Playing Hard to Get (The Players)

I’M a nervous wreck and it’s all a certain football player’s fault.

Did Knox Maguire know he scheduled his tutoring session with me? Or is this some sort of random joke the universe is playing on me, and once he sees that I’m his tutor, he’ll be disappointed?

Leon calls it fate. Because, of course, I told him as soon as I saw the appointment hit my schedule app. And when I let Natalie know what happened, she said me getting boned by Knox Maguire was now pretty much a sure thing.

Yeah, right.

I definitely don’t think about ‘boning’ Knox. I’m too fresh off the breakup train for that.

But he is…pleasant to stare at. He’s also kind of funny. He becomes more appealing every day that I see him, which is surprising. Arrogant athletes aren’t my type. I avoid them like the plague thanks to dear old absent dad.

He’s out of my league though. He goes for hot girls who throw themselves at athletes because they know they’re hot. And then there’s me: the complete opposite of that type of girl.

I’m quiet. I keep to myself. I study hard because I want good grades. I thought I wanted to be a teacher when I started college, but during my first semester, I knew teaching wasn’t for me. Why would I want to spend the rest of my life in school?

No thanks.

Now…I kind of want to be a writer. A dream career that’s probably totally unattainable, but, at the moment, it’s exciting to think of all the possibilities.

Since I’ve always done well in English, becoming a tutor in the subject felt like a no-brainer. Fall semester of my sophomore year, I applied and was hired. Two of my earlier students had dyslexia, and I did all the research I could to help them. They both left such rave reviews that now I’m considered a specialist when it comes to reading disabilities.

And according to Knox Maguire’s profile, he has a reading problem. Hmm.

What a coincidence that Knox chose me to be his tutor—insert sarcasm here. Did he figure out my name? Does he actually have a reading disability? Not like I can ask him if he’s faking it. That would be rude.

Maybe it is fate, as ridiculous as it sounds.

I’m waiting in the meeting room at the library, constantly checking my phone for the time. I forgot to wear my Apple Watch today, which is so freaking annoying. I love being able to see my messages, how many steps I’ve walked, and if I’ve closed those rings on the watch yet. It’s addicting.

Knox’s already two minutes late, and while that’s not a huge deal, I’m big on being punctual. My time is just as valuable as his.

The door suddenly swings open, and there he is, filling up all the space as he rushes into the room, dropping his backpack onto the table with a loud clunk, his gaze never, ever straying from mine.

His smile is slow, his eyes beginning to sparkle as he studies me, resting his hands on his hips. “Joanna.”

I incline my head toward him. “Knox.”

“I knew it was you.”

I try to ignore the way my heart leaps happily at his words. “You’re late.”

His smile fades and he whips out his phone, checking the time. “By only three minutes.”

“I don’t like it when people are late.”

That smile returns, smaller now. “Got it.”

I indicate the chair across from me. “You should sit. We need to get started.”

Knox does as I ask, plopping into the chair across from me and reaching for his backpack. The table is long and narrow, his knee grazing mine beneath it, and a jolt shoots up my spine from the contact.

Of his knee.

Against mine.

I am in serious trouble.

“I was cruising the list of English tutors yesterday and I saw your name. Something told me it could be you. I just had this feeling, you know?” His gaze is fleeting before he returns his focus to digging out stuff from his backpack. “Now I know your real name, Jo Jo.”

I try not to roll my eyes. “Please call me Joanna. Or just Jo.”

“But I don’t like just Jo. I like Jo Jo.” That devastating grin of his is powerful and I’m sure he knows it.

I send him a stern look, channeling my earlier wannabe teacher days, but it doesn’t seem to deter him. “It’s surprising to see someone request a tutor this early in the semester.”

He drops a battered paperback onto the table between us. “I’ve been avoiding this class for what feels like the entirety of my college career. Pretty sure I’m the only senior in there.”

I bet he’s right. It is a first-year course. “Why didn’t your counselor make you take it?”

“I don’t know.” He shrugs, sheepish. His cheeks are tinged the faintest pink. “She said I could take it whenever I want to, and I’m a huge procrastinator.”

