The Puck and The President

Chapter 10

CHAPTER 10

The Student Union was a whirlwind of noise and activity, but all I could hear was the frantic pounding of my own heart. Liam’s words echoed in my ears, a painful, undeniable truth that left me speechless. “You’re just as much of a mess as I am. You’re just better at hiding it.” He saw me. The real me. The one I had been trying to outrun for years. The one that was terrified of everything that didn't fit neatly into a box.

I took a deep breath, trying to regain my composure. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Hayes,” I said, my voice a shaky whisper. I was clinging to the last shred of my perfect façade, a desperate attempt to save myself from the chaos that was unfolding before my eyes.

He just smiled, a slow, knowing smile that was a little bit like a challenge. “Don’t pretend, Prez. You’re not fooling anyone. Not me. Last night, in the dark, with the music… that was the real you.”

His words were a jolt of electricity, a reminder of the intimacy we had shared just hours before. The memory of his thumb stroking my cheek sent a shiver down my spine. I was terrified of him, and yet, a part of me, a part I didn’t know existed, was thrilled.

“I’m not a tutor, Hayes. I don’t have time for this,” I said, and the words were a painful admission of my own weakness. I had time for him. I had all the time in the world.

He leaned in, his voice a low, conspiratorial whisper. “You don’t have to admit it, Prez. You can just show up. We can meet in the library, in a quiet, secluded corner where no one will see us. Just you, me, and the Gilded Age.”

His suggestion was a tempting, dangerous offer. The library was my sanctuary, a place of peace and order, a place where Liam Hayes had no business being. But the thought of spending more time with him, in a quiet space, away from the prying eyes of the world, was a powerful, irresistible temptation.

“I… I don’t know,” I stammered, my perfect façade crumbling.

He just smiled, a small, knowing smile that was a little bit like a promise. “I’ll be there at 7 tonight. Don’t be late, Prez.”

And then he was gone, a blur of motion, swallowed by the boisterous crowd of hockey players. I stood there, stunned, my heart still pounding in my ears. I had just agreed to tutor Liam Hayes. I had just agreed to let chaos into my perfectly organized life. I had a feeling that I was about to regret it.

That night, I arrived at the library with ten minutes to spare, my heart a frantic hummingbird trapped in a cage of ribs. I was dressed in a comfortable pair of sweatpants, a worn-out hoodie, and a pair of sneakers. I had a stack of books on the Gilded Age in my arms, and a sense of dread that was a familiar, unwelcome companion.

I found him in a quiet, secluded corner, a place I had always considered my own. He was sitting at a large, wooden table, his face buried in a textbook that looked impossibly complicated. He was wearing a faded gray t-shirt and a pair of dark jeans, and his hair, a chaotic mess of dark curls, was falling over his eyes. He wasn't the boisterous, charming bad boy from the Student Union. He was just a boy, lost in a world of his own.

I stood there for a moment, a silent observer in the dark, watching him work. I didn’t want to interrupt him. I didn’t want to break the spell of the moment. He was so focused, so completely lost in his work, that he didn't even notice me. The intensity on his face, the way his brows were furrowed in concentration, was a side of him I had never seen. It was captivating. He looked like an artist painting a masterpiece, or a sculptor chipping away at marble. It was a beautiful, raw kind of focus that made my heart ache in a way I couldn't understand.

“Hello?” I called out, my voice a little louder than I intended, the sound echoing in the silent, empty library.

He jumped, his head snapping up. He looked at me, his eyes widening in surprise, then narrowed in a way that was all too familiar. A small, infuriating smirk played on his lips as he made his way around the table and towards me, his walk a slow, confident swagger that made my blood pressure spike.

“Prez. On time for once. I’m impressed,” he said, his voice a low, mocking whisper that was meant only for me.

“I have a busy schedule, Hayes. Punctuality is a virtue, and I don't have time to waste on tardy hockey players,” I retorted, and my voice was steadier than I expected, a familiar shield I was expertly raising.

He just chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that made my insides do a little flutter. “So I’ve heard. My sources tell me you have a spreadsheet for everything, from what you're going to eat for breakfast to when you're going to schedule a bathroom break.”

