GET THAT PUCK

Rules and Exceptions

The room's instant reaction? A ripple of whispers, side-eyes sharper than a razor, and the laser focus of cheerleader glares burning into Liora's back. She stiffens, clutching her pen like it's a dagger, ready to stab me in the throat.

I plop into the seat right next to hers, thigh brushing hers, grinning like I own the damn world. "And yet," I say, voice smooth as honey, "here I am."

She groans, dragging her hand down her face like she's trying to erase her existence. If looks could kill, I'd already be six feet under, no question.

"Why," she whispers through gritted teeth, "are you like this?"

I lean back, slow smile spreading like I've just cracked the Da Vinci code. "Like what? Charming?"

Professor Whitman starts his droning monologue about case law, but no one in this room gives a single damn. Not when Raev Rhys—the campus menace, the hockey golden boy with the black reputation—is sitting pressed up against Liora Holt, campus royalty with a mouth sharp enough to cut glass.

Then Whitman clears his throat. "You'll all be paired in twos for your end-of-term project. Partners will be assigned."

Liora quietly whispers a prayer. I think I catch, Please not Rhys, please not Rhys, I'll be good, I swear.
And lucky for me?

God's on my side today.

"Rhys and Holt."

Her forehead collapses onto the desk with a thunk.
My laughter bursts out, unfiltered, delighted. "Oh, I absolutely believe in fate, Owl."

She shoots me a glare hot enough to blister. "Call me that again and I'll murder you. And bury you where no one will ever find you and if you think i won't do that check my streaming list."

I grin wider, loving every second. "Threats of violence in business law class. Feisty."

She grips her pen like she's about to commit felony assault. Then, still staring at her notebook like it personally wronged her, she mutters, "I have a question."

I smirk, leaning back like I own the whole damn row. "Yes, the rumors are true. It is that big."

Her whole body twists toward me, murder in her eyes. "Raev, I swear—"

"Boooring," I cut in, grinning. "Come on, Owl. Shoot."

She exhales like she's bracing for a lightning strike. "I want to know... what's Kane's dating style?"

That stops me dead in my tracks. I blink, then let my grin creep back in—like I didn't just get hit with a lightning bolt.

"Kane? Huh. I've only seen him date once. It was... okay. He's one of those guys who actually takes girls on proper dates—coffee shops, movie nights, maybe some wild parties if he's feeling frisky. Not the jealous type. Holds doors open, remembers their stupid favorite order, probably writes little notes in neat handwriting like he's auditioning for a romance novel."

I tap my pen against the desk for effect. "In conclusion, Safe. Predictable. The kind of guy who kisses you goodnight on the porch and hopes you don't melt into a puddle. But after that one time? He didn't really date again."

She exhales slowly, like she's actually thinking about it—like she's filing it away in that scary-sharp brain of hers.
"And what's his type?"

I shrug, leaning back in my chair. "Usually the same as mine—we've overlapped before." Her eyes narrow at the word overlapped, which makes my grin tug wider. "But Kane leans more 'cute' than 'pretty.' Responsible. Calm. Well-behaved. The type who remembers to drink water and does her laundry before it becomes a biohazard."