Uh huh. There are athletes all over this campus who use their status to their advantage. Avoiding classes, getting a pass on tests or projects because they were out of town for a game. The list goes on and on.

Please tell me Knox isn’t like that. I’ll be so disappointed.

“So here you are, taking it your senior year, during football season.” I glance at the paperback sitting between us. The Hate U Give by Angie Thomas. “Is that what you’re currently reading?”

“It’s what we’re supposed to be reading.” He scratches the back of his neck. “I’ve only read the first couple of chapters.”

“The first couple?”

“The first.” He hesitates. “Half of it.” Another hesitation. “Okay, only a couple of pages.”

Reaching out, I grab the book, studying the cover. “I read this when I was in high school.”

His expression turns hopeful. “Maybe you could give me a quick summary.”

The look I send him says, Yeah. No.

“There’s also a movie.”

His brows draw together. “No shit? I should watch it.”

“It doesn’t follow the book exactly. No movie made from a book ever does.” I set the book down, wondering if I’d blow his mind by admitting I read this book by choice. For pleasure. “It’s really good.”

“I’m sure it is. I was just glad to see a book written in the twenty-first century was the chosen reading material. Everything else is old as hell.”

“They’re classics, those old books. That’s why teachers usually assign them.”

“More like decrepit. We need some new blood up in here. It’s a modern world. Shouldn’t we be reading and discussing current problems?” Knox’s brows shoot up in question.

He’s making a valid point, but we’re not here to talk about that.

Opening my iPad, I go to the notes section where I have a page prepared for Knox and make some additions. “Before we start talking about the book and your assignments, can we talk about you for a minute?”

His grin turns downright…wolfish. If that’s such a thing. “Sure.”

“What’s your favorite subject in school?”

“Sports. Physical education.”

I send him an irritated look. “That doesn’t count.”

“It should.”

“Knox.”

“Fine, fine. I like…” He props his elbow on the table and settles his chin on his fist, thinking. It’s a good look for him. “Math. Numbers don’t lie. And they’re easy to read.”

He has a point.

I add math as his favorite subject along with the easy-to-read comment to my notes. He hasn’t come out and said he has an issue. Yet. Most don’t like to face it. They find it shameful, when really, it’s not.

“And I like history, but mostly in documentary form. The textbooks would always freak me out. They’re so long.” Knox grimaces, and I almost feel sorry for him.

I make note of what he said, typing in all the new information before I glance up at him. “What’s your least favorite subject?”

He makes a face. “English.”

I can’t stop the small laugh that leaves me. “I should’ve known.”

“Yeah, you should’ve.” He studies me. “You have a nice laugh.”

My cheeks go hot and I stare at my iPad screen, afraid to look at him. “Why don’t you like English?”

“I’m not a good reader.”

Ah, there it is.

“Why not?” When he doesn’t say anything, I finally look up to find him already watching me. “What do you struggle with? Comprehension? Are you a slow reader?”

“All of it.” He shifts in his chair, seemingly uncomfortable. “It’s always been a struggle for me to read. Ever since I was little.”

“Have you ever been tested for anything? Are you dyslexic?”

“Yeah, I’ve been tested.” He sighs. “And yeah, I’m dyslexic.”

At least he’s being open with me. “You should read out loud to me.”

“What is this, second grade?”

“Look, if you want me to help you with this class, I first need to assess you. It helps me to know what your weaknesses are, so we can work on them together.” When his gaze drops, like he can’t look at me, I decide to soften my approach. “Just know that everything we do in this room is between us. I won’t tell anyone.”

He lifts his head, those beautiful green eyes meeting mine once more, and I find myself getting lost in them for a second. “I don’t like talking about this shit.”

“I understand.”

“I’m a bad reader and it makes me feel…stupid.” His gaze drops once again.

“You’re not stupid.”

“I know I’m not.” He glares at me, sounding offended.

“You just struggle. We all struggle with something.” I rise to my feet. “I’ll sit next to you, so I can see the passage you’re reading.”

