The screech of rubber soles against the polished hardwood floor pierced Vesper's eardrums.

She stood at the edge of the court, her chest tight. The gym was massive, echoing with the sound of bouncing basketballs and shouting men.

She squinted against the harsh fluorescent lights, searching the sea of moving bodies for the number zero.

A collective gasp drew her attention to the paint. Slade leaped into the air, his muscles flexing as he slammed the ball through the hoop with violent force. The metal rim shuddered loudly.

A group of cheerleaders sitting in the front row erupted into high-pitched screams.

The coach blew a sharp whistle. "Five minutes!"

Slade landed gracefully. He grabbed the hem of his sweaty jersey and wiped his face, exposing a deeply carved, sweat-slicked abdomen.

Vesper's throat went completely dry. Her instinct screamed at her to turn around and run back to the quiet safety of her studio.

Instead, she forced her legs to move. She wove through the crowd of lingering fans and walked straight toward the team bench.

Slade reached for a blue sports drink. Vesper stepped right in front of him, blocking his hand.

He stopped. He slowly lowered his arm and looked down at her. His eyes scanned her paint-stained flannel and the dusty canvas apron she had forgotten to take off.

"I'm your sculpture partner," Vesper said. Her voice shook, so she cleared her throat and tried again, louder. "For Cromwell's class."

Slade's lips twitched into a slow, arrogant smirk. "Are you the one who sent that stalker text?"

Vesper's face flushed hot. "It was a formal academic request."

Slade scoffed. He twisted the cap off his bottle and took a long drink, his Adam's apple bobbing.

"Look around, art girl," Slade said, his voice carrying easily over the gym noise. "My schedule is packed. I barely have time to sleep, let alone sit around while you play with clay."

Two of his massive teammates stepped up behind him.

"Another crazy fan using homework as an excuse?" one of them whistled. "You're getting creative, Forrester."

Slade didn't correct them. He just shrugged, his eyes locked on Vesper's burning face. "Find someone else."

The teammates burst into loud laughter.

The sound felt like a physical slap. Vesper's blood rushed straight to her head. The humiliation burned behind her eyes.

She gripped the strap of her canvas bag so hard her fingernails dug painfully into her palms.

She didn't say another word. She spun around, shoved her way through the laughing crowd, and practically ran toward the exit.

She pushed through the glass doors. The freezing air hit her wet cheeks. She hadn't realized she was crying until the wind made the tears turn ice-cold.

Vesper walked as fast as she could down the tree-lined path toward her dorm. Her chest heaved with every breath.

She shoved her key into the lock and pushed her dorm door open.

Deafening pop music blasted from a cheap Bluetooth speaker. Her roommate, Rowan, was sitting cross-legged on the rug, painting her toenails a bright cherry red.

Rowan looked up, saw Vesper's pale face, and immediately hit pause on her phone. "Who died?"

Vesper threw her heavy bag onto the floor and face-planted into her pillow. She didn't have the energy to explain.

The bathroom door clicked open. Their third roommate, Casey, walked out with a towel wrapped around her wet hair.

"Did you guys see the roster for tomorrow night's game?" Casey asked, oblivious to the tension. "Student Body President Julian Hayes is going to be sitting in the VIP family section."

Vesper's breath hitched. She slowly pushed herself up from the mattress. Her heart, which had been heavy with humiliation, suddenly spiked with a frantic, nervous energy.

Julian.

She turned her head and looked at her desk. The crumpled piece of paper with Slade's name on it sat next to her pencil cup.

Julian was Slade's roommate.

Vesper's jaw hardened. She was going to that game tomorrow night. She was going to see Julian, and she was going to make Slade Forrester pay for humiliating her.

The final buzzer blared, vibrating right through Vesper's ribs.

The home crowd erupted into a deafening roar. Vesper sat in the back row of the crowded bleachers, her hands pressed over her ears. The noise was physically painful.

But her eyes weren't on the scoreboard. They were locked on the VIP section across the court.

Julian Hayes stood there, clapping politely. He wore a navy cashmere sweater that made his shoulders look broad and soft.

Vesper's chest tightened. She remembered the rainy afternoon freshman year when she had dropped her groceries in a puddle. Julian had stopped, handed her his umbrella, and helped her pick up the bruised apples. He had smiled at her like she actually mattered.

Down on the court, Slade was being swarmed by teammates. He had just hit a buzzer-beating three-pointer to win the game.

Vesper didn't wait for the celebration to end. She grabbed her bag, squeezed past the screaming fans, and hurried down the narrow concrete stairs to the basement level.

The air down here was cooler, smelling of damp concrete and bleach.

She found the men's locker room and pressed her back against the wall, hiding in the dark shadow of a broken vending machine.

She waited. Her legs ached.

Half an hour later, the heavy metal door finally swung open for the last time.

Slade walked out. His dark hair was wet, dripping water onto the collar of his jacket. He had a massive black duffel bag slung over one shoulder and was staring down at his phone, his brow furrowed.

Vesper stepped out of the shadows and planted herself directly in the middle of the hallway.

Slade stopped short. He looked up. Annoyance flashed in his dark eyes.

He didn't say anything. He just shifted his bag and tried to step around her.

