Behind the Plate (The Boys of Baseball #2) - J. Sterling Page 0,13

all she’d been since the minute we met. Danika, the little spitfire.

Her head cocked to one side as she tried to size me up in response, and I wondered if she knew who I was or not.

Did she remember me from the other night? Did she know who she was going to tutor before she agreed to do it?

“I was unexpected? What does that even mean? You signed up for a tutor, did you not? Am I wasting my time here?” Her accent grew stronger, and I knew she was agitated as she directed the last question at my counselor, Bryant.

“We signed up for this. You’re not wasting your time. Everyone, just calm down.” Bryant tried to make peace, but the two of us were suddenly straddling an imaginary line, preparing for a battle no one else could see coming.

No matter how I felt, it was vital that someone fucking help me with this class and not give me attitude about it the whole time.

“I didn’t expect a chick, is all I meant,” I explained and instantly knew that I’d said something wrong.

She tossed her long, dark ponytail from her shoulder as she squared off to face me, her hazel eyes ablaze. “First of all, girls don’t like being called chicks. Second, you can get a new tutor if you want, but you’ll have to wait. Everyone’s already paired up for the semester. I was a last-minute add, and they begged me to help you,” she said, emphasizing the word.

“Why would they beg you to help me?” I asked, not believing her.

“Because I’m the best math tutor they have on campus, and they know it. And apparently, you need me.”

“Ha! Need you,” the words escaped from my lips in defiance. I definitely needed the help, but I didn’t need her.

“I don’t have to be here,” she argued back, smacking a piece of gum between her lips before reaching for her bag.

“Dammit.” Bryant sounded exasperated. “Will you two just calm down?” he demanded.

I stopped fidgeting, and Danika put her bag down on top of the table.

“Danika, we do need you,” he said first, and she looked at me with a shit-eating grin, like she’d won this round. “And, Chance, we’re out of time. There isn’t anyone else, and we’ve put this class off for as long as we can.” He looked desperate, and it’s because we were.

Waiting wasn’t an option. If I didn’t pass the class this semester, I could kiss my entire junior season good-bye. “He’s right. I can’t wait.”

“Then, I guess you’re stuck with me, Hotshot.” Her gum snapped again, drawing my eyes to her mouth.

“Hotshot?” I guessed that answered my question from earlier; she knew who I was even if she didn’t act like it.

That was why girls couldn’t be trusted. They were too good at pretending to be innocent.

“Don’t get all worked up over it. I’m not flirting with you.” She serious, and I would have believed her if her eyes hadn’t given her away. No matter how hard Danika tried to hide it, she was attracted to me.

Bryant cleared his throat. I’d almost forgotten he was even in the room. “Now that that’s settled”—he sounded uncomfortable—“can I trust that you two won’t kill each other if I leave you alone?”

“No promises.” Danika batted her eyes in his direction quickly, and he looked like he couldn’t wait to get away from us.

“Chance?” he asked, apparently needing my verbal confirmation that I wouldn’t kill my tutor before he could actually leave the room.

“Give me a break,” I said, slightly annoyed. “Little Spitfire and I will be fine.”

Danika huffed out a noise in response to the nickname, and Bryant attempted to ignore it altogether.

“Okay. Good. Great. Just let me know if you have any issues.” He moved to exit the room before stopping and turning back around to face us both. “But don’t”—he held up a finger—“have any issues. I mean it. You two need to make this work. It’s this or nothing.”

“I get it,” I said, my tone forceful. “I understand.”

“Little Spitfire?” Danika fired at me the second the door shut and we were alone.

“Hotshot?” I fired back, and she grinned.

“I’m not little,” she argued, and I found myself laughing.

“That’s the part you didn’t like?”

Her hazel eyes narrowed, and she refused to answer, cutting off whatever briefly peaceful moment we had allowed ourselves to have. “Anyway, is your counselor guy always that rattled?” she asked, and I shrugged.

“I think he’s just nervous about the whole situation,” I said,