We end up at Suns Up, a dive diner that’s just off campus. It’s the sort of place where the food is worth the risk you take on the always-low health score. The walls are covered with Harton memorabilia, which more or less covers the wallpaper that I’m certain has been here since the 1950’s. We get a booth by the window; Finn looks comically too big for it, like he’s sitting on doll’s house furniture. Before the waitress can get to us, I start unpacking my bag of tutoring supplies again, lining everything up at right angles on the table.

I can’t help but notice, as I set up, that people are staring at us.

Well, at Finn, that is.

Mostly the female patrons and staff.

Some of them glance at me curiously, wondering what I’m doing here with Finn, and I feel my face start to flush a little.

I’m not his date. I’m just a math nerd. I’m only here with him right now because I have a brain. And yeah, it’s nice to have a brain, but sometimes it would be even nicer to be looked at for something other than my answer-key to the practice test.

“You’re upset,” Finn says, breaking me out of my reverie.

I flinch a little, startled that he can read me so well. “I’m just trying to stay focused,” I lie, “and this diner’s not really the ideal setting for a tutoring session.”

“You should relax,” he says, leaning back in his chair. “It’s nice sometimes to just chill, you know. Like, what do you do for a good time?”

I shake my head as I refer to my materials. “I’m not falling for this.”

“For what?” he asks, grinning.

“You’re trying to get me off track. It’s not going to work. I’m getting paid to teach you, not talk about long walks on the beach.”

Finn’s eyes glimmer and he leans towards me, his voice lowering. “So that’s what you do to relax. Now you got me picturing you in a bikini. And that’s bad for my focus.”

I feel my cheeks getting hotter still. “That was my point.”

“Was it?” he asks, studying me as he grins at my discomfort.

“Yes. I mean, no.” I shake my head.

“Your point was that if you talk about the beach and get me picturing you in a bikini, we both lose our focus?”

I close my eyes for a second and taking a deep, steady breath. “I’m saying that you’re trying to avoid work. But it’s not going to happen. Deal with it.” I turn and stare at him and he seems to subtly deflate.

“Fine,” he mutters, as the waitress comes over to take our order. I get my usual— hash browns and raisin toast, and a Diet Coke with cherry syrup. Finn order the entire menu, or so it seems, though the waitress is hardly alarmed. Finn’s size broadcasts his appetite, and besides, they serve enough Harton athletes in here to know the drill.

I sort of feel bad for guys like Finn, if I’m being totally honest— they’re here because they can play football, not to get an education. This fact irritates the crap out of me, since I’m here working my butt off, but like my mother has always said— no one can take your education away. Finn’s football career? The odds of that lasting after college is math even he could probably do. Only 1.6% of college players go on the NFL. Once they’re in the NFL? Five years of playing, tops.

And then what does he have?

“What are you majoring in?” I ask, curious to see if it’s something that might mean he’s got a shot at a football-free career, someday.

“Trick passes,” he says, leaning back and draping his massive arms over the back of the booth. “Team leading. Kicking ass.” When I don’t crack, he rolls his eyes like he can’t believe how uptight I am, before finally answering for real. “Classics.”

“Wait, seriously? Classics?” I ask, alarmed. Usually, athletes at Finn’s level are majoring in something ridiculous, something that doesn’t require much class time, like information sciences. “I…what does that even entail?”

“Ah, something the math whiz doesn’t know,” Finn says, looking pleased. “It’s myths. Basically. Greek and Roman mythology.”

“Oh,” I say, unable to prevent the relief from flooding my voice. Majoring in something you could essentially Wikipedia sounds even easier than information sciences.

“Oh?” Finn asks. “You look unimpressed. Classics isn’t as impressive as mathematics?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You thought it.”

“You have no idea what I thought,” I answer, just before realizing we’ve grown loud enough that a few nearby patrons are staring.

I take a deep breath and open the notebook in front of me, then open my mouth to begin the lesson, finally.

“Motherfucker,” Finn mutters under his breath. My eyes dart up, and I see him looking at the diner door.

His gaze hardens and his jaw stiffens, shoulders tensing now.

Seeing his enormous body become something of a coiled wire, ready to explode, is strangely fascinating. Sexy, even. The power of Finn is always on display, even when he’s hardly moving.