As Knox watches me carefully, I maneuver around the table, settling into the chair to his left, silently marveling at his size. He’s so tall. And broad and strong and he smells good. Warmth radiates from him as if trying to entice me to scoot closer, but I resist.

Barely.

Trying to ignore him, which is impossible, I reach out and grab the book, cracking it open to the first chapter. “Have you started it yet?”

“Yeah, remember? I read a few pages last night before I gave up.” He takes the book from me, our fingers brushing, sending that now familiar tingle of electricity straight up my arm. I’m sure the feeling is one-sided. He can have his pick of women every single day of the week. “Want me to pick up where I left off?”

“Sure.”

Clearing his throat, he begins to read. Almost immediately, there’s some struggle with a longer word as he slowly sounds it out. When he sees the word ‘there’ on the page, he says ‘that’ instead, and I quietly correct him. He does that a few times—assuming a word is something that it’s not, which I’ve never seen before.

But those are his only mistakes. As he keeps going, he picks up his pace, reading a little faster. Nowhere near as fast as me, but I’m a freak, so I don’t count.

He doesn’t stop until he finishes the entire first chapter, and when he sets the book on the table, he glances over at me.

“I was terrible.”

I shake my head. “No, you actually weren’t.”

“That took like…thirty minutes.”

“That’s okay. It’s a long-ish chapter.” I hesitate for only a moment. “Did you like it?”

“It definitely feels more up-to-date than some of the usual stuff we’re assigned.” He shrugs.

I can’t help but smile. “It was released in 2017, so it should feel more modern.”

“It’s not bad.”

“Just wait.” I peer at him. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you prefer reading out loud or to yourself?”

“I think I might prefer reading out loud,” he admits. “It’s easier to give up when you’re trying to read the page in your head. At least for me.”

“Do you comprehend it better when you hear the words out loud then?”

“Maybe?” He frowns, his brows drawing together. “I don’t know. I never thought of it like that.”

“Okay. I have an idea for you—I think you should get the audio version of this book. That way you could listen to it and absorb what’s being said,” I suggest.

“I can do that.” He nods.

“Good.” I rest my clasped hands on top of the desk, perilously close to where his hand is resting. It would take nothing for me to reach out and touch him, but I don’t. Of course I don’t. “Now, let’s work on your assignment.”

We go through each question, and I realize he didn’t fully comprehend what he just read. Clearly this isn’t easy for him. If he’s just a bad reader, how did he get through his other classes the last three years? Reading is required in pretty much every class you take in college.

I ask him that exact question.

“I always had help. Someone in my class who was willing to share their notes, or work on a paper with me.” Again with the bashfulness from this guy, which tells me it was always a female who was so willing to help the big, sexy football player with his homework.

“So why didn’t you find someone to help you in your English class?”

“Because I was already getting behind and we’ve barely started. Plus, they’re all freshmen.” He makes a face. “They’re kind of starstruck.”

“By you?” I lift a brow. I mean, I get it. I’m a little starstruck too, but I remind myself this is a job and he’s just another student. No big deal.

“Well, yeah. I’m sure I could get any girl in that class to help me. Probably any guy too.” He says it so matter-of-factly, it’s hard to imagine him being arrogant about this.

“Then why didn’t you?”

“Because everything’s riding on this. I’ve avoided this class for the last three years, all thanks to my coaches and my counselor. She finally told me last summer that I couldn’t ignore it any longer. I’m a senior and I have to take it.” His gaze locks on mine. “Want me to be real with you right now?”

“Please.” I nod almost too eagerly. Ugh.

“I’m scared I’ll fail. I can’t risk it. And I don’t need the distraction of some pretty freshman trying to touch my junk while I ask her to go over her notes with me.” He leans back in his chair, spreading his long legs in front of himself. “Besides, I’ve made a vow to myself.”

I’m still trying to wrap my head around the fact that an eighteen- or nineteen-year-old girl would so blatantly reach for his junk. Clearly, they’re a different kind of person than I am. Not that it’s a bad thing—they’re just bold while I’m a little more reserved. “What kind of vow?”

“I swore myself to celibacy.”