My Ex Said Dating Me Was Homework - Then Four Star Captains Asked Me to Formal

I tapped my yellow highlighter against the edge of the oak table, watching the digital clock on my laptop screen flip to 6:15 PM.

Jace Brooks was exactly forty-five minutes late for his private Calculus session. Again.

This was the third time this week he had blown past our agreed start time. I shoved my textbook into my backpack and zipped it shut with a sharp, satisfying sound. I was done. I wasn't going to sit around in an empty library waiting for a guy who couldn't respect my time.

Tyler had cured me of that pathetic habit permanently.

If Jace wanted to fail out of his senior year and lose his football eligibility, that was his problem. I reached for my car keys, fully prepared to march into Principal Pierce’s office tomorrow and drop him from my roster.

The wooden door to the study room swung open, hitting the rubber stopper with a dull thud.

Jace stumbled inside. He looked wrecked.

Grass stains smeared the front of his gray practice shirt, and sweat made his dark blonde hair stick flat against his forehead. He dropped his oversized gym bag onto the floor. It hit the linoleum like a bag of bricks.

"Don't pack up," he breathed, leaning heavily against the doorframe. "I'm here."

"You are forty-five minutes late," I said, slinging my backpack over my shoulder. "Our session is over, Jace. I'm canceling your private slot. You can join the group study on Thursdays, but I am not wasting my evenings waiting for you."

Jace pushed off the doorframe, his jaw tightening. "You can't cancel. Director Sullivan will bench me for Friday's game."

"Then you should have looked at a clock." I stepped around the table, ready to walk past him. "I am not your personal assistant. I don't exist just to fix your mistakes."

"I didn't make a mistake!" Jace snapped, his voice echoing sharply in the quiet room.

I stopped, turning back to face him.

The anger in his eyes faded almost instantly, replaced by a hollow, bone-deep exhaustion. He sank into the nearest chair, dropping his head into his hands. His broad shoulders slumped forward, devoid of his usual locker-room swagger.

"I didn't forget," he muttered, his voice muffled behind his hands. "I just couldn't leave."

I crossed my arms, keeping my distance. "Practice ended at five."

"Team practice ended at five," Jace corrected, looking up at me. The dark circles under his eyes were impossible to ignore up close. "I have morning weights at five a.m. Then school. Then team practice until five. And then, my dad has his private conditioning coach waiting for me on the back field until six."

I frowned, loosening my grip on my backpack straps. "Every day?"

"Every single day," Jace said bitterly. "My dad treats every college recruiting visit like it's a preview for the NFL draft. If I'm not running drills until I throw up, I'm not working hard enough. He stands on the sidelines with a stopwatch, Avery. If I walk off the field a minute early, he loses his mind."

He gestured toward the open Calculus book still sitting on the table.

"I'm not stupid," he said, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper. "I know how to find a derivative. I understand the formulas. I'm just... I'm so damn tired I can't see straight."

For a long moment, the only sound in the room was his heavy, ragged breathing.

I looked at the Golden Boy of the senior class. The guy who smiled for the local newspaper, who threw the winning touchdowns, who always looked untouchable in the crowded hallways. Right now, he just looked like a teenager crumbling under the weight of an impossible expectation.

Before I could respond, the overhead lights in the study room flickered twice.

Mrs. Gable, the head librarian, tapped on the glass door. "Closing time, kids. You don't have to go home, but you can't stay here."

Jace let out a slow breath, reaching for the strap of his gym bag. "Right. I guess I'll figure out the homework myself."

"Grab your stuff," I said, dropping my backpack onto the table and pulling my textbook back out.

He paused, looking at me in confusion. "What?"

"The library is closed," I said, walking past him toward the door. "My kitchen is open all night. Let's go."

The digital clock on my microwave read 1:00 AM.

The only light in the kitchen came from the warm yellow bulbs hanging over the center island. Jace sat on a wooden barstool, staring blankly at a page of complex integrals. His pencil hadn't moved in five minutes.

