Chapter 80: See You At The Finish Line

NORA’S POV

The air between us felt charged with enough raw static to ignite the entire library.

Knox was still caging me against the whiteboard, his broad chest barely an inch from my spine, his large hand resting flat on the enamel board right beside my ear.

His eyes were locked onto mine, searching my face with an intense, smoldering focus that made it impossible to breathe.

Where’s your head at today, Bennett?

His raspy words echoed in my ears, sending tremors of heat coursing through my veins.

For one terrifying second, I almost broke.

I almost told him that my head was filled with the memory of his hands on my skin, his mouth against mine in the dark, and the dangerous fire he ignited every single time he stepped into my space.

Instead, I dug my fingernails into my palm, forcing my logical defenses to snap back into place.

I took a sharp, steadying breath and raised my chin, meeting his gaze with defiance.

"My head is on calculating the marginal propensity to consume, Sheridan," I made sure I sounded steady this time, despite the hammer in my chest. "And if you spent as much time studying aggregate demand shifts as you do psychoanalyzing my facial expressions, you wouldn’t need a tutor."

Knox stared at me for half a second.

Then, a slow, devastating smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. His eyes flicked down to my mouth before rising back to hold my gaze with pure amusement.

"Ouch," Knox murmured. "The tutor strikes back."

He slowly pushed off the whiteboard, taking two steps backward to give me space.

The sudden loss of his warmth felt like stepping into an open freezer, but I forced my legs to remain steady as I turned around and grabbed the stack of practice exams from the conference table.

"Fifty questions," I announced, slapping the paper down in front of his chair. "Comprehensive mock midterm. You have forty-five minutes. No notes, no hockey analogies, and no interruptions. Sit down."

Knox offered a mock salute, pulling out his chair and dropping into it with effortless grace. He rolled up his hoodie sleeves, picked up his black ink pen, and uncapped it with his teeth.

"Clock’s ticking, Bookworm," he murmured, his eyes locking onto the first page.

For the next forty-five minutes, the only sound in Study Room 4C was the steady scratching of his pen and the quiet hum of the fluorescent lights.

Knox was completely focused on his work.

He didn’t hesitate or fidget. Whenever he hit a multi-variable calculation, I watched his brow furrow as he visualized the hockey-rink spatial models we had spent hours building, rapidly jotting down the formulas.

When the timer on my phone chimed, Knox flipped the final page over and tossed his pen onto the table, leaning back in his chair with an exhausted exhale.

"Done," he rasped, running a broad hand through his dark curls. "Grade it, Bennett. Put me out of my misery."

I pulled out my red grading pen, pulling the papers across the table.

My heart thumped nervously against my ribs as I checked each question against my master answer key.

Question five... correct.

Question twelve... correct.

Question twenty-eight... correct.

By the time I reached the final scenario on foreign exchange rates, my red pen had barely touched the paper except for three minor calculation errors on the fiscal multiplier.

I tallied the final score in the top right margin, circling it in bright red ink: 44 / 50 (88%).

I set the paper down, looking up at him in genuine, unmasked awe.

"Well?" Knox asked, watching my face closely with a slightly tensed jaw. "Did I crash and burn?"

I slid the exam across the table toward him.

Knox looked down at the circled 88%, staring at the red number for several seconds as if he couldn’t quite believe his own eyes.

A slow, boyish grin broke across his handsome face; it was a genuine, unfiltered expression, completely free of the defensive arrogance he showed everyone else on campus.

"Eighty-eight," Knox breathed, shaking his head in disbelief. "Holy shit."

"You earned every single point, Knox," I said softly with pride. "You know the material inside and out. You’re going to destroy that midterm on Tuesday."

Knox picked up the paper, his fingers tracing the red ink before he looked across the table to hold my gaze with sincerity.

"I couldn’t have done this without you, Nora," he murmured in a low, intimate voice. "Not just the economics... all of it."

My breath hitched at the sound of my name on his lips.

Before the silence between us could become too heavy, Knox stood up, shoved his notebook and pens into his athletic duffel bag. He zipped the bag, slung it over one broad shoulder, and walked to the frosted glass door.

He paused with his hand on the handle, turning back to look at me with a lazy, teasing smirk.

"Tuesday morning is game time," Knox said. "Once I finish that exam... what are your plans for reading break, Bookworm?"

I froze for half a second, the impending bus ride to Oakhaven and Drew’s scheduled Thursday date flashing through my mind.

I lifted my chin, maintaining a flawless poker face as I packed my highlighters.

"That is none of your business, Sheridan," I replied tartly. "Your only business right now is walking into that lecture hall on Tuesday morning and passing your test."

Knox chuckled and tapped two fingers against his brow in a parting salute. "Yes, boss," he drawled, flashing that devastating smirk. "See you at the finish line."

