Page 22 of The Ruthless Rivalry

Sylvester pauses when he reaches my row, his hand hovering a little too long over the stack of papers he’s about to drop in front of me. I keep my eyes fixed on my textbook.

His voice cuts through the air, just loud enough for me to hear. “You’re supposed to pass them on to the next person.”

I don’t even glance up. My response is a soft, noncommittal hum as I turn the page of the book, deliberately ignoring him.

“You know, it’s not that hard,” he hisses quietly.

I bite back a sharp retort, but my back throbs, the dull pain flaring as I shift in my seat. Of course, it’s his fault. He may not have locked the door of the natatorium, but he sure didn’t do anything to stop it. I adjust my posture and, after a beat, I glance up at him, feigning innocence.

“You know,” I say, my voice dripping with sarcasm, “my back’s really been bothering me today. I can’t imagine why.”

Sylvester’s eyebrows shoot up, but that cocky grin slides back into place. “Funny,” he whispers, leaning closer. “You didn’t seem to have any issue with your back the other night when I was making you squirm under my hand.”

I force my expression to stay flat, even as my blood simmers. “Yeah, well… chalk it up as a charity event. One-time only. No encores.”

He hovers for a moment, but then, with a small grunt of irritation, he drops the stack in front of me with a little more force than necessary. Whatever.

Professor O’Donnelly’s voice fades into the background as my mind drifts and class stretches on. I’m barely registering her words about the political fallout from the first Altair Games. Instead, my mind is occupied with plotting my next move.

Sylvester is a swimmer. What if there was a little slip-up, a broken routine, something to knock him off balance? I could easily sabotage his gear or make sure he’s distracted before a big race. A few well-timed moves could ruin his rhythm, take away a bit of that confidence.

“The games are more than just a mere competition,” O’Donnelly says. “They hold great importance in our community and have not only impacted the local town, but also shaped the very structure of this university…”

Yeah, yeah, yeah. Blah blah blah. It didn’t matter to me, since I had already decided not to participate. So why waste my attention on learning about it?

The class drags on, each minute feeling like an eternity. Sylvester chimes in every once in a while, with insightful comments and questions that make Professor O’Donnelly beam with pride. It takes every ounce of self-control not to roll my eyes or scoff audibly.

As the lesson draws to a close, I hear O’Donnelly’s voice calling me to stay behind. I make my way down to the front of the room where Sylvester is busy arranging a pile of our handouts on the stage when she calls his name too.

“You’re getting held up too, huh?” he says, his voice casual, but there’s something in the way he says it, like he’s trying to make actual conversation. Trying to be friendly.

I don’t meet his eyes. “I guess so.”

His grin is sly when he adds, “Guess we’re both in trouble, then.”

I want to tell him to get lost, remind him that he doesn’t intimidate me, but I don’t. I just focus on the front of the room,keeping my expression neutral, knowing I don’t have to engage. He can stand there all he wants—collect dust, start a moss colony, maybe even fossilize if he’s patient enough. As long as his presence doesn’t somehow contribute to my revenge, I really couldn’t care less.

“I’m interested in how your one-on-one tutoring sessions are going,” O’Donnelly says, addressing both of us.

I freeze for a moment, caught off guard by her question. But I quickly regain my composure, my eyes flicking over to Sylvester. He looks just as surprised, though I notice a subtle shift in his posture.

Our first— and only— session together was the one where he’d dragged me out of my dorm room, tossed me over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes, and then unceremoniously left me on that cliffside. Since then, I’ve had no desire to repeat the experience.

“They’re progressing,” I say, my tone steady and assured.

Sylvester chimes in, his voice firm and professional. “Alex is making great strides. She’ll be caught up before you know it.”

Professor O’Donnelly smiles at him with approval, placing a hand on his shoulder. I notice the briefest twitch in Sylvester’s neck as he subtly shifts away from her touch.

“Excellent work, Mr. Oliveri,” she says, her voice full of praise. “As we previously discussed, I would like to join you both on Thursday to see how things are going for myself.”

The realization hits me like a gut punch. This means another session with Sylvester, and now O’Donnelly herself will be watching. I force myself to smile, but it feels as fake as it probably looks.

“I look forward to it,” I say, the words slipping out smoothly despite my growing resentment.

Sylvester nods, but there’s something strained in his expression. “We’ll make sure to be ready, Professor.”

As I walk out of the classroom, I wonder how I’m going to fake my way through a tutoring session with Sylvester. And with Professor O’Donnelly overseeing us, no less. I need to figure a way out of this, fast.

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