited me. It shouldn’t have made me feel any type of way, but here I was, sitting in this small tutor cubicle, next to Fullton State’s living god, feeling all kinds of ways.
“I guess sometimes. But just for the record”—I held up a single finger—“girls usually talk about their relationships when they’re upset. So, if I did talk to you about Jared, it would most likely be because I was mad at him, not because I was happy with him.”
“Is that true? You’d only talk about your boyfriend if you were pissed at him?”
“Most likely,” I said with a slight laugh. “Girls need to vent. Venting is like breathing for us. We do it to stay alive and to stop ourselves from killing the people who make us mad.”
He leaned back in his chair, balancing it on two legs. “Kinda fucked up, don’t you think?”
“What do you mean?”
“That you’d only talk about the bad things and not the good.” His chair came down with a slam.
“It’s not that.” I tried to figure out exactly how to explain this to him. “It’s just that we need to talk out the bad stuff. We want to feel validated in our feelings. We’re not usually looking for a solution as much as we like someone to tell us that they get it. That they understand. And that they’d feel the same way too.”
Chance nodded his head slowly, like the words were sinking into his skin and becoming a part of him. “I guess that makes sense. Totally reminds me of my parents.”
“How?” I perked up because this—this—was what friends did.
“Whenever my mom gets riled up and is about to tell some story, my dad always asks her if she wants him to fix it or just listen. Then, he reacts accordingly.”
Clapping my hands together, I couldn’t stop grinning. “Brilliant. Your dad’s literally a genius. Do you know how many fights that question alone probably stops them from having?”
“I didn’t before, but I kind of get it now.”
“So then”—I extended my hand one last time—“friends?”
“What the hell?” He relented before shaking on it, and I pretended, once again, that I felt nothing when he touched me.
I was officially Chance Carter’s first female friend. This was going to be interesting, to say the least.
