The King's Hart

"You're late." My supervisor Diane doesn't look up from her clipboard. She doesn't have to. I already know I'm in trouble. The tutoring center smells like stale coffee and desperation. Three students huddle over textbooks in the corner. None of them look at me. None of them care that I sprinted across campus in the freezing rain because my bike chain snapped for the fourth time this month. "Mrs. Calloway called," Diane says. "Again." My stomach drops. My landlord has been calling everyone. The tutoring center. The library. The financial aid office. She wants her rent, and she wants it now, and she doesn't care that I've been picking up extra shifts cleaning the hockey arena until two in the morning. "I'll handle it," I say. "You have two weeks, Sophie. After that—" "I said I'll handle it." My voice comes out sharper than I meant. Diane finally looks up. Her expression flickers between pity and annoyance, and I hate both. This is what being broke does. It strips you naked in front of everyone. It makes your private disasters public entertainment. "The athletic department sent over a new assignment," Diane says, sliding a folder across the desk. "High priority. Coach's orders." I grab the folder. Anything to stop talking about my landlord. Then I read the name. Jace Kingston. The air leaves my lungs. "No," I say. "It's not optional." "No. Absolutely not." "Sophie—" "He nearly hit me with his car last semester. Did you know that? He was speeding through the parking lot, and I was biking to work, and he swerved so close I felt the mirror graze my backpack. Then he rolled down his window and said, 'Watch it, scholarship.'" The words taste like poison. I've been holding them in my mouth for months. Diane's face doesn't change. "He's failing English. If he doesn't pass his final paper, he's benched for the season. Coach says you're the only tutor qualified to handle difficult cases." Difficult cases. That's what they call the athletes who show up hungover and expect me to write their papers for them. "How much?" I ask. "Excuse me?" "The bonus. For handling difficult cases. How much?" Diane pauses. "Five hundred dollars." Five hundred dollars. That's half my back rent. That's groceries for a month. That's my bike chain fixed and maybe, if I'm careful, a winter coat that doesn't have holes in the pockets. That's the difference between eviction and survival. "Fine," I say. "But if he's late even once, I'm reporting him." The tutoring center has private rooms in the back. Soundproof glass walls, a whiteboard, a table that's seen better days. I choose the smallest one. Jace Kingston doesn't deserve space. I'm organizing my notes when the door opens. He fills the doorway like he owns it. Broad shoulders under a crimson Vipers hoodie. Dark hair still wet from the shower. Jaw sharp enough to cut glass. He smells like expensive cologne and something else—something cold, like the ice he skates on. Girls on campus call him King. They say it like a prayer. I say it like a curse. "You're the tutor?" His voice is low and lazy, like this is all a joke. "Sit down." He doesn't sit. He leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, eyes dragging over me like he's appraising merchandise. "Library Girl," he says. "I've seen you around. You're the one who glares at everyone." "I don't glare at everyone. Just you." Something flickers in his expression. Surprise, maybe. Or interest. I can't tell, and I don't care. "You don't like me," he says. "Observant." "Why?" I almost laugh. Almost. "You nearly killed me with your car. You've slept with half the girls in my pre-law cohort and made three of them cry. Last week I watched you throw a hundred-dollar bill at a barista because she got your order wrong. Do you want me to keep going?" Jace's jaw tightens. For a second, just a second, I see something underneath the swagger. Something dark and bruised. Then it's gone. "Sounds like you've been paying attention," he says. "Should I be flattered?" "You should be seated. We have work to do." He finally moves. But instead of sitting across from me, he pulls out the chair beside me. Too close. His knee brushes mine under the table. I jerk away. "Relax," he says. "I don't bite." "I do." That earns me a grin. It's the kind of grin that's probably melted a thousand girls before me. But I'm not melting. I'm burning. "The deal is simple," I say, sliding a study schedule across the table. "You show up on time. You do the work. You don't flirt with me, you don't try to charm me, and you definitely don't ask me to write your paper for you." "Who said anything about charming you?" "Your reputation." "My reputation." He leans back in his chair, studying me like I'm a puzzle he's trying to solve. "And what's your reputation, Library Girl?" "Don't call me that." "What should I call you?" "Sophie. Or Ms. Hart. Your choice." "Sophie." He