TORI’S POV
I stood outside the Economics classroom for a full minute, note clutched in my hand, questioning all my life choices. The hallway had mostly cleared out, giving me a clear view of Ethan still inside, putting his books away with irritating slowness.
Just do it and go, I told myself. It's for the grade.
Taking a deep breath, I marched back into the classroom and straight to his desk. He looked up, surprise flickering across his face.
"Forget something?" he asked, his tone missing its usual easy confidence after our argument yesterday.
I slapped the folded paper onto his desk. "Saint's Cafe. Meet me there in 5 minutes. I'll be waiting."
Before he could respond, I turned and walked out, not looking back. I didn't want to see his reaction.
It wasn't about him, anyway. It was about the project. About my GPA.
I arrived at Saint's Cafe few minutes early and I picked a table in the corner, set up my laptop, and arranged my color-coded notes in precise stacks.
I kept glancing at the door, telling myself I wasn't nervous as I waited for him.
Ten minutes went by and there was no Ethan.
A hot feeling spread through my chest – not quite anger, not quite embarrassment. Was he standing me up? Was this some kind of payback for yesterday?
I was about to pack up my things when the cafe door swung open and Ethan rushed in, his hair windblown, cheeks flushed like he'd been running.
"Before you kill me," he said, sliding into the chair across from me, "Coach Matt held us late for conditioning. I came straight here afterwards.”
I didn't say a word as he slid down opposite me with a grin, but it faded when I didn't return it. "I really am sorry. I would've texted but I realized I didn't have your number. Care to give me?"
I wasn't sure if I believed him, but it didn't matter. I ignored the phone he stretched at me. "Let's just get started. I have two minutes before I leave for home since you've wasted ten out of the thirty minutes I fixed for this.”
"Got it." He pulled out a notebook that looked like it had been through a war. Pages sticking out everywhere, bent corners, ink stains.
The contrast with my pristine materials made me irrationally annoyed.
"So," I said, trying to sound professional, "I have some ground rules."
"Of course you do," he muttered, but he was smiling.
I ignored him. "One: We meet twice a week until the project is done. Two: We divide the research equally. Three: All communication is about the project only."
"No small talk allowed?" He raised an eyebrow. "What if I need to tell you about the weather or ask how your day was? Is that allowed under the Martinez Project Protocol?"
"This isn't a joke," I said, feeling heat rise to my cheeks. "I just want to be efficient."
"And I just want to be a normal human being who can have a conversation with his project partner without feeling like I'm being interviewed for a security clearance."
I took a deep breath. "Can we move on please?"
He leaned back in his chair, studying me. "What are you so afraid of?"
"Excuse me?"
"You're building walls higher than the school gym. I'm just wondering why."
"I'm not afraid of anything," I snapped. "I just don't see the point in pretending we're friends when we're not."
"We could be, you know."
"What?"
"Friends." He said it simply, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "It's this weird thing where people who aren't enemies sometimes enjoy each other's company."
I stared at him. Was he serious? "We don't even know each other."
"That's usually how friendships start. Not knowing someone, then getting to know them."
"Can we please just focus on the project?" I pulled out the assignment sheet. "I was thinking we could do something on the economic impact of gender inequality in sports funding."
I expected him to argue or suggest something else. Instead, he nodded thoughtfully.
"That's actually perfect. We could use our own teams as a case study. Tennis gets a bigger budget than volleyball, even though your team has won more championships in the last five years."
I blinked, surprised. "You know our championship record?"
He shrugged. "I pay attention. Your squad is impressive."
"Oh." I wasn't sure how to respond to that. "Thanks."
"So we could analyze budget allocations, facility usage, scholarship distribution... show the economic inefficiency of underinvesting in successful women's programs." He started jotting notes in his messy handwriting.
I watched him, feeling something shift uncomfortably in my chest. This wasn't how this was supposed to go. Ethan Harrington was supposed to be the entitled jock who would coast along while I did all the work. He wasn't supposed to have actual, intelligent ideas.
"That's... not bad," I admitted reluctantly.
He looked up, grinning. "Don't sound so surprised. I'm actually pretty good at economics."
"Why?" The question slipped out before I could stop it.
"Why am I good at economics?"
"Yeah." I gestured vaguely at him. "You're... you know. Tennis star. Mr. Popular. I wouldn't think economics would be your thing."
His smile faded slightly. "Because jocks are supposed to be dumb?"
"I didn't say that."
"You implied it."
I felt a twinge of guilt. "I just meant—"
"My dad," he cut me off. "He made sure I understood market principles before I understood multiplication tables. It's kind of a family business."
"Oh." There was something in his tone I couldn't quite read. "So you're going into finance after college?"
Something flashed across his face – so quick I almost missed it. Then his easy smile was back.
He shrugged without replying to me. Then he rolled up the sleeves of his button-down shirt as he spoke, revealing tanned forearms with a light dusting of golden hair. I caught myself staring and quickly looked down at my notes.
"What about you?" he asked. "What's the Tori Martinez master plan?"
I didn't say anything. I was tempted to tell him it was none of his business.
He looked genuinely interested. "No kidding? Are you going to want to work with athletes?"
"Yeah.” I blurted out unwillingly. “Volleyball if possible, but I'd be happy with any Olympic-level team."
For the remaining fifteen minutes, we actually worked well together. Annoyingly well. Ethan had insights I hadn't considered, and when I explained my research approach, he asked questions that helped clarify my thinking.
I kept waiting for him to say something stupid or make some entitled comment, but it never came.
It was deeply unsettling.
"We should look at Title IX implications too," he said, leaning forward. His hair fell across his forehead, and I had the absurd urge to brush it back. "The economic ripple effects of compliance versus non-compliance could be—"
"Ethan! I thought that was you!"
A high-pitched voice interrupted us. I looked up to see a tall blonde girl approaching our table, all perfect teeth and designer clothes.
Ethan's face lit up. "Becca!"
He stood immediately, enveloping her in a hug that went on way too long. She giggled, her hand lingering on his arm when they pulled apart.
"I haven't seen you in forever," she gushed. "Not since the party at David's lake house."
"Yeah, it's been a while," he agreed, smiling down at her.
I sat there awkwardly, suddenly invisible. Of course. This was the real Ethan Harrington – the one who went to lake house parties with pretty blondes named Becca.
I started packing up my things.
Ethan turned back to me, looking surprised. "Oh, Tori, this is Becca. We grew up together. Becca, this is Tori, my—"
"Project partner," I finished for him, standing up. "And I was just leaving."
"What? We still have a few minutes left," he said, checking his watch.
"I got what I needed." I shoved my laptop into my bag. "I'll take the historical data section, you take the current market analysis. We can put it together next time."
"Tori, wait—"
But I was already heading for the door, ignoring the confused look on his face and the curious one on Becca's.