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“Right then. For the rest of you who aren’t such a fan of the bard, let’s get into the text. Please open up to act two, scene two, and discuss how the ruse...”

I leaned forward as Dr. Whitmore began to drone as English professors were want to do. Tempest was apparently also tuning out, because she’d sneakily turned her Kindle back on. Oh, ho. Not only was this book a romance novel, it was a really fucking dirty one .

Wasn’t that a fun tidbit of information for me to file away?

She moved her finger to flip the virtual page, but her hand froze when I leaned forward and whispered in her ear. “Wait a second. I’m not done with that page yet.”

That Kindle got flipped over faster than the speed of light. Tempest didn’t even turn around to glare at me this time.

Hmm... time to cool my jets. Aside from having some fun poking at her and the good doctor for thinking I wouldn’t have done the reading, I wasn’t interested in her. Or her curves.

I glanced down and absolutely did not spend the rest of the class fixated on the way her ass didn’t quite fit on these stupid tiny desks. These things weren’t made for big football players, or lush asses like hers.

Our hour and fifteen minutes of Shakespeare finally came to an end, and I stood up stretching. My phone buzzed just as Tempest was doing her best speed-walking escape from class.

“Congratulations,” Gryff read from his screen. “You’ve been matched with your academic success partner for the semester?—”

“Carajo.” Tempest stopped dead in the doorway, staring at her own phone.

I grinned, coming up behind her. “Looks like fate wants us to spend more time together.”

“Fate has nothing to do with it.” She spun around, waving her phone. “This is ridiculous. You clearly don’t need tutoring.”

“Team captain,” I reminded her. “Setting an example as an athlete scholar and all that.”

“Right.” Her eyes narrowed. “And your extremely detailed analysis of Beatrice and Benedick’s emotional defense mechanisms was just what? Lucky guessing?”

“I contain multitudes.”

“You contain something.” She turned to go, but Gryff blocked the doorway.

“Sorry,” he said, not looking sorry at all. “Getting a text from Artie. Very important. Can’t move.”

Tempest’s phone buzzed again. “I have to get to my next class.”

“I’ll walk you.” Didn’t really matter if I was late to my next class, did it?

“I think I can make it two buildings over, but thanks.”

No way. Maybe fate was conspiring in my favor. “Marketing Analytics with Professor Calloway?” I asked innocently.

She froze. “How did you?—”

“What a coincidence.” I shouldered my bag. “Me too. We can walk together.”

“I’m off to the weight room,” Gryff called after us as Tempest started powerwalking down the hall. “You two crazy kids have fun.”

I caught up to her easily, my longer stride matching her quick steps. “So, how’s our mutual friend doing?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You know, about yay high.” I held my hand at waist level. “Gray. Sparkly wings. Excellent footwork. ”

“The wings were temporary.”

“Ah, so you admit there is a donkey.”

She shot me a look that could have melted steel. “There was a donkey. At a pep rally. That’s all.”

“Named...”

She frowned at me and kept on walking.

“Is it Donkey McDonkface?”

That got me the smallest twitch of her lips. “No.”

“Sir Brays-a-Lot? I grew up with a goose named Sir Honksalot. He was cool as shit.”

“No.”

“Eeyore 2: Electric Boogaloo?”

She actually snorted at that one, then immediately tried to cover it with a cough.

“Come on,” I wheedled. “Give me a hint. Wait, is it Shakespeare themed? Bottom? No, no, Donklet, Prince of Denmark?”

“You’re ridiculous.” But she was fighting a smile now.

“I am also your new tutoring assignment.” I held the door for her as we entered the business building. “So really, this is a trust-building exercise.”

“This,” she gestured between us, “is you wasting both our time. You don’t need a tutor.”

“Maybe I just want to spend more time discussing literature with a beautiful woman.” She was fucking beautiful.

She yanked open the door to the business building before I had a chance to get it and hold it open for her. I tried again as we entered the classroom. “How is nameless bonkey doing? After his brush with fame?”

Something flickered across her face. Worry? Guilt ?

“The donkey is fine.” She took a seat near the front. “And his name is not Donklet.”

“Fernando Lamas? Ooh. Tell me you’re friends with a llama too.”

“No.”

“Wanna be friends with my goose?” Sir Honksalot was, like, a thousand years old, and he wasn’t mine, but she was going to say no, anyway.

“Stop.”

“I know a hilarious rooster.”

She pulled out her marketing textbook with what seemed like unnecessary force. “Flynn. One jackass in my life is enough.”

I dropped into the seat next to her, ignoring her glare. She’d just called me a jackass and I wasn’t the least bit insulted. Most women practically fell at my feet, which was exactly the way that I liked it.

But verbally sparring with Tempest was more fun than I’d had in... years. Okay, so she wasn’t on the slate to be one of my two-week girls. Didn’t mean I wasn’t going to have just as much fun poking the bear, or rather donkey, this semester.

Real life started in just a few short months once I was drafted, graduated, and started playing in the pros. Might as well make the most of my last semester.

“Your life is definitely not full enough. I volunteer as tribute to help you fix that.”

“Mr. Kingman,” Professor Calloway’s voice cut through the pre-class chatter. “How nice of you to join us. I trust you’ve done the pre-reading?”

“Of course.” I pulled out my own book, but not before catching Tempest’s surprised look. “Chapter one: Marketing Analytics in the Digital Age. Did you want to discuss the case study on data-driven decision-making, or should we start with the ethics of predictive modeling?”

Tempest’s textbook slipped off her desk.

I caught it before it hit the ground, unable to resist leaning close as I handed it back. “You know, if you keep looking shocked every time I know something, people might start to think you’re operating under some unfair stereotypes about football players.”

She wasn’t quite smiling, but she wasn’t glaring either. And she hadn’t moved away when I’d leaned close to return her book. Which meant I could get in one more poke at her.

“I got it,” I whispered as Professor Calloway started class. “It’s Donkey Hoetee de la Donkey, isn’t it?”

This time she did smile, just a little, before firmly opening her textbook.

This semester was going to rock.