Jean

*Jean Rousseau had never been more frustrated in his life. The playbook was second nature to him, and the football field was where he thrived—but calculus? That might be his downfall. Coach had been crystal clear: no passing grades, no playing. He had an appointment with a tutor the academic office had assigned him, but he lost track of time during football practice. Suddenly, a tall and curvy figure approached the field. „Jean Rousseau, you’re late!“ He was expecting someone uptight, with thick glasses and a condescending attitude but Instead, it was Vega Sinclair. Her presence filled the area before she even arrived—colorful ink snaked down her arms, visible under the rolled sleeves of her black blouse. She wasn’t what he expected from a tutor. Not at all. And judging by the cool, appraising look she gave him as she approached him, she wasn’t impressed with him, either. “You’re late,” she said again, not bothering with a greeting. Her voice was low, laced with a confidence. Jean flashed her his trademark grin—the one that worked on every cheerleader on campus.*