Teaching Tucker (Face-Off Legacy/Campus Kings 3)

“The domain is private,” Jamie says.

I grunt in irritation, the hope I had a minute ago slowly draining away. “So, we can’t find out who owns it?”

He shakes head, spinning around in the chair. “No, but there might be another way. I can try tracking their IP address. But I’ll need more time.”

“Until then…” Preston interjects, in an authoritative tone, “… all of you need to stay out of trouble.” There’s a reason why he’s the captain of our team. Preston has a way of getting our asses in check when we start slipping. “Don’t do anything stupid. Stay the hell away from the Delta Sig guys.” His eyes shift to me when he says this.

“I’m not avoiding my friends because of one article,” I shoot back.

“Whatever.” Preston frowns. “But no more parties or pot brownies.”

“You sound like my dad right now.”

He narrows his eyes at me and opens his mouth as if he’s about to say something, but instead, he remains silent. We’re both sick of having this talk. College is about girls, parties, and hockey—my three favorite things. Preston acts like he’s not all about those things too. Until he met Bex Bryant, our coach’s daughter, he was partying it up with the rest of us on Greek Row every weekend.

The doorbell rings, cutting through the awkward silence in the room.

“That’s probably Shannon,” Jamie says getting up from his chair.

Preston follows Jamie into the hallway without speaking another word. The angry scowl on his lips says everything I need to know. He’s holding his tongue while I’m trying to hold mine.

Drake plops his big ass on my bed, and the mattress dips from his weight. “You can find a tutor on Strick Net,” he offers. “There’s a bulletin board where people post jobs.”

“Isn’t there a tutoring center in the library?”

“Yeah, but private tutors will meet you anywhere. No one will know you’re failing if you hire someone.”

“You’re smarter than you look,” I say with a wink.

Drake smirks. “I have my moments.”

“You don’t want Coach Bryant to find out,” Trent says as he passes by me to sit on his bed. He props himself against the headboard, his arms crossed behind his head, staring over at me. “He’s such a hardass. He’ll bench you if he knows you’re failing.”

Every semester I find some way to pass my classes. If I couldn’t find a way to sweet talk a professor, Trent would do me a favor and take the test for me. But helping me is no longer an option, not after we got caught cheating by Professor Cox. We’re so used to everyone not being able to tell us apart, we didn’t think anything of it. Trent even spiked his hair like mine, but the sorority chick who sits next to me in class figured it out and told on us. So, now I need a plan B.

I sit in front of the computer and log into Strick Net, the Strickland University interface where students can talk to each other as well as the professors. Students are required to submit most of their assignments online. It’s also where our grades are posted. There’s even an instant message feature I have yet to use. School’s never really been a priority for me, I’m here to play hockey and draw enough attention to go pro after graduation.

Scrolling through each page, I look for someone who will tutor me. I’m ready to give up my search when I spot a post from a student who uses the screen name Heir_of_Slytherin. The job was posted fifteen minutes ago. He sounds like a weirdo. What the hell does Heir of Slytherin even mean?

Part-time Tutor

Student tutor available Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Proficient in the following subjects: English, Math, Law, and Communications. $25 per hour. Rate non-negotiable. Serious inquiries only.

He sounds like an ass. Serious inquiries only, I mock in my head. But what choice do I have? I need help passing this class. At some point, I suppose I should start giving a shit about school. Today is definitely not the day, but at least this is a start.

“I found someone,” I say to Drake. “He sounds like a dickwad.”

He’s playing on his cell phone, typing out a text. “Cool,” he mutters, his eyes pointed at the screen, uninterested. I’m sure he’s talking to one of the many women he’s sent a dick pic to this week.

“How do you know?” Trent asks. “Did you talk to him already?”

“No, but his post gives me weird vibes.”

“Stop procrastinating, Tuck.” Trent presses his hands to the mattress and leans forward glaring at me. “You’ll find any excuse to avoid dealing with your shit. Send the dude a message already and stop acting like a pussy.”

“The only pussy I see in this room is you,” I shoot back, even though it’s totally uncalled for.