says my name slowly, testing it. "Sophie Hart. That's a good name." I ignore the way my stomach flips. It's just a name. It's just a boy saying my name. It doesn't mean anything. "First assignment," I say. "You're going to write a thesis statement. Right now. Show me you're not completely hopeless." "What's the topic?" "Redemption." He freezes. It's subtle. A split-second tension in his shoulders, a flicker of something dark in his eyes. Then he laughs, but it sounds hollow. "Redemption," he repeats. "That's a heavy topic for a Tuesday afternoon." "Are you incapable of heavy topics?" "Are you always this pleasant?" "Only with you." We stare at each other. The air between us crackles like static before a storm. His eyes are blue—I notice that now. Dark blue, like deep water. There's something hungry in the way he looks at me, and I can't tell if it's attraction or anger. Maybe both. "I'll write your thesis," he says finally. "But I have one condition." "You're not in a position to make conditions." "I want the tutoring sessions at my apartment." Absolutely not. "No." "The library closes at nine. I have practice until eight-thirty. Unless you want to meet at the rink, which is freezing and smells like sweat." "I'd rather smell sweat than your cologne." "You know what my cologne smells like?" My face heats. I walked right into that. "That's not—I didn't mean—" "Relax, Sophie. I'm just messing with you." He leans forward, elbows on the table, and suddenly he's too close again. I can see the faint scar above his eyebrow. The shadow of stubble along his jaw. "But seriously. My apartment. I have a desk, decent lighting, and a coffee machine that actually works." "I don't drink coffee." "Tea, then. You seem like a tea person." "You don't know anything about me." "I know you're broke." He says it matter-of-factly, not cruelly, but it still stings. "I know you work three jobs. I know you're on academic probation. I know you glare at everyone because you think it makes you invisible." He pauses. "It doesn't." My chest tightens. He's been paying attention. Not the kind of attention I want, but attention all the same. "Fine," I say. "Your apartment. But if you try anything—" "You'll report me. I know." He stands up, grabbing the study schedule I gave him. "See you Thursday, Sophie Hart." He's at the door when I call out. "Your thesis. You still haven't written it." Jace looks over his shoulder. That grin again. "I'll have it ready. Don't worry." Then he's gone. Thursday comes too fast. Jace's apartment is in The Forge, a luxury complex three blocks from campus. The kind of building that has a doorman and a gym and a heated parking garage. The kind of building I'll never be able to afford. I buzz his apartment number. The door clicks open without anyone asking who I am. Sixth floor. Apartment 612. The hallway smells like new carpet and money. I knock twice. Jace opens the door wearing sweatpants and nothing else. I should look away. I should definitely look away. But my eyes betray me, tracing the hard lines of his chest, the bruises purpling his ribs, the way his stomach muscles flex when he breathes. "See something you like?" I snap my gaze up to his face. "Put on a shirt." "Make me." "I'll leave." He sighs, dramatic and exaggerated, but he grabs a t-shirt from the back of a chair and pulls it over his head. "Happy?" "Ecstatic." His apartment is nothing like I expected. I thought there would be empty beer bottles. Posters of half-naked women. The kind of chaos that follows college hockey players everywhere. Instead, it's almost sterile. White walls. Black leather couch. A kitchen so clean it looks like no one's ever cooked in it. The only personal item I can see is a hockey stick mounted above the television. "Nice place," I say. "It's fine." "Did your parents decorate?" The question comes out casual, but Jace's whole body goes rigid. His hands curl into fists at his sides. "No," he says. "I decorated it myself." Something there. Something raw. I file it away for later. "Where's the desk?" "Bedroom." "Absolutely not." "The living room table is glass. It wobbles." "I don't care." "Sophie." He says my name like a warning. "I'm not going to attack you. I'm not a monster." The word hangs between us. Monster. He said it with too much weight, like it means something more than it should. "Fine," I say, because I'm too tired to argue. "But the door stays open." "The door stays open," he agrees. His bedroom is as sparse as the rest of the apartment. Queen bed with gray sheets. A desk facing the window. Hockey gear piled in the corner. And on the nightstand, hidden partially behind a lamp, a photograph. I shouldn't look. It's none of my business. But my eyes find it anyway—a woman with dark hair and tired eyes, smiling at the camera like she's forgotten how. Jace sees me looking. He crosses the room in three