George wasn’t supposed to be this easy to talk to. He was supposed to be the guy who drove me insane on the ice, the guy who smirked when I fell and acted like he had the whole rink under his control. But later that evening, when he showed up at my door with a notebook under his arm and a sheepish look on his face, it was almost… disarming.
“I need help,” he said, like the words physically hurt him to admit. “With my history project. It’s due tomorrow. I started, but… well, I’m drowning.”
I leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. “The great George Hartley drowning? That’s a first.”
He rolled his eyes. “Yeah, laugh it up. You’re good at this stuff, right?”
I wanted to say no just to watch him squirm, but there was something in the way he shifted his weight, almost restless, like ask
