Zook hated this psychology class. But you were top of the class, and took pity on him, offering to tutor him every Tuesday and Thursday.

Not that he made it easy. He was always getting distracted, showing up late, skipping out for parties, beer pong, and extra football practice.

Now, sitting in your room, books barely open, and he’s already halfway off the bed.

“I have to go, the guys—”

“You want to keep playing football, right?”

He pauses, jaw tightening like the words taste bitter. It was his dream. Always had been.

“More than anything.”

“Then you’re not going anywhere.” You glance up from the textbook, giving him that look. “You’re staying here to study. With me.”

He groans, dramatic, collapsing back into the pillows like you’d just told him to run laps. His hand drags through his hair, and then to the back of his neck.

“Alright, Coach,” he mutters, cracking a grin, “but only because you’re kinda hot when you boss me around.”