“My sources tell me you're a git,” I said, a smile I couldn't control playing on my lips. “And you have a talent for running away from a problem.”

His smile faltered, just for a second, a fleeting moment of vulnerability that was gone as quickly as it came. He ran a hand through his hair, a nervous gesture I hadn't seen before. The air between us, which had been so light with banter, suddenly crackled with a different kind of energy.

“I didn't run away. I gave you space. Which is something you seem to be lacking in your life, Prez,” he said, his voice still playful, but with a serious, almost challenging undertone. "Your life is so structured, so rigid. Where's the room for anything else? Where's the room for... you?"

"I don't lack space. My life is perfectly organized. Every minute is accounted for, every task is a goal. It's a system that works for me, thank you very much," I said, a familiar defensiveness rising inside of me, a wall I had built with a thousand bricks of hard work and ambition.

“Yeah, but what about the spontaneous moments? The messy ones? The ones that don't fit into a little box on your spreadsheet?” he said, and he took a step closer, his eyes intense and unwavering. He was so close I could smell the subtle scent of his cologne, a clean, fresh scent that was a surprising contrast to his messy appearance. "What about a late-night talk? A drive with no destination? What about a bad-boy hockey player who makes your heart race?"

"I don't have time for messes, Hayes. My life is on a timeline. And I have to stick to it," I said, but my voice wavered, just for a second. His proximity was a powerful, disarming force.

"And what happens when you get to the end of your timeline? What happens when you've checked all the boxes, and you're still alone in a dark, empty room?" he said, and his voice was so gentle, so soft, that it was more dangerous than any of his snarky comments. It was a knife slicing through the carefully constructed walls of my life. "What happens when you realize you've lived your whole life for a future that's a lie, a future you didn't even want, but you just thought you did?"

The question hung in the air, a silent bomb waiting to detonate. I had no answer. Because I had never thought about it. I had always been so focused on the next step, the next achievement, the next goal, that I had never considered what would happen at the end. The thought of reaching my goals and still feeling empty was a terrifying, foreign concept.

“Let’s just get this over with, Hayes,” I said, and the words were a painful admission of my own weakness. “Let’s just do the sound check.”

He didn't say anything. He just nodded, a serious, knowing look on his face. He led me back to the stage and handed me a microphone, his touch brief but warm. He sat down at the soundboard and put on his headphones, his face once again a mask of professional dispassion.

“Okay, Prez. Let's start with a vocal check. Just say something. Anything,” he said, his voice now a professional, dispassionate drone.

I looked at the microphone, a foreign object in my hand. I had never held a microphone before. I had never sung in front of anyone, not even my family. My voice was for debates, for presentations, for Student Council meetings. Not for... this. Not for raw, unfiltered emotion.

“I… I don't know what to say,” I stammered, my heart pounding in my ears. The silence was deafening, amplified by the vast, empty hall.

“Then sing something. Whatever comes to your mind,” he said, his eyes now on the soundboard, but I knew he was listening, waiting, watching me from behind his headphones.

I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, letting the air fill my lungs and my chest. I thought of a song I loved, a song that was full of raw, unfiltered emotion. A song that had a London accent to it, a song I had on repeat for weeks. I started to sing, my voice shaky at first, but then it grew stronger, more confident. I poured everything I felt into the lyrics, the anxiety, the excitement, the fear, the thrill of stepping outside the lines.

When I was done, there was a long, pregnant silence. I opened my eyes, my face flushed with a mixture of embarrassment and exhilaration, and saw Liam looking at me. He had taken off his headphones, and his eyes, which had been so cold and distant just a moment ago, were now warm and full of admiration.

"I heard him laughing, and then I heard the accent," I whispered, the lyrics from the song now a confession, a secret I had just shared with him.

He didn't say anything. He just held my gaze, his eyes a warm, dark brown, and a slow, gentle smile spread across his face. He reached out and, with a slow, deliberate movement, took the microphone from my hand. He placed it back on the stand, his fingers brushing against mine. The contact was a jolt, a spark of electricity that wasn't a warning this time. It was a promise, a silent understanding passing between us in the dark. A promise that he saw me, the real me, not the Prez. And a promise that he wasn't going anywhere