"Sheridan," I whispered, shaking his shoulder gently. "Wake up. We have an audit in ninety minutes."
Knox grumbled, his eyelashes fluttering open as he slowly lifted his head from his folded arms.
His dark hair was a tousled mess, and his eyes were bloodshot from exhaustion. He blinked at me, then down at the closed workbook beneath his elbow.
"Is it done?" his voice was raspy and deep with sleep.
"Every page," I said, offering a faint, tired smile. "You finished the last Chapter at some point before you passed out."
Knox leaned back in the desk chair, stretching his arms over his head with a low yawn.
He looked over at the bed, then back at me. He didn’t say anything about carrying me there, but the corner of his mouth tilted up into a faint smirk. "Hope my bed was comfortable, Bookworm."
"It was fine," I said quickly, looking away as a warm flush hit my cheeks.
I brushed the loose strands of hair behind my ears, suddenly acutely aware of how I looked. My mouth tasted dry, my knit sweater was wrinkled, my jeans felt stiff, and I was shivering slightly in the cool morning air drafting through his window.
Knox noticed.
He stood up, walked into the adjoining bathroom, and rummaged through the cabinet under the sink. A second later, he walked back and tossed a brand-new, packaged toothbrush and a small travel tube of toothpaste onto the bed.
"Shower’s all yours if you want to splash some water," he said, yawning again. "Go freshen up. You look like a raccoon."
"And you look like a corpse that’s been run over by a Zamboni," I countered, snatching the package. "Go wash your face, Sheridan," I added before heading inside.
I washed my face with freezing water to shock myself awake, brushed my teeth, and tried to tame my wild curls in his bathroom mirror as best as I could.
When I stepped back out, Knox had a heavy, oversized black cotton hoodie in his hands. The front had Briar Hockey embroidered in bold gold letters across the chest.
He tossed it to me. "Wear this. It’s freezing outside, and Vance’s office is basically a meat locker. And your sweater looks like you slept in a ditch."
I caught the hoodie; the fabric was thick and soft. I hesitated for a moment before slipping it over my head.
It swallowed me completely, the hem falling past my thighs and the sleeves pooling over my hands. It smelled strongly of him... cedar, soap, and cold ice.
"Let’s go," Knox said, pulling a clean grey tee over his head. "We have to hit the drive-thru. My stomach is eating itself."
The drive to the administration building was a blur of high-speed turns and desperate chewing. Knox drove with one hand on the wheel of his black SUV, moving through the morning campus traffic while devouring a greasy bacon-egg-and-cheese bagel.
I sat in the passenger seat, nursing a massive cup of hot black coffee and taking large bites of my own breakfast sandwich, trying to make sure I didn’t get crumbs all over his expensive leather seats.
By the time he pulled into the compliance parking lot and killed the engine, it was eight-fifty-five.
"Breakfast of champions," I muttered, wiping my hands on a napkin and checking my reflection in the visor mirror one last time. The black hoodie hid my wrinkled clothes perfectly, though I still looked slightly sleep-deprived.
"Gets the job done," Knox smirked, grabbing the finished workbook from the center console. "Ready, Bookworm?"
"No," I admitted, taking a final gulp of coffee. "But let’s get this over with."
The Office of Athletic Compliance at nine in the morning was exactly as intimidating as I had feared. Mr. Vance’s office was lined with dark wood bookshelves, a large mahogany desk sitting in the center.
But it wasn’t Mr. Vance who made my stomach tie itself in knots.
Sitting in the leather armchair in the corner, legs crossed elegantly as he read a printout, was Garrison Sheridan.
He wore a charcoal designer suit, looking polished, wealthy, and entirely out of place in a university office. Coach Brennan was also present, standing by the window with his arms crossed, looking tense.
"Come in, Miss Bennett, Mr. Sheridan," Mr. Vance said, gesturing to the two chairs in front of his desk.
Knox and I sat down. I sat up straight, my hands clasped in my lap, trying to ignore the heavy black fabric of Knox’s hoodie drowning my frame.
Garrison didn’t say a word, but his cold eyes swept over the hoodie, a silent, mocking eyebrow raised in response.
Knox slid the blue workbook across the mahogany desk. It landed with a soft thud.
"Here is the workbook, Mr. Vance," I said, keeping my voice calm and professional. "As you can see, all eight Chapters of the required curriculum are fully complete."
Vance pulled the book closer, opening it to the first page.
The silence in the room was deafening as he flipped through the pages. The only sound was the rustle of paper. He examined the graphs, his finger tracing the lines Knox had drawn, checking the handwriting to ensure it matched the signature Knox had signed on his compliance form.
