Three days out of the week I work at the small campus café in University Hall. In addition to the café, University Hall houses the university bookstore, a mini convenient store, and a sub shop. Untying my blue apron, I lean on the counter completely exhausted after the lunch rush.

Coffee and a pastry totally counts as lunch in college making it our busiest hour. College kids - we’re nothing if not lazy creatures of convenience.

“Hey, Katrina.” I let out a sigh as my replacement arrives, signaling the end of my shift.

“Rough day?”

“The worst,” I admit. She places a hand to her forehead and then swipes a strand of hair out of her eyes. Katrina is the same age as me but has a total mother-hen vibe. Maybe because she is a mother. She brought Christian in with her once. He is adorable, but he’s also the best birth control ever. Katrina has her hands full between classes, working, and raising a little man by herself. Puts my own crap in perspective.

“It’s nothing I just failed my first statistics test.”

“Oh, that sucks. I’m sorry.”

“Thanks.”

She looks up to the ceiling. “What’s the quote you’re always writing about failure?”

“We learn from failure not success.” I roll my eyes. “I know. I know. But I don’t have any clue how I’m going to get an A when I’m already struggling a month into the class. The first month is supposed to be easy.”

“You get what you work for not what you wish for.” She recites another one of the quotes I often write on the to-go cups.

“It feels more like a suck it up, buttercup kind of day.”

She pulls a cup from the counter and fills it with our house brew before handing it to me. “For the road.”

I shake my head but grab a sharpie and write the quote on my to-go coffee.

“Another night of disappointed faces when they realize the quote girl isn’t here.”

That makes me smile. I love that I’ve been able to add a little bit of positivity. We’ve all got our struggles and I want to be someone that builds up other people.

The quotes were my idea. A random scribbling when I would notice someone looked like they were having a bad day or seemed stressed. Eventually they became something people looked forward to and I started writing them on every cup. It really isn’t so hard to tell who needs tough love or an inspirational pick me up based on their demeanor or tone when they order. The quotes on the sides of the cups have become a part of the café, and it’s a legacy I’m proud of.

I trek back to the sorority house with determination and resolve. I won’t just ace statistics, I’ll destroy it.

Suck it up, buttercup.

Two days later as I’m preparing for class, my inspired mood is appropriately deflated. Another late night of studying and homework leaves me pessimistic and petulant. I hate who I'm becoming. I've worked too hard and have come too far to crumble under pressure.

I decide to dose myself in positivity. Maybe if I feel good about how I look, some of those good vibes will soak into my attitude. I pull on my favorite yellow sundress and matching chucks. With a nod at my reflection, I’m off.

The large auditorium is made up of a semi-circle of three sections that face the podium, which stands front and center. Since Vanessa dropped the class and left me alone in my misery, I opt to sit in the back on the far right.

At exactly one minute before class begins, the eye candy arrives. Kudos for getting my head out of my ass to notice the trio of jocks. Vanessa would be proud. Honestly, what has my life become that I'm so overwhelmed with schoolwork that it took so long for me to appreciate hot guys without Vanessa to point them out?

When Professor O’Sean takes his position behind the lectern, I sit straighter in my seat and attempt to give him the kind of attention I usually reserve for the first week of class, jotting down nearly every word that exits his mouth and tallying the number of times he pushes his glasses up with his middle finger. Is he trying to flip us off or is it just a happy coincidence?

I’m able to focus on independent and dependent events for six minutes and fifteen seconds before I find my gaze wandering across the top of the lecture hall. My eyes go directly to the jocks. One in particular. Foot propped up on the seat in front of him, baseball hat pulled low. His teammates are next to him looking bored out of their skulls, but at least their eyes are open.

Honestly, how did this guy get an A? His tutors must be amazing.

When class is dismissed, I hurry out and then pace the sidewalk.

I can do this.

I have to do this.

I turn and face the massive fountain that sits in the center of the quad and take three deep breaths. When I turn back to Stanley Hall, it’s just in time to see the three basketball players finally emerge. Statistics is the first class I’ve had with any of our college’s nationally ranked team. They seem to stick together, though, always travelling in groups.

“Hi, excuse me.” I smile brightly and step directly into their path.

They exchange a confused look but slow down instead of trampling over me like a bug, which they could very much do.

All five feet and three inches of me stands taller. I make eye contact with each of them, trying to look friendly and not at all intimidated, which I’m not . . . nope, not at all, and then lock my gaze with the sleeper’s. He’s the shortest of the three, but the intensity of his navy blue eyes makes it hard for me to find my voice.

“I’m Blair, we have statistics class together.” I wave toward the building behind them in case they don’t even know what class they just came from. Apparently, I am still bitter about the grade.

“Wes,” he says as he shrugs his backpack up higher on one shoulder. “This is Joel and Z.”

“Nice to meet you.” I look to each of the guys and then back to Wes again, silently communicating he is the one I want to speak to. They don’t get the memo. “Wes, can I talk to you for a minute?”

“We’ll meet ya at the car,” Joel pipes in, and he and Z leave me alone with Wes. It’s only slightly easier to think without all three of them staring at me with rapt interest.

