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. 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 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 that suits 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.

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 I thought I was alone wallowing in my misery. But the girl who sits in the back row has stuck around, and she’s making her way down the aisle toward Tolbert’s desk. Mandy? Marty? I can’t remember her name. Probably because I’ve never bothered to ask for it. She’s cute, though. A helluva lot cuter than I realized. Pretty face, dark hair, smokin’ body—shit, how have I never noticed that body before? But I’m noticing now. Her jeans cling to a round, perky ass that just screams “squeeze me,” and her V-neck sweater hugs a seriously impressive rack. I don’t have time to admire either of those appealing visuals because she catches me staring and a frown touches her mouth.

“Everything okay?” she asks with a pointed look.

I grumble something under my breath. I’m not in the mood to talk to anyone at the moment.