strides and lays the photograph face-down. "My mother," he says. "Don't ask." I don't ask. We sit at the desk. He pulls out a crumpled piece of paper and slides it toward me. His thesis statement. Redemption isn't about being forgiven. It's about proving to yourself that you're not the worst thing you've ever done. I read it twice. Then three times. "This is good," I say. "I know." "No, I mean it's actually good. Like, I was expecting garbage and this is—" "I said I know." His voice is sharp. But underneath the sharpness, there's something else. Something almost fragile. "Who's the worst thing you've ever done?" I ask. The question slips out before I can stop it. I'm not supposed to care. I'm not supposed to be curious about Jace Kingston's damage. But I am. Jace stares at the window. The city lights reflect in his eyes, turning them silver. "Wrong question," he says quietly. "It's not about who I've done. It's about who I'm afraid I'll become." The words land somewhere deep in my chest. Because I understand that fear. I understand it completely. "Everyone's afraid of becoming something," I say. "Doesn't mean you will." "You don't know me." "You're right. I don't." The silence stretches between us. It's not comfortable, but it's not hostile either. It's something else. Something new. Then Jace's phone buzzes. He glances at the screen, and his expression shutters. "I have to go," he says. "It's only been twenty minutes." "Practice ran late. Coach needs me." He's lying. I can see it in the way he won't meet my eyes. But I'm not his girlfriend. I'm not his friend. I'm just his tutor. "Fine," I say. "Same time next week. And read chapters four through six." I gather my things and head for the door. Jace doesn't follow me. I'm halfway down the hallway when I hear it. A crash. Glass shattering. Then Jace's voice, raised in a way I've never heard before. "Get out!" I freeze. Another voice answers. Deeper. Slurred. "You think you're better than me? You think you can just—" "I said get out!" I should keep walking. This is none of my business. Jace Kingston is a spoiled hockey player with a bad attitude and too much money. I don't care about him. But my feet won't move. The apartment door flies open. A man stumbles out—older, gray-haired, reeking of whiskey. He looks like Jace. The same sharp jaw. The same blue eyes. But where Jace is controlled, this man is chaos. He sees me. "Well, well," he slurs. "Who's this?" Jace appears in the doorway. His t-shirt is ripped. There's a fresh bruise blooming on his cheekbone. And for the first time since I met him, he looks afraid. "Sophie," he says. "Leave. Now." But I don't leave. Because I'm looking at the older man, and I'm looking at Jace, and I'm putting pieces together that I never wanted to put together. The bruises on his ribs. The photograph of his mother. The thesis statement about proving you're not the worst thing you've ever done. "She's pretty," the man says, stepping toward me. "What's your name, sweetheart?" I open my mouth to answer. But Jace moves first. He steps between us, shoulders squared, body tense as a drawn bow. The fear is gone from his face. Now there's only rage. "She's no one," Jace says. "And you're leaving. Right now." The man laughs. "Or what? You'll hit me? You don't have the guts." Jace's hands shake. But he doesn't raise them. "Please," he says, and the word cracks down the middle. "Just go." The man spits on the floor. Then he shoves past Jace and stumbles toward the elevator, muttering curses under his breath. The door slides shut. Silence. Jace doesn't look at me. He stares at the wall, his chest heaving, his hands still shaking. "I told you to leave," he says. "I know." "So why didn't you?" I should lie. I should say something sharp and cold, something that will rebuild the wall between us. But the truth slips out before I can stop it. "Because I know what it's like," I say. "To be afraid of the person you're supposed to trust." Jace finally looks at me. And for one breathless moment, the King is gone. There's only a boy with bruises on his ribs and a monster for a father and eyes that are begging me to run. I stay where I am. "Your cheek," I say. "It's bleeding." He touches his face. His fingers come away red. "I'll be fine." "You always say that?" "Every day of my life." I should leave. I have work in three hours. I have bills to pay and a landlord to appease and a future that's hanging by a thread. But instead, I step forward. "The bathroom," I say. "Where is it?" Jace blinks. "What?" "First aid kit. Bandages. Something to clean that cut before it gets infected." "You don't have to—" "I know I don't have to. Where's the bathroom?" He stares at me for a long moment. Something shifts in his expression. Something I can't name. Then he points down the hall. I walk past him into his apartment, and this time, I close the door behind me.