“What’s up?”

“I was wondering if you could tell me who does tutoring for the team? I noticed your test grade the other day, not that I was trying to see it or anything. Sorry, that sounds horrible. I just happened to glance down as I was walking by your desk. Honest mistake. Honestly."

Deep breath, Blair.

"Anyway, I didn’t do so well, and I really need an A in this class. Does the team have someone specifically, or do you guys use the tutor center?”

His eyebrows pull together, and he shifts his weight to his left side, making me conscious that standing here talking to me is probably causing him pain.

Join the club. This whole interaction is excruciating.

“I’m lost. You want information on the tutor center?”

The hot Arizona sun shines bright and sweat trickles down my back. “Just information on the tutor or tutors you’re using . . . for statistics.”

“You think I have a tutor?”

“I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to be rude, but it’s just you’re sleeping through class.”

He crosses his arms over his chest in a silent challenge. The neckline of his shirt pulls down, revealing a hint of tan chest underneath. Annoyed is a good look for him.

“You don’t have a tutor?” The question is no more than a mumble. Or maybe I just can’t hear it because my pulse is pounding in my ears. I open my mouth several times and then promptly close it when I can’t find the words to apologize. He smirks as he watches me grapple with the realization that I’ve made a very wrong, very humiliating assumption.

Uncrossing his arms, he takes one step in the direction his friends went. “Tutor center is on the first floor of the library.” He points in the direction of the campus library, making me feel about a foot tall. “I’m sure someone there can help.”

As I watch him walk away, admiring his gait that’s somehow sexy and confident even with the boot, I wonder—statistically speaking, of course—what are the odds that the guy sleeping at the back of the class could not only pull off an A but also manage to get that grade without help?

I have no idea, probably because I’m failing statistics. My guess, though? Not good.

I arrive back to the scene of the crime, aka statistics class, with a cup of coffee, a new pen to inspire better note taking, and a determination to hide from Wes and company. I slip in five minutes early so I can grab a seat and be wholly enthralled when they show up. I don’t fancy myself important enough that they’d seek me out, but my humiliation has big plans of cowering and hiding for the rest of the semester.

As if my body is now connected to my mortification, I feel the exact moment they enter the classroom.

Wes Reynolds, Joel Moreno, and Zeke Sweets are quite a trio. Yep, I looked them up. I'm calling it research, but in reality, I just wanted to have all the information on the guy I'd thoroughly insulted. They sit in the middle section at the very top, giving them a bird’s eye view of the entire class. If Wes’s eyes were ever open, would have been nearly impossible to be out of his line of sight. I’m not invisible, but it’s as far away as I can get.

Zeke pulls his red headphones down and rests them around his neck as he squeezes his large frame into the seat. According to everyone I asked (more research, of course), Zeke is already rumored to be going pro after this season.

Wes wears a glare that would frighten small children . . . or grown ass women because I slink down in my seat as I continue to watch him. I have a hard time looking anywhere else, glare be damned. He’s unbelievably gorgeous. Hell, they all are. Even Joel, who hasn’t looked up from his phone, is strikingly handsome with his black hair and bronzed skin.

When Wes glances around the class and his blue stare lands on me, I become very interested in my notes from the last class, reading over them with a fervor I should have tried before the last test.

When we’re dismissed, I hang back, waiting for the last row to leave before making my way up the stairs, but when the auditorium is nearly cleared out and the three musketeers haven’t made any move to leave, I’m left with no other choice but to suck it up and hope they don’t notice me.

Joel nudges him as I approach. Nothing gets past that guy. It’s as if he’s Wes’s eyes and ears. As Wes’s dark blue eyes land on me, I plaster on a big smile and decide to be the bigger person. “Hello.”

Wes stands, awkwardly making his way to the aisle and holding on to the back of the chair for support. A flash of pain crosses his handsome features as he meets me on the stairs.

“Ball Buster Girl.”

“I’m sorry about the other day. I just assumed . . .”

“That I was a dumb jock who couldn’t possibly get a passing grade without the help of a tutor or tutorsss?” He emphasizes the plural version with a hiss as he trails me out of the auditorium. As we come to the door, he steps close and pushes the handle, swinging it open and holding it with one large hand. A gentleman. Interesting.

“To be fair you haven’t made much of an effort to look like someone who is trying to get a good grade.”

We stop on the sidewalk, and I’m aware of Joel and Zeke hanging back and giving us space. Wes adjusts his hat, lifting it so I get a glimpse of the dirty blonde hair matted down like he’d slept in the damn hat. Right, he had . . . just now.

“I could ace that class even if I never showed up.”

“That’s an awfully bold statement for the first month of class.”

He shrugs. “Any luck finding a tutor?”

“Not yet, but I’m sure I’ll have no problem finding someone who passed statistics with their eyes open.”

His lips part, and his straight, white teeth peek out. “Good luck with that.”

I shove my ear buds in and put on my favorite podcast and head toward the library. By the time I get to the tutor center located on the first floor of the campus library (already knew this without the help of Wes, thank you very much), I’ve turned my humiliation into focused anger.

