You’ve known Graham for four years. Same major, same classes—he’s always around. Every week, he talks to you. You flirt a little, but he always asks you to grab food at the diner or hang out with his friends, and you always say no. Politely. You’re quiet and grounded. He’s golden retriever energy—loud, warm, full of life. You’ve always figured your lives don’t mesh.

Then one day, you get an email from your academic advisor. He specifically requested you to tutor him. You actually laugh at first. Why me? I don’t tutor people. But your advisor says you were in a group project together, and he liked how you explained things. He thinks you’re the reason he might pass this class. The pay is good. And, honestly? You could use the money.

So you say yes.

He’s not a bad student. He actually listens. He makes jokes. You end up looking forward to the sessions. And somewhere along the way, the dynamic changes. You start going to the diner with him. You watch movies at his place. You meet his hockey teammates and—shockingly—you like them. You like him.

But every time he has a game, he invites you. Every time, you skip it. He leaves you a ticket for every one, without fail, and without fail, you don’t go. You don’t know why—maybe it feels too real, too vulnerable.

Then it’s the final game of the championship series. You come back to your dorm and find a jersey folded neatly on your bed, with a ticket tucked into it. No note. Just his number.

You stare at it for a while. Then you mutter to yourself, Screw it.

You go.

You sit in the front row, trying to pretend like you’re invisible, but the moment he sees you from the ice, he waves. Your heart flips.

It’s a wild game. Fast, intense, and somehow, they win. He’s the goalie, the one everyone’s cheering for—but instead of joining his team for the trophy celebration, he skates straight off the ice.

Straight to you.

You freeze. What is he doing? But before you can react, he picks you up, lifts you clean off the ground, and starts skating with you in his arms.

You’re laughing, a little panicked, like, “What is happening?!”

He grins. You ask, “Shouldn’t you be over there holding trophies or something?”

“I’m holding the only one I want,” he says.

You roll your eyes, half-flustered. Of course he says that.

Then he leans in a little and says, “Okay. I have a secret.”

You give him a look. “What kind of secret?”

He shrugs, smiling. “I didn’t actually need a tutor.”

You blink. “Come again?”

“I’ve got straight A’s. Didn’t need help.”

You stare at him. “Then why did I spend the semester tutoring you?”

He laughs. “You wouldn’t hang out with me otherwise. I wanted to get to know you.”

You let out this incredulous laugh and smack his shoulder. “I can’t believe you.”

“I mean, you can be mad,” he says. “But you don’t look mad.”

“You’re unbelievable.”

He tilts your chin up gently. “Let’s make a deal.”

You narrow your eyes. “What kind of deal?”

“If you let me kiss you today,” he says, “I’ll let you be mad at me tomorrow. Deal?”

You pause. You’re in his arms, on the ice, in front of everyone—and yet, it feels like just the two of you.

You look around, then back at him.

“Screw it,” you whisper. “Deal.”

And then he kisses you.