Three days.
That was exactly how long my phone had been vibrating with Tyler’s texts. First came the confusion, then the demands, and the poorly masked panic. He was locked out of his own life, and he wanted his free assistant back. I hadn’t answered a single message.
Instead, I was sitting in a stiff leather chair across from Principal Laura Pierce and Athletic Director Grant Sullivan. The air conditioning in the administrative office hummed loudly, doing nothing to cut the heavy tension across the mahogany desk.
"Avery, let’s be honest," Principal Pierce began, folding her hands neatly over a stack of thick files. "You have the highest GPA in the senior class. But more importantly, you have a reputation for keeping things structured. You manage schedules better than most of my faculty."
Sullivan leaned forward, forearms braced on his knees. "We are launching a new initiative this week: the Student-Athlete Academic Mentor Program. We have four captains in four sports. Three are close enough to academic trouble that one bad grading period could cost them eligibility. The fourth has a college-admissions problem he treats like a national emergency. Either way, we need them stable before midterms."
"And you want me to tutor them," I said, keeping my voice neutral.
"Manage them," Sullivan corrected, tapping a thick finger against the desk. "Tutors just help with homework. We need someone to make sure they actually do the work, turn it in on time, and pass their exams. We need someone who will not put up with their usual excuses."
Principal Pierce slid a manila folder across the polished wood. "If you keep all four of them academically on track through spring review, I will nominate you for the Westbridge Scholars Award, the largest scholarship our school foundation offers. I will also write your principal recommendation for any university you choose."
My eyes locked onto the folder. The Westbridge award would take a brutal chunk out of college costs, and a recommendation from Principal Pierce could strengthen every application I sent. For once, all the scheduling and academic triage I was good at could build my future instead of Tyler's.
"I am in," I said, reaching for the folder.
The designated study room in the library smelled like old paper, floor wax, and impending frustration. I sat at the head of a large oak table, arranging my highlighters, printed syllabi, and a fresh master calendar.
The wooden door swung open, hitting the rubber wall stopper with a loud thud.
Jace Brooks, captain of the football team, walked in first. He dropped an oversized gym bag onto the floor, the metal clasps clanking against the linoleum. He scowled, crossing his arms over his chest. "This is a waste of time. I have passing drills in twenty minutes, and Coach is already breathing down my neck. Tutoring is just going to wreck my practice schedule."
"Then you should have paid attention in English," I said, not looking up from my roster. "Your essay on Gatsby was plagiarized from a website that hasn't been updated since 2014."
Jace opened his mouth to argue, but a low whistle from the hallway cut him off.
Cam Dawson, the basketball captain, leaned against the doorframe with a lazy smirk. He strolled into the room and dropped into the chair right next to me, propping his chin on his hand. "Well, aren't you a surprise. If I knew the school hired a Pretty Professor to run this little club, I would have failed my classes a lot sooner."
"Flirting will not raise your History grade, Cam," I said, sliding a thick textbook toward the third guy walking in.
Ethan Cole, captain of the baseball team, didn't even look at me. He just stared at the cover of the chemistry book like it had personally offended him. He pulled a crumpled AP Chemistry syllabus from his pocket and dropped it on the table.
"I need an A in Chemistry," Ethan said, his voice tight with stress. "I do not care about the rest of this program. Just tell me what I am missing."
"I haven't even seen your grade report yet," I said. "Sit down. You can explain the emergency when I get to your file."
Before Ethan could complain about my assessment, the temperature in the room seemed to plummet.
Noah Reed stepped through the doorway.
He didn't swagger like Cam, and he didn't complain like Jace. He just stood there, tall and imposing, his gaze sweeping over the room before landing squarely on me.
Noah was the hockey captain, and more importantly, he and Tyler despised each other. It wasn’t a secret. They had almost gotten into a fistfight in the cafeteria last spring over a disputed gym schedule, and the bad blood had only escalated since.
