Page 3 of The Dating Coach (Hearts on Ice #4)

The tutoring center smelled like desperation and dry erase markers, a combination that made my stomach turn as I forced myself through the glass doors.

Friday afternoon meant the place was packed with students seeking last-minute help before weekend parties consumed their remaining brain cells.

I pulled my swim team jacket tighter, as if the Pinewood Swimming logo could shield me from the humiliation of needing help.

I'd been standing at the sign-up desk for five minutes, pretending to study the list of available chemistry tutors while actually working up the courage to write my name down.

The options were depressing – Tommy, who I knew sold his notes for triple their worth; Miranda, who explained concepts like she was talking to particularly slow kindergarteners; Brad, who had cornered me at a party last year to explain why female athletes were "biologically inferior. "

"The list's not going to get better the longer you stare at it," a voice said behind me, warm with barely suppressed laughter.

I turned, ready to deliver a cutting response, and found myself face-to-face with Liam Delacroix.

Because of course the universe had that kind of sense of humor.

He stood there in dark jeans and a Pinewood Hockey t-shirt that clung to his shoulders in a way that should be illegal, his hair still damp from what I assumed was post-practice shower.

"I'm just browsing," I said, aiming for casual and landing somewhere closer to defensive.

"Browsing the chemistry tutor list?" His blue eyes crinkled at the corners, and I hated how that small expression made my pulse skip. "That's a new form of entertainment. Most people just browse TV shows."

"Maybe I find academic resources soothing," I shot back. "Some of us don't coast through life on hockey fame and good cheekbones."

Instead of being offended, he grinned wider. "You think I have good cheekbones? I'm flattered, Spears."

Heat flooded my face. "That's not – I didn't mean—"

"Relax," he said, holding up his hands in mock surrender. "I'm just messing with you. Though for the record, I'm actually pretty good at chemistry. Organic, specifically."

I snorted before I could stop myself. "Right. The hockey player is secretly a science genius. What's next, you're going to tell me you read classic literature for fun?"

"The classics are overrated," he said easily. "I prefer contemporary fiction. But we're getting off topic. You need help with organic?"

The casual way he talked about books made my brain stutter. I'd expected him to ask what I meant, not have opinions about modern literature. It didn't fit with what I knew about Liam Delacroix – hockey star, campus golden boy, serial recipient of female attention he never seemed to pursue.

"I don't need help," I said automatically, then caught myself. Karen's voice echoed in my head: 'This is not the time for your I-can-do-everything-myself bullshit.' "I mean, I'm just exploring options."

"Exploring options by glaring at the tutor list like it personally offended you?" He stepped closer, and I caught a whiff of his soap – something clean and masculine that made me think of fresh ice and pine trees.

"I'm not glaring," I protested, even though I definitely had been.

"You were doing this," he said, scrunching his face into an exaggerated scowl that was so ridiculous I almost smiled. "Very intimidating. I bet the list was terrified."

"You're ridiculous," I muttered, but some of my defensive walls were crumbling despite my best efforts.

"I've been called worse." He glanced at the list, then back at me. "Seriously though, if you need help with organic, I could tutor you. I've got a 4.0 in all my chemistry classes."

I stared at him, searching for the punchline. "You. Liam Delacroix, hockey phenomenon and poster boy for athletic privilege, want to tutor me in organic chemistry."

Something flickered across his face – annoyance, maybe, or hurt. "Contrary to popular belief, some of us can use our brains for more than calculating shot angles. But hey, if you'd rather work with Brad and listen to his theories about female inferiority, be my guest."

"You know about that?" I asked, surprised.

"He cornered my friend Naomi at a party with his bullshit. She kneed him in the balls." A small, satisfied smile played at his lips. "It was beautiful."

Against my better judgment, I found myself warming to him slightly. "Your transcript," I said. "If you really have a 4.0 in chemistry, prove it."

"You want to see my grades?" He raised an eyebrow. "That's very forward of you, Spears. Usually people at least buy me dinner first."