"You are ruthless," Jace mumbled, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands. "You know that, right? Any normal tutor would have just given me the answer key two hours ago."

"I already told you, I'm not a tutor," I replied, taking a sip of my lukewarm tea. "I'm a manager. And managers don't forge results. Solve for X."

"I hate X," he groaned. "X ruined my life."

"Just plug the value back into the original equation," I instructed, pointing at his paper.

He leaned closer to the textbook, his eyes half-closed. "Right. The original equation."

He wrote down one number. Then his hand slowed. The pencil slipped from his fingers, clattering softly against the granite countertop.

A second later, Jace's head dropped onto his crossed arms. His breathing evened out, slow and deep.

He was asleep.

I sat in silence, watching the steady rise and fall of his shoulders.

A familiar, dangerous urge crept into my chest. The urge to fix it.

For three years, whenever Tyler fell asleep studying, I had quietly pulled his worksheets across the table. I had forged his handwriting, solved his equations, and packed his bag so he could wake up to a perfect, stress-free morning. It was my automatic response. Make it easy for them. Take the burden.

I looked at Jace's unfinished math problems. It would take me ten minutes to finish the page. Ten minutes to guarantee his grade and keep my shot at the Westbridge award alive.

My hand drifted toward his pencil.

Then, Tyler's voice echoed in the back of my mind. Dating her just feels like homework.

I pulled my hand back.

No. I was done doing the homework. If Jace wanted to pass, he had to earn it himself.

I stood up from the stool and walked into the living room. I grabbed the soft gray fleece blanket folded over the back of the sofa and carried it back into the kitchen.

Moving quietly, I draped the blanket over Jace's broad shoulders, tucking the edges around him to keep out the chill of the air conditioning.

He shifted slightly, burying his face deeper into his arms, but he didn't wake up.

I sat back down on my stool, opened my AP Government textbook, and began to read my own assignment.

A sharp cramp in my neck woke me up.

I blinked against the bright morning sunlight streaming through the kitchen windows. I was slumped sideways over the island, my cheek resting flat against the open pages of my government book.

I sat up slowly, wincing as my stiff muscles protested.

"Careful," a low voice said. "You're going to pull a muscle moving like that."

I startled, turning my head quickly.

Jace was awake. The fleece blanket was still wrapped around his shoulders, but he was sitting up straight, watching me. The deep exhaustion from the night before had faded, leaving his eyes clear and surprisingly focused.

He didn't look annoyed. He didn't look defensive.

"Morning, Avery," he said softly.

It was the first time he hadn't called me 'Tutor' or 'Boss' in a mocking tone.

"Morning," I replied, my voice slightly raspy from sleep. I nodded toward his Calculus book. "You have three problems left."

Jace looked down at the worksheet. He noticed the blank spaces. He noticed that I hadn't filled them in for him while he slept.

A slow, genuine smile spread across his face. It transformed him, stripping away the arrogant athlete persona and leaving behind someone real.

He picked up his pencil. "Chain rule, right?"

"Chain rule," I confirmed.

As I watched him tackle the final equations, a quiet realization settled over me.

Everyone at school treated Jace like a superstar. They cheered for him from the bleachers, demanded his time, and expected him to perform flawlessly on command. They wanted the touchdown pass, the perfect interview, the NFL prospect.

But the Golden Boy didn't need another cheerleader shouting from the sidelines.

He just needed someone who understood exactly how heavy the crown really was.

Jace circled his final answer and pushed the paper across the granite island toward me, a quiet confidence settling in his posture.

I reached for the worksheet, ready to check his math, when my phone buzzed sharply on the counter.

The screen lit up, displaying a new message.

It wasn't a desperate text from Tyler this time.

It was an unknown number, and the message contained only an address on the edge of town, followed by a single, demanding sentence.

If you want Ethan to pass Chemistry, come get him before the cops do.