The Puck and The President

Chapter 1

CHAPTER 1

I woke up the next morning feeling like my spreadsheet had a virus. A Liam-shaped virus, specifically. It had infiltrated my perfectly organized day, and I couldn't seem to shake it. He was a bug in my system, a rogue equation throwing off my calculations. Every time I tried to focus on the notes from last night's meeting, all I could see was his lazy grin and those ridiculously blue eyes.

"You're making a face," Jane said, nudging my arm. We were in the library, a place I considered my second home. The scent of old books and dust was a comfort, a stark contrast to the sterile air of the Student Council room.

"What kind of face?" I asked, looking down at my textbook.

"The 'I'm thinking about something I want to kill' face," she said, without looking up from her phone. "Who is it? Mark? Did he try to get a latte out of the budget again?"

I sighed, closing my eyes. "Worse. Liam Hayes."

Jane's phone hit the table with a clatter. She looked at me, her brown eyes wide with mock horror. "Liam Hayes? The Puck? What did he do now? Did he steal your parking spot? I swear, he’s got a vendetta against you."

"He came to the Student Council meeting," I said, my voice dripping with disdain. "Twenty minutes late. And he was incredibly, offensively rude about it."

"Offensively rude?" she repeated, a smirk playing on her lips. "I don't know, a little bit of offensive rudeness sounds kinda fun."

"It wasn't fun," I said, trying to sound more offended than I was. "He made a joke about me. He called me 'Prez.' And he was just... so nonchalant about it. Like he had every right to be there, even though he's never shown up before."

"He came to the meeting? That's... a first," she said, her eyebrows shooting up. "Why do you think he bothered to show up this time?"

I shrugged, a knot forming in my stomach. “I don’t know. I guess Coach Davies finally threatened him.”

“Or,” she said, her voice dropping to a theatrical whisper, “he was just looking for an excuse to see you.”

I scoffed. “Please. He barely knows who I am. I’m just some person he has to tolerate at a meeting. He's a professional athlete, and I’m a Political Science major who color-codes her books."

"A beautiful Political Science major who color-codes her books," Jane corrected, making me roll my eyes. "Come on, Nadine. He’s been teasing you since he got here. The whole ‘Prez’ thing is his go-to. He’s always messing with you."

"He's messing with my authority," I said, a little too loudly. A few students looked up from their books. "It's a matter of principle. He’s a walking billboard for irresponsibility, and I can’t have that on my council."

"Right. A matter of principle. Not a matter of him having a British accent and a grin that could melt an iceberg," she said, wiggling her eyebrows.

I kicked her under the table. "Stop it."

"Okay, okay!" she said, laughing. "But seriously, don't let him get to you. You've got this."

I tried to take her advice. I really did. I spent the rest of the day in a bubble of productivity, but every so often, my mind would drift back to him. The way his eyes had crinkled at the corners when he laughed. The way his voice had a low, gravelly quality that was somehow both charming and infuriating. It was unsettling. It was distracting. It was a problem.

The next time I saw him was a week later. It was a crisp autumn afternoon, and I was walking to the campus coffee shop for my weekly oat milk latte. The air was cool, the leaves on the trees a fiery display of reds and oranges. I was in a good mood, my spreadsheet for the week was almost complete, and I was on schedule.

And then I saw him.

He was sitting at a table outside the coffee shop with a group of his teammates, his head thrown back, laughing at something one of them had said. The sound was loud and unfiltered, and it made me pause. He was wearing a simple gray hoodie, the hood pulled down, and a pair of dark jeans. He looked impossibly handsome, impossibly casual.

I hesitated, wondering if I should just walk away. But I was on a mission for caffeine, and this was the only coffee shop on campus that made a proper oat milk latte. So I took a deep breath, straightened my spine, and walked toward the entrance.

As I passed his table, he looked up. His eyes, those ridiculous blue eyes, found mine, and his grin widened. "Well, well. If it isn't President Leyva."

I ignored him, my gaze fixed on the coffee shop door.

"No time for a chat, Prez?" he called after me.

I stopped. I couldn't help it. The word 'Prez' was like a red flag to a bull. "My name is Nadine," I said, turning to face him. "And you know it."

He leaned back in his chair, his arms crossed over his chest. "I do. But 'Prez' has a nice ring to it, don't you think? It suits you. Very... presidential."

"It's condescending," I said, crossing my own arms.

"Is it?" he asked, his voice full of feigned innocence. "I thought it was a sign of respect. You know, for a woman who has her life all figured out."

I blinked. That was a new one. It wasn’t a taunt. It was… a compliment? I wasn't sure what to do with that.

"I do have my life figured out," I said, my voice firm. "What's wrong with that?"

He just smiled, a small, knowing smirk that sent a jolt down my spine. "Nothing. Not a thing."

He got up from his chair and walked toward me, his movements fluid and easy. He stopped a few feet away, his hands in his pockets. His teammates were watching us, their silent amusement a palpable thing in the air.

"Listen, I've been thinking about you," he said, his voice dropping to a low, intimate tone that made my heart pound against my ribs.

"Have you?" I asked, my voice betraying my nervousness.

"Yeah," he said, and he took a step closer. The smell of him was intoxicating—cologne and something woodsy, like the forest after it rains. "I was thinking... you and I should probably work together."

I raised an eyebrow. "Work together? On what?"

"The Student Gala," he said, his eyes twinkling. "You're the organizer, right? The one with the spreadsheets?"

"The one with the budget, yes," I said, correcting him automatically.

"Right, the budget," he said, leaning in so close that I could feel the heat radiating off his body. "Well, my team's been put in charge of entertainment. So you and I, we're going to be spending a lot of time together."

My stomach did a flip. I had a vision of my spreadsheet, of the carefully crafted cells, all of them turning into a swirling, chaotic mess. "I… I wasn't aware of that."

"Well, now you are," he said, his smile widening. "So. Where do you want to start?"

I took a step back, my mind racing. This was a nightmare. This was a direct attack on my perfectly organized life. I couldn’t work with him. It was a recipe for disaster.

"I need to get my coffee," I said, turning and walking away.

"I'll be waiting, Prez!" he called after me, and the sound of his laughter followed me into the coffee shop.

I stood in line, my heart still racing, my mind a whirlwind of panicked thoughts. I felt my phone buzz in my pocket. It was a text from an unknown number. I pulled it out, my hands shaking slightly.

Liam Hayes. The Puck. We need to talk about the gala. I'll be waiting for you outside the coffee shop. Don't be late. Prez.

The irony wasn’t lost on me. He was turning my own meticulousness against me, using my own words to taunt me. I stared at the text, a mix of fury and an odd kind of exhilaration bubbling in my chest. He was a challenge. A puzzle. A problem I needed to solve. And as much as I hated to admit it, I was starting to feel a little bit excited about solving it.

I typed a reply, my fingers flying over the keypad.

I'll be there. And it's Nadine.

I didn’t wait for a response. I paid for my latte and walked out into the afternoon sun. He was still there, sitting at the table, his phone in his hand. He looked up at me, a lazy grin on his face.

"So," he said, standing up. "Let's talk about the gala."