Vesper mirrored his movement, blocking his path again.

Slade clicked his tongue against his teeth. "I told you to find someone else. Don't make this weird and stalker-ish."

"September fourteenth. Flight 402 from Chicago," Vesper said, her voice deadpan and cold.

Slade froze. His eyes narrowed as he searched his memory.

Vesper pulled her phone from her pocket, unlocked it, and shoved the screen inches from his face.

The photo displayed a crushed, vintage brass suitcase. Scattered around it on the airport floor were dozens of hand-forged, custom woodcarving knives, their delicate wooden handles splintered.

"Those tools were forged in the eighteenth century," Vesper said softly, her eyes locked on his. "They belonged to my grandfather. They were appraised at over ten thousand dollars."

Slade's pupils dilated. He stared at the photo, then looked at Vesper's face. Recognition finally dawned in his eyes. He remembered the crying girl on the floor.

"If you don't show up to Cromwell's studio," Vesper said, her voice trembling slightly with adrenaline, "I will file a formal property damage claim with the university."

Slade didn't move.

"Once the claim is filed," Vesper continued, pushing her advantage, "the athletic board will flag your file for disciplinary review. You'll be suspended pending investigation. You'll miss the NCAA playoffs."

The silence in the hallway was suffocating. Vesper could hear the faint dripping of water from his wet hair hitting his jacket.

Slade's jaw clenched so hard a muscle ticked in his cheek. He stared down at her, his eyes dark and unreadable. He let out a harsh, disbelieving laugh. "You think you can blackmail me?" he demanded, his voice tight with barely suppressed rage. The sudden shift in his demeanor sent a cold shiver down her spine, but she held her ground, refusing to let him see the way her pulse hammered against her ribs.

He shifted his heavy bag to his other shoulder and took a slow step forward. He was so close now that Vesper could smell his body wash-something sharp and minty.

"Alright, art girl," Slade said, his voice dropping an octave. "I'll be your model."

Vesper exhaled a shaky breath of relief.

"But," Slade added, leaning down until his lips were inches from her ear. "You're going to do something for me in return."

Vesper stepped back instantly. Her shoulder blades hit the cold tile wall behind her.

"What do you want?" she asked, her voice tight.

Slade's smirk vanished. He reached into his pocket, pulled out his phone, and tapped the screen a few times. He turned it around and held it out to her.

Vesper squinted. It was a blurry, low-resolution photo of a wooden sculpture. It depicted a delicate rose enclosed in a glass-like wooden dome, with a semi-abstract figure of the Little Prince kneeling beside it.

"I need a custom piece," Slade said, his tone entirely serious now. He shifted his weight, looking almost defensive for a fraction of a second. "I'm going to use it to ask a girl to the Winter Formal next month. And before you say anything, this one is different. Normal stuff doesn't work on her. She thinks I'm just some dumb jock who expects everyone to fall at his feet. I need to prove her wrong, and handing her some store-bought garbage isn't going to cut it."

Vesper stared at the screen, her mind struggling to process the request. "Why?"

Slade rubbed the back of his neck, looking away for a split second. "I don't care how long it takes," Slade said, his eyes snapping back to hers. "If you have it done before the Formal, I will sit on that stupid stool in your studio for the rest of the semester."

Vesper did the math in her head. Sixty hours of lost sleep versus keeping her scholarship and avoiding the NCAA nightmare.

She looked up at him. She extended her right hand. "Deal."

Slade looked at her hand for a second before wrapping his large fingers around hers. His palm was hot. Too hot. The heat burned against her calloused skin, sending a strange jolt up her arm.

They dropped their hands quickly.

"Give me your number," Slade said, pulling up his contacts. "I need to know you're actually working on it."

Vesper rattled off her digits. She watched as he typed Angry Sculptor into his phone.

She rolled her eyes, pulled out her own phone, and saved his number as Bankrupt ATM.

"See you in class," Slade said. He turned and walked away, his heavy footsteps echoing down the hall.

Vesper let out a long, shaky breath. The tension drained from her muscles, leaving her exhausted.

She walked out of the arena. Light snow had begun to fall, the icy flakes melting against her hot cheeks.

When she finally pushed open the door to her dorm room, the lights were dim.

Rowan was sitting on her bed, staring at her phone screen with a massive, goofy smile on her face.

"What's so funny?" Vesper asked, shrugging off her heavy coat.

Rowan jumped. She instantly locked her phone and shoved it under her pillow. "Nothing! Just a stupid dog video."

Vesper frowned. Rowan looked flushed and panicked, but Vesper was too physically drained to interrogate her.

She walked over to her desk and clicked on her small brass reading lamp. She pulled out her thick sketchbook and a graphite pencil.

She started sketching the rose. The curves of the petals flowed easily onto the paper.

As she shaded the Little Prince, her mind drifted to Julian. She imagined carving something this beautiful for him. Would he look at her the way he looked at his textbooks-with that gentle, focused attention?

She shook her head violently. She needed to focus on Slade's order.

Vesper kept drawing. The scratch of the pencil was the only sound in the room. She worked until her vision blurred, eventually resting her head on the desk and falling into a deep, dreamless sleep.