After what felt like an eternity, Vance closed the workbook.
"The workbook is indeed complete," Vance said, leaning back in his chair. "However, the compliance board requires verification that the student-athlete is actively participating in the learning process, rather than simply having their tutor copy answers for them."
My heart did a sudden, violent bounce.
Vance looked straight at Knox. "Mr. Sheridan, let’s do a quick oral check. On page forty-two, in Chapter Four, you solved a series of problems regarding price elasticity of demand. Explain the difference between elastic and inelastic demand to me, right now, in your own words."
Knox went completely still.
I looked at him, my breath catching in my throat because I knew I couldn’t help him. If I spoke, the audit would fail immediately.
Knox stared at Vance, his jaw tightening as the silence in the room stretched. I knew what was happening in his head: the academic panic, the letters swimming, the dread of being exposed.
Garrison leaned back in his corner chair with a cold, victorious smirk playing on his lips.
Knox looked over at me. His eyes were wide with a quiet desperation in them. I gave him a small, encouraging nod, trying to convey everything we had practiced.
Knox turned back to Vance and took a deep breath.
"Think of it like a defensive zone play on the ice," Knox said. "If the defenders are packed tight at the blue line and they don’t budge no matter how hard the offense pushes them, they are inelastic. The quantity of the play doesn’t change when the price... the offensive pressure rises. But if the defenders stretch out to cover the shooters, adjusting their position immediately to the change in demand, they are elastic. They react to the market."
Mr. Vance blinked, clearly caught off guard by the sports analogy.
Coach Brennan let out a sudden, satisfied bark of laughter from the window. "Spoken like a captain, Vance. He knows the plays."
Vance cleared his throat, looking slightly embarrassed as he pulled a pen from his pocket. "Yes. Well. That is a... highly unconventional explanation, Mr. Sheridan, but economically sound. The concepts are correct."
He signed his name on the compliance sheet, stamped it with a red seal, and handed the workbook back to Knox. "The audit is approved. Mr. Sheridan’s academic eligibility remains active, and Miss Bennett’s tutoring contract is cleared of all inquiry."
A wave of intense, dizzying relief washed over me. I stood up on slightly shaky knees, and shook Mr. Vance’s hand.
As we walked out into the carpeted hallway, Garrison Sheridan stood up and followed us.
"A clever performance, Miss Bennett," Garrison’s voice was smooth, stopping us near the water cooler.
He stood a few feet away, looking down at me with cold contempt. "But performance only gets you so far. The Boosters Gala is in four weeks. I fully expect Knox to stand in that ballroom with Harold Orwell’s daughter by his side, where he belongs. Do not make the mistake of thinking this little arrangement has won you a seat at our table."
"I don’t need a seat at your table, Mr. Sheridan," I said, meeting his gaze with a flat, calm expression. "But if Knox is there, I’ll be right beside him. Just to make sure he doesn’t forget his vocabulary cards."
Garrison’s cold eyes narrowed. He looked at Knox, gave a brief, dismissive nod, and turned, walking briskly down the hallway toward the exit.
Knox let out a low breath, his shoulders finally dropping. Coach Brennan stepped out of the office, giving Knox a firm pat on the back.
"Good job today, Knox," Brennan said, then looked at me. "Miss Bennett, thank you. But keep the pressure on. The team’s home opener is this Friday night against State. We need the captain focused and eligible. I expect to see you in the front row of the captain’s family box, looking supportive."
"I’ll be there, Coach," I nodded.
Brennan walked away, leaving Knox and me alone in the hallway.
We walked down to the parking lot, the morning sun finally starting to warm the chilly air. Knox opened the passenger door of his SUV for me, and I climbed in, wrapping the heavy folds of his oversized hoodie tighter around myself.
He slid into the driver’s seat, started the engine, and shifted the car into reverse.
But he didn’t pull out of the parking space immediately. Instead, he leaned back, resting one wrist on the top of the steering wheel as he looked over at me.
"So," Knox said, a slow, cocky smirk spreading across his face. "You’re going to my game on Friday."
"It’s in the contract, Sheridan," I replied, staring straight ahead to hide the way my pulse was starting to react to his close proximity. "If I don’t go, it’s a breach. I’m just doing my job."
Knox’s smirk softened, his eyes lingering on me for a long, quiet second as I sat engulfed in his team hoodie.
"Right," he murmured, pulling out of the lot and heading toward my apartment. "Strictly business, Bookworm."