I follow his gaze to see what’s got him so riled up.

Three guys, all Finn’s size, are walking into the diner.

I recognize the lead one from posters and banners that are plastered all over the campus. It’s Stewart Adams, the current Harton hero, quarterback extraordinaire. He’s flanked by two other guys.

Adams sees Finn and immediately gets a big grin on his face, and he mutters something two his buddies. They start laughing and snickering.

“Finny Finn,” Adams calls out, as the three of them approach our table.

“Hey Adams,” Finn says, voice collected, almost like he’s giving an interview.

“What’s all that shit on your table?” one of Adams’s lapdogs says, staring at the tutoring supplies spread out in front of me.

“Looks like he’s studying, boys,” Adams says. “Funny, I heard through the rumor mill that you don’t have the brains for the QB position. And now we have proof.”

I expect Finn to be outraged by this accusation, but instead he just grunts. “I’ll leave the gossiping to the armchair quarterbacks,” he says. “I do my talking on the field. Probably why I made starting quarterback my sophomore year, right?” He grins, and for once, the arrogance in it delights me— mainly because of how it clearly prods at Adams.

Adams only became starting quarterback this season, when the great Jacob Everett finally graduated and went pro. And now that Finn is here, there’s certain to be competition between the two and Adams evidently doesn’t like it at all.

“Is math all you tutor?” one of the freshmen asks, letting his eyes wander up and down my body. It’s such an intentional expression— one that’s purpose isn’t to actually check me out, but to make me aware that he’s able to check me out whether I like it or not.

I smile as pleasantly as I can muster. “Did you need some help? A lot of you guys struggle with measuring past four inches.”

It takes him a minute, and takes the other freshman player an additional minute, to recognize the insult I’d just lobbed at his dick. Finn, however, spots it immediately, and grins at me broadly.

Stewart Adams isn’t amused. He rolls his eyes at me while the freshmen scowl. “Baby, I’ve got ten inches I’d introduce you to if I thought you were worth the fuck.”

The comment doesn’t offend me nearly as much as the freshman player’s stare did— I’m prepared to give him a withering look, then turn back to my food and wait out their presence. What I’m not prepared for is a crack loud as a gunshot ringing through the air— the sound of a fist hitting a jaw.

There’s a clattering, and a flash of bodies, and it takes me far to long to figure out what’s happening. It’s Finn— he swung at Adams, who ducked just in time, and the crack I heard was the sound of Finn’s fist finding one of the freshmen’s jaws instead. The player bunches backward, clutching his face, and Adams steps forward in the same instant. He lunges at Finn, who steps into the fight; I can’t tell whose fists are whose as they crash out of the booth, scattering plates and papers and drinks across the tile floor. People are shouting, phones swing out to capture the entire thing on video, everyone at the bar evacuates their seats to stay away from the action.

This isn’t really how tutoring sessions are supposed to go.

Adams and Finn pull away from one another for a moment; both have busted lips, and Adams’ shirt is torn at the collar. The freshman Finn didn’t hit joins forces with Adams; they advanced on Finn, who is SMILING. Like this is hilarious, like it’s all a big joke.

I realize why when Adams lunges at him again. Finn steps to the side, grabs Adams’ shirt, then shoves him backward and into the freshman. They both fall into a heap; Adams is back up instantly, tackling Finn at the waist. Finn, however, twists around, gets another punch into Adams’ ribs, then knees him in the instep.

It’s clear that Finn has been in a fight— in a number of fights— before, it’s clear. It’s also clear that Adams is the type who will fight until the bitter end, despite the fact that by this point, both freshmen have abandoned him, nursing their wounds in the background. This is going to get bloody and dark and way too serious before it ends—

“The cops are here!” someone shouts, and heads dart up. The Atlanta police are indeed pulling up, lights on. I see the waitress who’d served us earlier waving them in, her phone pressed tightly to her ear.

Adams changes— I mean, changes, instantly. He goes from arrogant asshole jock to polite schoolboy like a movie werewolf becoming human when clouds pass in front of the moon.

When the cops speed walk into the diner, he’s several paces away from Finn, whose face hasn’t changed at all— it’s still cocky and fight-hungry and locked on Adams in a way that makes me nervous he might keep throwing punches right here in front of the cops.

