I failed.

I fucking failed.

For fifteen years, Timothy Lane handed out A's like mints. The year I take the class? Lane's ticker quits ticking, and I get stuck with Pamela Tolbert.

It's official. The woman is my archenemy. Just the sight of her flowery handwriting which fills up every inch of available space in the margins of my midterm-makes me want to go Incredible Hulk on the booklet and rip it to shreds.

I'm rocking A's in most of my other courses, but as of right now, I'm getting an F in Philosophical Ethics. Combined with the C-plus in Spanish history, my average has dropped to a C-minus. I need a C-plus average to play hockey.

Normally I have no problem keeping my GPA up. Despite what a lot of folks believe, I'm not a dumb jock. But hey, I don't mind letting people think I am. Women, in particular. I guess they're turned on by the idea of screwing the big brawny caveman who's only good for one thing, but since I'm not looking for anything serious, casual hookups with chicks that only want my dick suit me just fine. Gives me more time to focus on hockey.

But there won't be any more hockey if I don't bring up this grade.

The worst thing about Briar? Our dean demands excellence— academically and athletically. While other schools might be more lenient toward athletes, Briar has a zero-tolerance policy.

Fuckin' Tolbert. When I spoke to her before class asking for extra credit, she told me in that nasally voice of hers to attend the tutorials and meet with the study group. I already do both. So yeah, unless I hire some whiz kid to wear a mask of my face and take the makeup midterm for me...I'm screwed.

My frustration manifests itself in the form of an audible groan, and from the corner of my eye I see someone jerk in surprise.

I jerk too, because here I thought I was wallowing in my misery alone. But the person who sits in the back row has stuck around, and they’re making their way down the aisle toward Tolbert's desk.

Mandy?

Marty?

I can't remember their name. Probably because I've never bothered to ask for it. They’re cute, though. A helluva lot cuter than I realized.

Pretty face, nice hair, smokin' body-shit, how have I never noticed that body before?

But I'm noticing now. Skinny jeans cling to a round, nice ass that just screams "squeeze me," and their V-neck sweater hugs a seriously impressive chest. I don't have time to admire either of those appealing visuals because they catch me staring and a frown touches their mouth.

"Everything okay?" They ask with a pointed look.