Noah's gaze felt too heavy. He looked at me with this quiet, piercing intensity. It was the exact look of someone who knew things. He looked at me like he knew I had spent the last three years playing the role of a devoted, naive girlfriend, only to get publicly humiliated. I hated that look. I hated that he might know exactly why Tyler and I were over, and I hated that he was judging me for it.
"I am not participating in this," Noah said. His voice was flat and cold, carrying a finality that demanded obedience. He didn't even bother taking a seat. He just turned his shoulder, ready to walk right back out into the hallway.
"Then you can explain to Director Sullivan why you are sitting out the rest of the season," I replied, keeping my tone even.
Noah stopped. He slowly turned back around, narrowing his eyes at me. "I do not need a babysitter, Avery."
"Good. Because I am not here to wipe your tears," I shot back.
I pushed my chair back and stood up. I placed both hands flat on the oak table, leaning forward to address all four of them. I was done being the quiet, helpful background character in someone else's story.
"Let's get one thing straight," I said, my voice cutting through the silence of the room. "I do not care about your practice schedules. I do not care about your egos. And I definitely do not care if you think this mandatory study hall is beneath you."
I tapped my fingernail sharply against the stack of printed grade reports.
"If you want to play, you show up," I stated firmly. "You do the work, you pass the tests, and you stay on the field. That is the deal."
Jace scoffed, kicking the wooden leg of the table. "And what gives you the right to boss us around?"
I didn't blink. I met his glare head-on. "The gradebook already did."
Total silence fell over the room. Cam raised an eyebrow, a genuine spark of amusement replacing his lazy smirk. Ethan just sighed, opening his chemistry book with a defeated rustle of pages.
Noah held my gaze for a long, tense moment. The hostility in his gaze didn't vanish, but something else flickered there—a faint, begrudging respect. He didn't say another word. He simply pulled out the chair at the far end of the table and sat down, dropping his backpack onto the floor with a thud.
All four of them were seated. They were mine to manage now.
"Open your laptops," I instructed, sitting back down and pulling up the master calendar. "We are starting with Jace's English essay, and then Cam is going to rewrite his history citations until they actually make sense."
For the next forty-five minutes, the room was surprisingly productive. I projected a shared schedule on the whiteboard, color-coding their upcoming deadlines and missing assignments. Cam tried twice to charm his way out of a worksheet, but I simply handed him a red pen and pointed at his paper until he gave up. Even Noah silently typed away at his laptop, ignoring the rest of the group.
"Wait, so the thesis statement goes at the end of the first paragraph?" Jace asked, squinting at his glowing screen, genuinely confused.
"Yes," I said, leaning over his shoulder to point at his document. "Right here. It anchors your entire argument. If you do not state what you are arguing early on, the teacher assumes you do not know the material."
"Got it," Jace muttered, his fingers flying across the keyboard.
I straightened up, reaching for my water bottle.
That was when I noticed the movement in the hallway.
Through the large glass panel of the study room door, a familiar figure abruptly stopped in his tracks.
Tyler.
He was wearing his dark lacrosse jacket, his phone gripped so tightly in his hand that his knuckles were white. He had probably been marching through the library looking for me, ready to demand an explanation about the deleted planner app and the blocked number.
But he wasn't marching anymore.
He stood frozen in the doorway, staring through the glass.
He looked at Jace, his own teammate, nodding along to my instructions. He looked at Cam and Ethan, heads bowed over their textbooks. And then, his eyes locked onto Noah. His biggest rival, sitting quietly at the end of my table, following my rules.
For three years, Tyler had been the center of my universe. He was used to me waiting on him, managing his schedule, and making sure he shined. He expected me to be crying in my car, or begging him to talk, or at the very least, waiting for his apology.
Instead, I was sitting at the head of a table, unbothered, commanding the attention of the four most untouchable guys in school.
Tyler's eyes slowly moved from Noah, back to me. They met mine through the glass.
For the first time since I met him, that arrogant, smug smile was gone.