Okay, so I jumped to conclusions too quickly, but if he can get an A with his eyes closed, surely, I can manage with a whole lot of determination and a tiny bit of help.

I'm still bristling at the way his indigo eyes laughed at me. He could have politely set me straight instead of acting as if I’d personally attacked his intelligence. Okay, maybe I had, but I mean, how was I supposed to know that the guy sleeping at the back of the class somehow magically aced the first test without help, which I’m still not entirely convinced he did.

A text from Gabby momentarily pulls me from my foul mood.

She doesn’t text back, which tells me she isn’t exactly on board with my plan to celebrate her twenty-first but knows me well enough to know I’m not going to take no for an answer.

I tuck my phone away as I walk to the tutor center’s front desk.

“Hey, Blair, what are you doing here?” Molly, a sophomore sorority sister, asks from behind the sign in area.

“I have a question for you.” I lean against the counter and pull out my ear buds.

“Shoot.” Molly places both elbows onto the counter.

“What can you tell me about tutors for the athletic teams on campus?”

She scrunches her nose and tilts her head to the side. “Are you interested in being a tutor?”

“No, no. Nothing like that. I just wondered if you could tell me who tutors the athletes. Do they have their own private tutors, or do they come here for help?”

“I’m not aware of any tutoring services specific to the teams on campus. I suppose they could have personal tutors, but I’ve never heard of it. Why?”

“So, they come here?”

“We don’t get a lot of athletes in here despite the assumption they need it. I mean, no more than any other group."

Great, I really am a profiling bitch.

Molly rattles on, "There’s a few guys from the football team that come in regularly. Baseball team, softball team, wrestlers . . . yeah, I guess as far as I know the ones that need help come here.”

“What about the men’s basketball team? Do any of them come in for tutoring?”

She brings her thumb to her mouth and bites on the pad of it while she considers my question carefully. “Not that I can think of.”

Damn.

“Do you guys have anyone for statistics?”

She grimaces. “Must be rough if you need help.”

I nod. “D on the first test.”

“Ouch,” she says as she flips through papers hanging on a clipboard. “We have Sally and Tom in today, they both tutor math. I think they mostly do algebra and calculus, but I could put you in the schedule and you could meet with one of them and give it a try. Interested?”

“Sure. Why not? Got anything now? I’m done with classes for the day, and I don’t want to come back to campus this afternoon if I can help it.”

“Looks like Tom is free after his current session. You can hang over there.” She nods to a section of chairs and couches pushed to one side of the room. “He should be done in ten minutes or so.”

I stop short of the waiting area, spying the men’s basketball schedule on the wall with a picture of the team decked out in their uniforms. The guys stand stoic and unsmiling, and my eyes drift first to Wes. He stands in the back row, wearing jersey twelve. His legs are hidden by the guy standing in front of him, which makes it impossible for me to see if he’s wearing the boot. My research didn’t pull up any information on his injury, so I don’t know if it’s recent, what he did, or even if he’ll be out for the season. I’m suddenly very curious about Wes Reynolds.

In truth, I’ve paid very little attention to any of the jocks since arriving at Valley. Freshman year, I’d barely looked at anyone who wasn’t in a fraternity. Greek life became a home away from home, and there was something exciting about finding a guy who had the same sort of passion for his fraternity brothers as I had for my sisters. And, of course, fraternity guys love nothing more than they love freshman pledges.

By the end of sophomore year, the guys at socials and parties started to blend together and Vanessa and I’d stopped choosing our weekend activities based on frat parties. We plan on moving out of the sorority into an off-campus apartment next year. I’ll always treasure my years at the sorority, but I’m ready to have my own space.

David had been the quintessential frat guy, and I'd fallen for his charm and good looks before I'd realized what a monster he is beneath the shiny facade. Too little too late. It isn’t as if I think all frat guys are douchebags based on one bad experience, but it’s like getting food poisoning at a restaurant. Even if it was the cook’s fault, your brain associates the restaurant itself with a horrible experience and you aren’t likely to go back anytime soon.

When Tom finally waves me over, I’m so hopeful I could burst. But my optimism only lasts a few minutes. I’m not an idiot. Far from it. I get the basic principles of business statistics. I’ve read the book and memorized definitions. It’s the real-world application that is just out of reach. Math word problems were the devil in sixth grade, and they haven’t gotten any easier no matter how much I study.

Molly catches me on my way out. “Any luck?”

“No.” I exhale a deep breath. “There has to be someone on campus who tutors statistics.”

"Did anyone at the house have O’Sean last year?”

"I asked around. Nothing.”

“I’ll see if anyone here knows anything,” she offers. “Someone has to have something on him. Old quizzes or tests. I’ve heard he’s old-school and still does everything on paper."

Of course. Why hadn’t it occurred to me sooner? Wes must have gotten his hands on tests from someone who’d taken statistics last year. O'Sean seems exactly like the type of professor to re-use the same material every year. That has to be the answer. Wes isn't sleeping through class and magically learning by osmosis. He already has the answers.