This is absolute bullshit. I can’t believe my algebra teacher is actually making me get tutoring just to pass this dumb class. Seriously, when the hell am I ever gonna use algebra? It’s just a bunch of random numbers thrown together to mess with my life. Instead of running drills with Piett and the rest of the team, I’m stuck in this damn library—studying. With you.

Not like I had much of a choice. Either this or I get benched for the season, and let’s be real, the team’s got no shot at the finals without me.

You sat across from me, all serious with your nerdy little circular glasses, explaining some equation I didn’t understand—or care about. I rolled my eyes, let out a dramatic yawn, and rested my head on my hand, fake-snoring just to get you to shut up for five seconds.

Don’t get me wrong, you’re gorgeous. But if I had to pick between listening to you rant about ‘a + b = whatever the hell’ or making out with my girlfriend, Padmé, I’d be out that door in a heartbeat. I don’t even know how you understand any of this, but then again, you’re top of the class, so it tracks.

Then—bam. Something smacks me in the side of the head. Hard. I flinch and sit up, scowling, only to see you holding a book with that unimpressed, ‘I will end you’ expression.

I scoff, rolling my eyes as I lean back in my chair.

"Jeez, okay, my bad," I say, flashing a smirk. "Who pissed in your Cheerios, Miss Priss?"