He pushed open the door and strode down the corridor, leaving me alone in the quiet room with my heart racing out of control.

—

By Monday evening at eight o’clock, the neon sign of Rusty’s Diner was glowing a warm, vibrant red against the darkening sky.

The diner was bustling with the usual dinner rush. The comforting scent of grilled burgers, melted cheddar, crispy fries, and fresh coffee filled the warm air as classic rock hummed softly from the jukebox in the corner.

I moved between the vinyl booths wearing my dark green diner apron over a white collared shirt, balancing a heavy tray of plates on one arm.

"Order up on table four, Nora!" Denise called out from behind the stainless-steel pass-through window.

"Got it, Denise," I answered, wiping down the laminated counter with a clean white rag.

Denise leaned her elbows on the counter, adjusting the pencil tucked behind her ear as she watched me with a knowing, amused grin.

"You’re awfully quiet tonight, Bennett," Denise noted, raising an eyebrow. "Most girls on this campus would be walking on cloud nine after their boyfriend led a thirty-man hockey mutiny on live television and kissed them on the player bench."

My cheeks flushed a sudden, furious shade of red. "It’s... it’s complicated, Denise."

"Complicated, my foot," Denise laughed, shaking her head as she poured fresh decaf into a glass pot. "The boy looks at you like you hung the moon. Half the sorority girls who come in here for late-night milkshakes are ready to tear their hair out trying to figure out how my quietest waitress tamed Briar’s wildest hockey captain."

Before I could open my mouth to protest, the brass bell above the front glass door chimed.

I looked up automatically.

My heart skipped an entire beat as Knox stepped inside.

He wore a dark brown leather jacket over a fitted black henley, dark jeans, and clean boots. His curls were slightly windswept from the evening breeze.

He didn’t make a loud entrance or look around for an audience.

His eyes scanned the crowded diner, bypassing every other person until they locked directly onto me behind the counter. A subtle smile touched his lips.

Denise nudged my elbow with a smirk. "Speak of the devil. Booth six is in your section, honey."

Knox walked past the front counter, sliding into Booth #6 in the far corner... the exact same vinyl booth where we had held our very first disastrous tutoring session weeks ago.

I took a deep breath, grabbed my order pad, and walked over to his table.

"What can I get for you, Sheridan?" I asked, trying to sound completely professional.

Knox looked up at me, leaning back against the red vinyl with his arms crossed over his broad chest. "Black coffee. Two sugars. And five minutes with my tutor."

"I’m on the clock," I whispered, though I couldn’t stop the faint smile tugging at my lips.

"I know," Knox murmured softly.

He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out the small stack of color-coded Macroeconomics flashcards I had made for him, setting them neatly on the table beside his water glass.

"I just finished team video review with Coach," Knox said, his voice dropping into that quiet, familiar rumble. "Thought I’d do my final review here. Better atmosphere."

"Better atmosphere, or do you just like distracting the waitstaff?" I teased lightly.

"A little bit of both," Knox smirked.

I fetched his black coffee, setting the steaming mug in front of him.

For the next hour, as the dinner rush slowed and the diner grew quiet, Knox sat alone in Booth #6.

He didn’t look at his phone or bother anyone. He sipped his coffee and quietly flipped through each flashcard, his lips moving silently as he reviewed the definitions and visual curves.

Watching him from behind the counter while I swept the checkerboard floor, a strange, overwhelming warmth expanded in my chest.

Here was Knox Sheridan... a billionaire heir, a future NHL superstar, the most feared captain in collegiate hockey, sitting quietly in a humble diner booth, working with dedication because he refused to let anyone take his dream away.

At nine-thirty, Knox stood up from the booth.

He zipped his leather jacket, pushed his chair in, and walked toward the exit. As he passed the counter, his eyes caught mine.

"Get some sleep tonight, Bookworm," Knox murmured softly, offering a faint, reassuring wink. "I’ll see you tomorrow."

"Good luck, Knox," I whispered.

He smiled and pushed through the door, the brass bell chiming as he disappeared into the night.

I walked over to Booth #6 to clear the table.

Sitting in the center of the table was a twenty-dollar bill. And resting directly beneath his empty white ceramic coffee mug was a folded white paper napkin.

I picked up the napkin, unfolding it with trembling fingers.

Written in Knox’s bold, heavy scrawl was a single handwritten line: See you at the finish line tomorrow, Bookworm. — #19

My breath hitched in my throat.

I pressed the paper napkin against my chest, staring out the front diner window into the dark, star-filled night.

Tomorrow morning at ten o’clock, Knox would walk into the lecture hall to take the exam that would decide his entire future.

And on Wednesday afternoon at three o’clock, I would board the bus for Oakhaven... heading straight toward Drew Miller and the safe, predictable past I was desperately trying to convince myself I wanted.