"I'm serious," I said, ignoring the way his teasing made my stomach flutter. "I can't afford to waste time with someone who's just looking to play hero or—" I cut myself off before finishing that thought.

"Or what?" His voice had gone quiet, serious. "Or someone who's going to expect something in return?"

I lifted my chin, meeting his gaze directly even though his proximity made it hard to breathe. "Wouldn't be the first time a guy offered 'help' with strings attached."

His expression darkened. "Whoever did that was an asshole. That's not – I don't operate like that."

"No?" I challenged. "The great Liam Delacroix, who supposedly has half the female population of Pinewood in his bed rotation, is offering purely altruistic tutoring?"

"First of all," he said, and now there was definite annoyance in his tone, "the rumors about my 'bed rotation' are greatly exaggerated.

Second, I don't pursue anyone. If women approach me and we're both interested, great.

If not, also great. I've never pressured anyone for anything, and I'm honestly kind of pissed you'd assume otherwise. "

The genuine anger in his voice made me step back. He was right – I'd never heard any stories about him being pushy or creepy. If anything, the gossip was always about how he was too passive, letting women come to him rather than making any moves himself.

"You're right," I said, the words tasting strange in my mouth. "That was unfair. I'm sorry."

He blinked, clearly not expecting an apology. "Oh. Okay. Thanks."

We stood there awkwardly for a moment, the bustling tutoring center continuing around us while we existed in our own weird bubble of tension.

"For what it's worth," I said finally, "my experience with Mr. Brennan, my high school chemistry teacher, kind of messed me up about accepting help."

"I'm sorry about your teacher. That's fucked up."

The simple acknowledgment, without pressing for details or trying to minimize it, loosened something in my chest. "Yeah, it was."

He ran a hand through his still-damp hair. “Look, I get that you don’t trust me. That's fair. But I really am good at organic chemistry, and I have time in my schedule. No strings, no expectations, just one athlete helping another."

I wanted to say no. Every self-protective instinct screamed at me to walk away, find a boring, safe tutor who wouldn't make my pulse race or my palms sweat. But I thought about that F, about six weeks ticking down, about Mia texting me from youth group with barely concealed panic.

"Fine," I heard myself say. "But if you try anything—"

"You'll knee me in the balls like Naomi did to Brad," he finished. "Got it. How about we start next week? Two o'clock next Friday at the hockey house?"

"I have practice until three."

"Three-thirty then. I'll bring my transcripts since you're apparently the kind of person who needs documentation." He smiled, and it was different from his earlier grins – smaller, more genuine. "We'll get you through this, Spears. I promise."

I wanted to tell him not to make promises he couldn't keep, but something in his expression stopped me. Despite everything, I almost believed him.

"Three-thirty," I agreed, then turned and walked away before I could change my mind.

"Hey, Gemma?" he called after me.

I paused but didn't turn around. "What?"

"For what it's worth, I think your cheekbones are pretty good too."

I fled before he could see my smile, my face burning in a way that had nothing to do with embarrassment. Behind me, I heard his quiet laughter, warm and genuinely amused rather than mocking.

Walking back to my apartment, I tried to process what had just happened.

Liam Delacroix – hockey star, campus celebrity, owner of shoulders that should require a warning label – was going to tutor me in organic chemistry.

Worse, he'd made me smile. Worst of all, I was already looking forward to next week in a way that had nothing to do with molecular structures.

My phone buzzed. Mia: Survived youth group. They made us watch a video about 'choosing' to be straight. I chose to imagine the pastor's toupee catching fire instead. Small victories?

I typed back: The smallest victories still count. Love you, butterfly.

Her response was immediate: Love you too, Gem. Don't know what I'd do without you.

I tucked my phone away, squaring my shoulders. I didn't have time for distractions, no matter how blue their eyes or how unexpected their literary preferences. I had a test to pass, a sister to protect, and a future to salvage.

Liam Delacroix and his stupid perfect cheekbones would just have to be a means to an end. Nothing more. Even if my still-racing pulse suggested otherwise.