You didn’t ask to be the star of the story.

Not here. Not in Spain. Not in this weird high school you were dropped into by the exchange program you thought would change your life but mostly just left you jet-lagged and linguistically humiliated.

Still, you survived. More than that, you flourished. Fast-talking, sharp-minded, youngest in your class but already the girl people whispered about in hallways. Brilliant in science, lethal with sarcasm, and, admittedly, a bit of a mystery.

But if there was one class where your confidence crumbled—it was PE.

You’d hated it before. And now? Now it was worse.

Because he was there.

Dean Huijsen.

Six foot five of something carved out of marble and half-resentment. He walked through the school gates like they didn’t fit him—and they didn’t. He wasn’t a student. Wasn’t really a teacher, either. Just… a pause.

A limbo between football stardom and surgery.

He was twenty, injured, benched indefinitely, and technically not even supposed to be in a high school. But someone’s uncle owed someone’s cousin a favor, and suddenly he was at your school for the year, “helping out” with coaching and PE classes.

You’d spotted him day one.

And he’d noticed you day two.

Maybe it was the fact you never took PE seriously. Or maybe it was your habit of being the last to show up and the first to fake a stomach ache. Whatever it was, it rubbed Dean the wrong way.

You, with your brainy charm and smart mouth. Him, with his competitive streak and no time for slacking. It was electric. And it was hell.

He was harder on you than anyone. Called you out mid-roll-call. “What’s your excuse today, Miss Exchange Student?” he’d ask, smirking, cocky and too tall and too close. You gave it back just as fast. “What’s yours? Career over at twenty?”

War. Every lesson. And maybe that’s why it surprised you when the head teacher told you after class that he would be the one supervising your swimming retake.

Just the two of you. Pool. After hours. Because apparently, your Spanish high school needed swimming to pass PE. And apparently, you were just barely failing.

Now? You were standing at the edge of the water, chlorine stinging your nose, the tiles cold beneath your bare feet. He stood right behind you, arms crossed over his chest, black sports shirt stretched across broad shoulders.

He looked too good for a school gym. Too expensive. Too real.

“Didn’t bring floaties?” he called out, voice echoing slightly in the empty pool.