Chapter 2
Back in my dorm, I spent less than five minutes organizing the project requirements document and sent it to Corbin's school email.
That brutally detailed task list should be enough to make him back out. Then I could just ask the professor to let me work solo.
Problem solved.
But the next morning at seven, my phone buzzed.
A message from an unknown number: [Interface mockup v1.0 attached. Tried to keep it clean like you said. -CH]
I opened the attachment. The design was indeed clean, though the color scheme leaned a bit too "athletic," but the functional layout was solid. Most importantly—he'd submitted it 12 hours early.
I stared at the screen for a few seconds.
Twelve hours early. That didn't look like half-assing it.
I replied with a brief "Approved," then went back to writing my code.
Over the next few days, Corbin continued to exceed expectations.
Tuesday night before eight, he sent an optimized version of the interface. Wednesday, he proactively asked about the backend API call format. Thursday, he even sent a bug report at 1 AM—the wording was a bit clumsy, but the problem description was accurate.
By Thursday night, I was starting to think that maybe working with him wasn't so bad after all.
At least he wasn't like those other teammates who just copied answers. He was actually learning. His motivation might only be to not drag me down, but the result was good.
Until Friday noon.
I walked toward my usual spot in the cafeteria with my tray—back against the wall, good view of the whole room but not easily disturbed. The corner table most people learned to avoid during my coding sessions.
There was a bouquet of champagne roses on the table.
I stopped in my tracks, quickly scanning the area. Corbin emerged from behind a nearby pillar, wearing what he probably thought was a charming smile.
"Surprise," he said.
I looked at the flowers, then at him. "What is this?"
"For you. Working with you these past few days... I don't know, coding's actually kind of interesting now." His tone had that deliberate casualness to it. "Wanted to say thanks."
"Debugging code is my obligation as a partner. No thanks needed." I walked around the bouquet and sat down, starting on my salad. The flowers remained untouched on the table.
Corbin froze for a moment, clearly not expecting that reaction.
He sat across from me, long legs sprawled out carelessly. "So... next Saturday there's the playoff finals. First row behind the glass, players' family box. I saved you a spot."
I looked up at him calmly. Classic move.
"I'm not interested in sports," I said, putting down my fork.
"You won't even try? Those are the most coveted seats on campus."
"I don't do the whole VIP treatment thing." I met his eyes. "And watching you slam into people on ice? Not my idea of a good time."
His smile froze. I watched his jawline tighten, his Adam's apple bob once.
"Then what are you interested in?" His voice dropped low.
Finally, the right question.
"Writing perfect code. Solving real problems." I picked up my fork again. "Like optimizing campus network bandwidth allocation. Or designing a more efficient course registration system. Things that actually impact thousands of students' lives."
Corbin stared at me for several seconds, his expression complicated. "You're really different."
"I'm just logical." I stood up. "You can take your flowers with you."
I thought that would be the end of it.
But over the next few days, Corbin tried several different tactics.
"Coincidental" encounters at the library three times. Suddenly appearing at the lab asking "academic questions." Even attempting to discuss network protocols with me—though he completely messed up the explanation of the three-way handshake.
Every single time, I could see right through him.
By the fourth day, when he blocked me at the computer lab entrance again, stammering something about "router configuration," I finally lost my patience.
"You don't even understand basic network protocols. What router configuration?"
I looked him straight in the eye. "If you really want to understand me, at least figure out what I actually care about first. Don't treat me like one of your groupies who'll melt just because you flash that pretty-boy grin."
He stood frozen, as if realizing for the first time that all his methods were completely wrong.
I walked past him and headed straight back to my dorm.
The moment I pushed the door open, my roommate Liora bounced up from her bed.
"Sloane, are you insane?" She held up her phone. "Corbin is chasing YOU! Every girl on campus wants to date him!"
I set down my bag while answering: "Popularity doesn't equal compatibility."
"But he's so hot! And his family's loaded! Plus he's the hockey captain!" Liora's voice was full of disbelief. "Do you know Harper learned all the hockey rules just to get his attention?"
"That just means Harper doesn't know what she really wants." I sat down at my desk. "I have no interest in guys who just coast on looks and family money."
"But he's trying! First the flowers, now he's following you everywhere!"
I opened my laptop. "Effort in the wrong direction is still wasted effort."
"Then what kind of guy do you want?"
I thought for a moment. "At least someone who can have a normal conversation with me. Not the type who only knows how to say 'you're so pretty' or brag about their trust fund, but someone I can actually talk to."
Liora rolled her eyes and flopped back onto her bed. "Okay, your standards are definitely... something else."
"Not something else. Just different."
I turned off the lights and lay in bed.
Honestly, I found Corbin's persistence a bit strange. Normally guys like him would move on to someone else after being rejected a few times.
But that wasn't my problem to worry about.
Saturday night at seven, campus had gone hockey-crazy for the playoff finals.
I was at the computer lab as usual, writing code. The hum of servers, the clicking of keyboards, the white glow of fluorescent lights—this was what my world should sound like.
My phone buzzed once.
Corbin's message: [Game's about to start. You sure you're not coming?]
I glanced at it, didn't reply. Continued debugging my algorithm.
It buzzed again: [Been keeping the seat for you.]
I turned off notifications and focused on my code.
The next morning, Liora burst into the dorm with her phone already out.
"Sloane! You have to see this!" She shoved the screen in my face. "Corbin went absolutely feral last night!"
The phone played video clips from last night's game.
In the footage, Corbin was like an unhinged animal on the ice. Every hit was brutal, vicious, the kind that made the crowd gasp and scream.
He was everywhere—checking players into the boards, fighting for the puck like it was the only thing keeping him alive.
The final clip froze on him slamming an opponent so hard against the glass that the entire barrier shuddered.
Liora zoomed in. "Look here! After every big hit, he keeps staring at the first-row seat behind the glass. That spot stayed empty the entire game."
I stared at the screen. Through the grainy quality, I could see Corbin standing at center ice during a pause, chest heaving, sweat dripping down his neck.
He was staring at that empty seat. His expression wasn't the cocky confidence I'd seen before. It was something raw. Hungry.
"They're saying Corbin's never played that aggressively," Liora said quietly. "Like he was trying to prove something."
I closed the video and reopened my laptop. "Not my problem."
But my fingers hovered over the keyboard.
My mind kept replaying that image—him standing there, staring at that empty seat like it had personally wronged him.
I'd seen that look before. At algorithm competitions, on the faces of people fighting for first place like their lives depended on it.
Only this time, the prize he was chasing was me.
