Greya's POV...

Whoever invented Calculus must have done it purely to torture humanity. Why so many different math classes? Just give us the basics—how to survive in the real world, balance a checkbook, pay taxes—stuff adults actually need.

Thankfully, Fynn and Ari are in the trenches with me, sharing the misery and occasionally trying to help. They sit on either side of me, though "helping" often means distracting me further. Numbers are not my forte, but I need this class if I want a shot at medical school.

I drop my books onto my desk, second row from the back, and the room's chatter dims slightly as Becker Reeves strolls in. He runs his fingers through his dark brown hair, flashes his perfect smile, and every girl in the room visibly swoons. Typical.

But then his eyes meet mine. Those Caribbean blues—everyone else sees them as mesmerizing; I see the faint flicker of something else. A hesitation. A weight he's carrying no one else notices. For a moment, he seems lost in thought, until I tilt my head in a small, teasing smile.

He slides into the seat behind me. The air shifts. His presence is quiet, yet impossible to ignore.

"You going to win your game today, Love?" he whispers, leaning just enough for me to hear the faint rasp of his voice. "Scout from UCLA'll be watching too."

I roll my eyes at the nickname. Ever since he learned my middle name, he's insisted on using it, like some private code. It's the only personal detail about me he cares to know.

But this is Becker's way of talking. His way of connecting. So I play along.

"I heard... good luck then," I respond, careful not to turn around. If I face him, he'll see my intent, and he'll retreat into his usual silence.

"The scout'll notice who scores the most goals," he teases.

"That's a given, B," I reply, shrugging.

He inhales sharply, a sound that makes my pulse skip. Pain? Frustration? I can't tell, but it almost makes me want to turn and ask. I want to reach out, to pull the mask off, but he'd never answer honestly. He protects himself too well. Not so different from me, actually.

"Up for the challenge?" I ask instead. Keep it light, keep it safe. Let him reveal what he wants to in his own way.

He leans in slightly, the whisper near my ear, "Today I'm going to break that tie. You'll be the one chasing me."

I choose not to answer, not aloud. Instead, I note the subtle shift in his demeanor. There's always something off about him, something hidden beneath the façade everyone else worships. First day in 7th grade, I saw it too: the loss in his eyes, the tension in his posture, the way he keeps everyone at arm's length.

He's never had a high school girlfriend. Only Declan and Cohen get close. His distance, his careful observation—it's part of the armor he's worn for years. And I've yet to get through that armor.

Then Declan interrupts, loudly enough for everyone to hear, "Greya, you get another offer tonight, who are you picking?"

I ignore him. I haven't figured it out myself, and I'm not ready to put my hopes on something that might not exist.

Becker's voice suddenly cuts into my ear, sharp and furious, "What does he mean by another offer? Why haven't you accepted?"

I scrunch my eyes, staring at him, stunned. He's not usually this direct with me.

"So?" he adds, leaning back, arms crossed, irritation radiating off him.

"Why do you care?" I ask quietly. Finally. My first meaningful question to him, though the delivery isn't exactly polite.

He freezes. The surprise in his eyes is almost... something else. And then he's silent.

I turn back to my assignment, letting the moment linger. Thirty minutes later, I'm still stuck on problem two. Then, his hand quietly drops a folded piece of paper onto my desk. I open it: detailed steps for solving the entire set. My heart lifts—this is Becker's apology, his help, his bridge.

"You coming to my party tonight?" he asks calmly, leaning just close enough that I feel his presence.

I'm still processing the math help. "Maybe," I say, handing the paper back slowly. "Thanks."

He leans back, chair balanced on two legs, watching me return the paper. His expression shifts again, subtle pain flickering across his features. I look away, giving him space, but not before noting those ocean blues that hold so much mystery.

I break the silence with a challenge. "If you score more goals than I do tonight, I'll go to your party."

He straightens, chair back on all fours, leans toward me again, and smirks. "Deal."