His Curvy Obsession

My fingers gripped the steering wheel of my battered sedan so tightly that my knuckles turned stark white. 

I stared through the windshield at the massive, colonial-style mansion looming at the end of the cul-de-sac. This was the Vanguard estate. It was a house built on old money, championship trophies, and a total lack of reality.

Three o'clock sharp, he had said.

I checked my dashboard clock. It was exactly 2:58 PM. I swallowed hard, trying to dissolve the massive, suffocating lump of anxiety forming in my throat. I didn't want to be here. Every protective instinct I possessed was screaming at me to shift the car into reverse, drive back to my cramped apartment, and figure out a way to explain to Mrs. Gable why I couldn't be paired with the school's golden boy.

But I couldn't. I needed this AP English credit to secure my scholarship. I was a plus-size girl from the wrong side of the tracks; I didn't have a wealthy family or a prestigious hockey scout waiting to hand me a future on a silver platter. I had to build my own path, block by block, and I wasn't letting Asher Vanguard smash my foundation just because he was throwing a temper tantrum.

I took a deep, steadying breath, smoothed down the front of my oversized grey hoodie, and stepped out into the biting autumn wind.

The walk up the pristine brick driveway felt like a march to the gallows. Before I could even reach for the heavy brass knocker, the massive oak front door swung open.

Asher stood in the threshold. He wasn't wearing his varsity jacket today. Instead, he wore a tight, form-fitting black long-sleeve shirt that clung ruthlessly to the broad, muscular contours of his chest and shoulders, paired with grey sweatpants that hung low on his hips. He looked completely relaxed, completely in his element, and entirely too attractive for my own peace of mind.

He leaned against the doorframe, crossing his arms as his dark eyes slowly tracked my movement up the steps. There was no mockery in his gaze right now-just a heavy, calculating focus that made my skin prickle with sudden heat.

"Look at that. You're actually on time," he murmured, his voice a low baritone that seemed to carry in the crisp air.

"I don't play games, Asher," I said, stopping a couple of steps below him so I wouldn't have to crane my neck quite so much to meet his eyes. "I told you I wouldn't waste my time. Where are we working?"

He stepped aside, gesturing into the grand, marble-floored foyer. "Inside. Upstairs. My room is the only place quiet enough right now."

My feet glued themselves to the concrete step. "Your room? Absolutely not. We can use the dining room or the kitchen."

Asher let out a short, mocking laugh, the familiar arrogant smirk returning to his lips. "Trust me, Vance, you don't want to sit in the kitchen. The guys are in the media room right off the main hall, and they're loud. Unless you want a repeat of third period in front of the whole varsity lineup, you'll follow me upstairs."

He didn't wait for my answer. He turned and began walking up the sweeping spiral staircase, completely confident that I would follow.

I bit my inside cheek so hard I tasted saliva, but I stepped inside and shut the heavy door behind me. The distant sound of raucous laughter and shouting echoed from a room down the hall-definitely the hockey team. Shaking, I hurried up the stairs, my sneakers making soft thudding sounds on the plush runner carpet.

Asher's bedroom was massive, practically the size of my entire apartment. A massive king-sized bed sat against one wall with a dark charcoal comforter, and the walls were lined with hockey memorabilia, framed jerseys, and shelves of shiny trophies. But what caught my attention was the sheer, overwhelming scent of him-ice, mahogany, and a clean, masculine musk that filled the space entirely.

"Sit," Asher ordered, gesturing toward a sleek leather armchair near his desk while he tossed himself carelessly onto the edge of his bed.

I didn't sit in the chair. Instead, I unzipped my backpack, pulled out our heavy literature textbook, and laid it firmly on his desk, remaining on my feet. "Let's just get this over with. We need to choose three poems from the romantic era and write a comparative analysis on their structural themes. I've already highlighted a few options."

Asher didn't look at the textbook. He was staring at me, his dark eyes tracing the silhouette of my body beneath the oversized hoodie. The intense, unreadable look in his eyes returned, making the air in the room feel incredibly thick, almost hard to breathe.

"Why do you do that?" he asked suddenly, his voice quiet.

I blinked, thrown off balance. "Do what?"

"Wear clothes that look like they belong to a guy twice your size," he said, tilting his head as his gaze lingered on the hem of my sweater. "Pretending like you don't care how people see you"

A defensive wall instantly slammed down around my heart. The heat in my face flared, but this time it wasn't from attraction-it was anger. "I'm not hiding anything, Asher. And my wardrobe choices are none of your business. Can we please just focus on the project?"

"It is my business if my partner looks like she's showing up to a funeral," he countered, standing up slowly from the bed. He walked toward me, his movements fluid and precise, like a predator tracking prey on the ice. He stopped just a foot away, completely invading my personal space. "You're smart, Vance. You've got a mouth on you when we're alone. But the second someone else looks at you, you pull that hood up and try to blend into the drywall. Why?"

"Because of people like you!" I snapped, my voice cracking slightly as the raw truth slipped out before I could stop it. I took a step back, my spine hitting the edge of his heavy desk. "Because the second I don't try to blend into the background, you and your little hockey friends make it your personal mission to remind me that I don't belong here. You kick my chair, you make your stupid jokes, and you treat me like a punchline. So excuse me if I don't want to show off for your entertainment."

The room went dead silent. I was breathing heavily, my chest rising and falling as I stared at him, waiting for the cruel retort, the mocking laugh, or the petty insult.

But it didn't come.

Asher just stood there, his dark eyes wide with a strange, turbulent emotion. His jaw tightened, a muscle pulsing beneath his sharp skin. He stepped even closer, cutting off the remaining distance until the heat radiating from his body completely enveloped me. He reached out, his large, calloused hand surprisingly gentle as his fingers brushed against the fabric of my hood.

Slowly, deliberately, he hooked his fingers under the edge of the hood and pulled it back, letting my thick, dark curls fall loose around my shoulders. His fingers lingered near my jawline, the heat of his skin sending an electric shock straight down my spine.

"I don't treat you like a punchline, Elena," he whispered, his voice dropping to a dangerously low, gravelly register that made my knees feel weak. His eyes dropped to my mouth, his breath coating my lips. "If I'm looking at you, trust me... I'm not joking."

My heart hammered frantically against my ribs, a wild, confusing hunger flaring deep in my stomach. The tension between us was so thick it felt like it was about to snap.

He was leaning in, his face tracking lower, his grip on my shoulder tightening with a sudden, fierce possessiveness-

BANG!

The bedroom door flew open, slamming against the wall.

"Yo, Ash! The coach just called, the ice time got moved up-" Miller stopped dead in his tracks, his eyes darting from Asher's hand on my shoulder to my wide, breathless face. A slow, knowing smirk spread across his face. "Oh. Shoot. Didn't realize you were actually studying the... extra material."

Asher ripped his hand away from me, his entire demeanor turning lethal in a fraction of a second as he whipped around to face his teammate. "Get the hell out of my room, Miller."