Finn glances back at me briefly as the officers approach him. They divide all four of the football players, but it doesn’t take long before it’s revealed that Finn was the one who initiated the physical part of the altercation.

“Look, boys,” one of the officers says, shaking his head. “I’m a Harton grad. I’m not interested in anyone getting into trouble this season. I’m also not interested in anyone getting hurt and being unable to play. But this sort of shit just isn’t going to fly, got it?”

Of course, of course the cop knows they’re football players. And of course that’s going to mean they get special, “I don’t want to arrest” you treatment. I’m simultaneously annoyed and relieved for Finn.

Adams holds up his hands. “I said something that must have offended my teammate here, officer. I’m uninterested in presses charges, though. I don’t want to do anything that might jeopardize the team’s success.”

“That the way it happened?” the officer asks, turning to Finn.

Finn stays silent, though not stonily so— he looks, as per usual, mildly entertained by the entire situation. While Adams is doing everything he can to appear like the perfect citizen to the cops, Finn still looks like someone who’s delighted he had the opportunity to hit someone.

“That the way it happened?” the officer presses.

“I’d rather not say, sir,” Finn says, politely but shortly.

“What’d he say that made you so angry?” the officer asks patiently.

“I’d rather not say, sir,” Finn says, then looks to Adams and his friends. “Just some flaring tempers, sir. We’re fine now.”

Meanwhile, I’m not being asked a thing, of course, because I’m nobody and nothing around here.

The officer is clearly annoyed at Finn’s unwillingness to give him information, but looks to Adams and his friends all the same. “Everyone good now?”

“Yes, sir. We apologize for the disruption,” Adams says, speaking a bit louder so the other patrons can hear. Most of the restaurant is desperately pretending like they aren’t listening, picking at their meals or sipping drinks, but it’s so quiet in here that it’s almost a hilariously bad attempt.

The officer’s eyes slide to me.

“You involved in this, ma’am? Anything you want to tell me?” he asks cautiously. I’m surprised he’s actually asking me a question and suddenly I feel like a white-hot spotlight has been trained on me. I suspect it’s because I’ve never in my entire life been questioned by the police, but it’s making my jaw tremble.

“One of them made some comments,” I say, trying to coax my voice steady, “about me. Finn was just…uh…defending my…uh…honor. Or something.”

I see Adams make a disgusted sort of expression.

The officer nods. “Well, no matter what was said, a brawl isn’t the way to settle it. Save that energy for the football field. Boys, I think you’d all better leave.”

“Yes, sir,” Adams says, and immediately starts for the door. His lackeys follow behind him. Finn, however, steps back toward me.

“It looks like you two have shaken that young lady up enough for the afternoon,” the officer says, stopping him. “You have your own way home, miss?”

I nod silently.

“Good— go on, son. Hit the road,” the officer finishes, jerking his thumb to the door.

Finn frowns, and for a moment, I think he’s going to say something stupid to the officer— namely, that he’s going to tell the officer to mind his own business, which is the sentence being broadcast across Finn’s face.

And the truth is, I don’t want him to leave yet. But I also don’t want Finn to get in anymore trouble.

“I’m fine,” I tell Finn, and the words seem to be exactly what he needs to hear— he nods a little, then throws some cash on the table to cover our bill before slinging his hands into his pockets and walking out the door.

The waitresses give the officers free to-go cups of coffee, bacon returns to sizzling on the grill, and I’m left to single-handed retrieve my notebooks and supplies from the floor.

“They’re fighting again!” shouts a red-headed girl who’s standing at the window of the diner and looking outside.

The officers bolt, abandoning their coffees; the other patrons rush to press themselves to the windows to see.

I duck out the restaurant’s back door, by the bathrooms. I don’t want to even know what’s happening right now.

Finn Thorne is trouble. A lot of trouble, and he’s obviously going to be a nightmare to tutor.

That is, if he even manages to last the week without being thrown out of Harton for good.

But even as I think this, I have to admit this much to myself: I can’t think of anyone else I know who’d have gotten into a fistfight for me. Stupid and reckless and ridiculous as that was?

It was also kind of amazing.