ETHAN'S POV
"Did you actually read all these articles?" I asked, watching Tori spread her color-coded research across the study room table.
"Of course I did." She didn't look up, focused on arranging everything in some system only she understood. "Didn't you?"
"Yeah, but I didn't create a filing system that NASA would envy."
That earned me a quick glance, almost a smile. Progress.
After she bolted from the café two days ago when Becca showed up, I wasn't sure she'd agree to meet again. But here we were, in the library study room, working on our economics project. And this time, I had a strategy.
"I analyzed the funding disparities between our teams," I said, sliding my laptop toward her. "Check this out."
I pulled up the spreadsheet I'd spent way too many hours perfecting. Not that I'd admit that to her.
Tori leaned forward, dark ponytail falling over one shoulder as she studied the screen. The faint coconut scent of her shampoo drifted my way.
"You got the actual budget numbers?" She looked impressed despite herself. "How?"
"Coach Matts left his planning binder out after practice. I have a photographic memory for numbers."
"That's..." She hesitated. "Actually useful."
"Try not to sound so shocked," I teased. "I do occasionally have skills beyond serving aces."
Her eyes narrowed, but there was something different there now. Assessment rather than dismissal.
"So," I continued, clicking to the next tab, "I compared our budgets against win percentages over the last five years. Your team consistently outperforms ours with less than half the funding."
"Tell me something I don't know," she muttered, but she was leaning closer now, genuinely engaged.
"The interesting part is here." I pointed to the graph I'd created. "When I adjust for Title IX compliance requirements, the school is technically following the letter of the law, but completely missing the spirit. They're counting women's activities that barely qualify as sports to pad the numbers."
Tori's eyebrows shot up. "Synchronized swimming?"
"And competitive cheer. Nothing against those activities, but—"
"They're not bringing in championship titles," she finished. "Or scholarship opportunities."
"Exactly." Our eyes met, and for a second, we weren't Ethan the tennis star and Tori the volleyball hardass. We were just two people connecting over a shared insight.
She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, looking back at the screen. "This is solid research."
Coming from Tori Martinez, that was practically a standing ovation.
"I figured you'd appreciate the cold, hard data approach," I said, trying not to sound too pleased. "Numbers don't lie."
"Unlike people," she added, giving me a pointed look.
"I've never lied to you, Martinez."
"You've never had the chance. We barely know each other."
I leaned back in my chair. "Let's fix that."
"We're not here to become friends," she reminded me, but with less edge than last time.
"God forbid," I agreed solemnly. "But knowing your project partner's basic information might help the workflow. Twenty questions?"
She rolled her eyes and completely ignored me.
"Ten, then?" Still she wasn't saying yes.
She was indeed a hard nut to crack.
"Seven?"
Tori reached for her water bottle instead. Our hands brushed accidentally, and she pulled back quickly. I pretended not to notice.
"Why volleyball?" I asked, genuinely curious.
She considered the question longer than the others. "It's the perfect balance of individual performance and team strategy. Every point is a puzzle that needs solving in seconds." Her eyes lit up as she spoke. "The court becomes this mathematical grid where timing and angles and force all have to align perfectly."
I'd never heard someone describe a sport quite like that. "You make it sound like physics and art combined."
"It is." She bit her lip, looking almost self-conscious.
“Won't you ask me same thing?”
"I like that it's just me out there," I said anyways. "No teammates to let down, no one to blame but myself. Win or lose, it's all on me."
Something flickered in her eyes—recognition, maybe. She nodded slowly.
She darted her eyes back to her notes. "Let's get back to work."
I'd suggest an angle, she'd critique it, then improve upon it. She'd share research, I'd find the market implications. Our hands occasionally brushed as we passed papers back and forth, and each time, I felt that same small jolt.
At one point, she chewed on her pen cap while concentrating on a paragraph, completely unaware of how the simple gesture sent my thoughts in inappropriate directions. I forced myself to look away.
"What about this section?" She pushed a page toward me. "I think the language is too technical."
I read it over, noticing the elegant precision of her writing. "Your analytical approach is actually impressive," I said, genuinely meaning it while enjoying her slight surprise. "Most of my teammates couldn't break down market factors like that."
"Volleyball players aren't just jumping and hitting," she responded with that fire I was growing addicted to. "We have to analyze complex defensive patterns in milliseconds."
Before I could respond, the study room door swung open. Athletic Director Reynolds entered, his face lighting up at the sight of me.
"Harrington! The Nike representatives are here." He barely glanced at Tori. "Martinez, you'll need to find another study room—this one's reserved for the tennis program's meeting."
I watched Tori's expression shutter closed again, erasing the brief connection we'd established. The warmth that had been slowly building between us froze over instantly.
"Of course it is," she muttered, already gathering her papers.
"Wait," I said, turning to Reynolds. "We were here first. We're working on an important assignment."
Reynolds looked confused. "But this is about your Nike sponsorship deal. They're waiting in the conference room."
Tori's head snapped up. "Nike sponsorship?"
"For the tennis program," Reynolds clarified, looking impatient. "We need to use this room for the presentation materials."
For the first time in my academic career, I felt ashamed of my automatic privilege. The look on Tori's face—a mixture of resignation and disgust—hit me harder than any missed serve ever had.
"Can't you use another room?" I asked Reynolds, but his expression made it clear that wasn't an option.
"It's fine," Tori said, her voice tight as she shoved papers into her bag. "I'm used to it."
"Five minutes, Harrington," Reynolds called over his shoulder as he left. "Don't keep them waiting."
I stood there, caught between running after Tori and meeting the representatives who could determine my future. The sponsorship was everything my father had been pushing for, the next step in the Harrington legacy.
But all I could see was the look in Tori's eyes as another door literally closed in her face simply because she played the wrong sport.