Chapter 12 Partners

POV: Silver Preston

I swore I wouldn't let myself unravel again.

Not in public spaces where other students could witness me falling apart, and definitely not where Eli Hayes could watch me crack like thin ice under pressure.

But I bolted from the dining hall anyway, leaving my untouched tray of curly fries sitting abandoned on the scarred wooden table while the heavy Gothic doors slammed shut behind me with enough force to rattle the ancient hinges.

The humiliation burned worse than the persistent ache in my reconstructed knee, following me across campus like a shadow I couldn't outrun.

By the time I reached the sanctuary of my dorm room, I slammed the door hard enough to make our diamond paned windows rattle, ignoring Americus's knowing smirk and Riley's concerned glance.

I spent the rest of the evening buried under my covers, furiously scribbling notes in the margins of assigned readings while my roommates tactfully pretended not to notice my self imposed isolation.

Pathetic, I told myself on repeat, like a mantra designed to reinforce my own worst fears.

I faced panels of Olympic judges whose expressions could freeze blood, handled reporters shoving microphones in my face after devastating losses, performed under camera flashes that could blind entire audiences.

And one hockey player, one admittedly attractive guy with sharp jawlines and unreadable expressions, had me sprinting for exits like I was still thirteen years old and skating my first terrifying novice competition.

I stayed quiet through Americus's attempts at conversation, burying myself deeper in reading lists and course syllabi.

Yale is supposed to be about reinvention, about literature classes and academic essays and professors who don't care whether I can land a triple Salchow or execute a perfect spiral sequence.

I will disappear into words and ideas, let my brain focus on something other than the constant awareness of my damaged knee and shattered dreams.

By Monday morning, I've almost convinced myself that academic anonymity is possible. At least enough to drag myself across campus through the crisp autumn air to my first official seminar.

Modern American Literature occupies a classroom tucked into one of Yale's older academic buildings, the kind of space that looks like it hasn't been significantly updated since the university's founding.

Tall leaded glass windows let in streams of golden morning light that highlight dust motes floating through the air, and the wooden floors bear the scuffs and stains of generations of students who wrestled with Hemingway and Fitzgerald in these same seats.

Unlike the massive lecture halls I glimpsed during orientation, this classroom is arranged for intimacy.

Desks forming a rough circle that will force students to make eye contact, to engage with each other rather than hiding behind laptops and anonymity.

I choose a seat near the corner where shadows from the tall windows might help me blend into the background, opening my notebook and positioning myself to look busy and unapproachable.

One by one, other students filter in with the unhurried pace of people who aren't quite awake yet.

A girl with purple streaked hair and multiple piercings claims the seat directly across the circle.

Two guys who look like they rolled out of bed five minutes ago slouch into chairs near the professor's desk.

I keep my head down, focusing on writing the date at the top of a fresh page with unnecessary precision.

Then the chair directly across from me scrapes back against the worn wooden floor.

My stomach plummets toward the stone foundation of the building.

Eli Hayes slides into the seat with the kind of casual confidence that suggests he's never doubted his right to occupy any space he chose.

He sets down a notebook that looks suspiciously organized for someone I've mentally categorized as just another hockey player, tucks a pencil behind his ear in a gesture that's somehow both practical and effortlessly attractive, and settles back in his chair like he belongs exactly where he is.

His dark hair is still damp from what's obviously been a post practice shower, and his Yale Hockey hoodie stretches across shoulders that are definitely too broad to ignore in a small classroom setting.

For a few blessed seconds, he focuses on organizing his materials, giving me time to process the cosmic injustice of this particular seating arrangement.

Then he looks up, and our eyes meet across the circle of desks.

My pulse spikes hard enough that I can feel it in my throat.

I grip my pen until my knuckles go white, fighting the urge to either bolt for the door or slide under my desk until the semester ends.

The professor bustles in before either of us can acknowledge the obvious tension crackling across our shared space, dropping a stack of worn paperbacks on her desk with a thud that makes several students jump.

She's the kind of middle aged academic who wears her gray hair in a messy bun held together with what appears to be actual pencils, and her cardigan has seen better decades.

"Welcome to Modern American Literature," she announces, adjusting wire rimmed glasses that have probably been fashionable sometime during the Carter administration. "Small enrollment this semester, which means lots of discussion, lots of participation, and absolutely no hiding in the back row. I'm Professor Chen, and I believe in the transformative power of uncomfortable conversations about difficult texts."

My heart sinks.

Participation requirements are exactly what I was hoping to avoid.

"Let's start with quick introductions," Professor Chen continues, settling behind her desk with the kind of maternal authority that suggests arguing would be futile. "Name, year, hometown, and one thing you're hoping to get out of this class. We'll go around the circle."

I pray to whatever deity protects awkward college freshmen that they won't start with me.

I scribble meaningless geometric patterns in the margins of my notebook, trying to look like someone deeply absorbed in academic preparation.

When Eli's turn comes, his voice carries clearly across the small space. Steady and low, with just a hint of the Minnesota accent I remember from our brief encounter outside my dorm.

"Eli Hayes. Freshman from Duluth. I'm on the hockey team."

A small ripple of recognition passes through several students. Nods, smiles, the kind of automatic social currency that comes with being a recruited athlete at an Ivy League school.

"I'm hoping to understand how American writers dealt with pressure and expectations. How they wrote their way through impossible situations."

The answer is more thoughtful than I expected, and I feel an unwelcome flicker of curiosity about what impossible situations he might be thinking about.

Then Professor Chen's gaze lands on me, and my throat constricts like someone tightened a noose around my neck.

"Silver Preston," I manage, my voice barely above a whisper. "Freshman. English Literature major."

I deliberately omit any mention of my hometown, my background, or my hopes for the class.

The less information I volunteer, the less likely anyone will make connections I can't afford them to make.

Professor Chen nods and moves on without pressing for details, launching into an explanation of our semester project that makes my chest tighten with fresh dread.

Partner assignments. Research essays due at midterm. Presentations that will require standing in front of the class and being seen, being heard, being evaluated.

I tell myself that partner work isn't necessarily catastrophic.

I can fade into the background, let someone else take the lead, contribute just enough to earn a decent grade without drawing unwanted attention to myself.

Then Professor Chen smiles with the kind of efficient authority that's probably terrified students for decades.

"Since we're a small class, I'll save time and avoid the usual awkward partner selection process by pairing students who are sitting across from each other. Convenient and democratic."

Her gaze moves around the circle, making assignments with casual finality.

My pen slips from suddenly nerveless fingers, clattering against my desk with a sound that seems to echo through the quiet classroom.

"That means you two..."

Professor Chen gestures directly at me and Eli with the kind of smile that suggests she thinks she's doing us a favor.

"...will be working together this semester."

My stomach twists into knots that would impress a sailor.

Eli leans back in his chair, his gaze fixed on me with an intensity that makes breathing feel like conscious work.

He doesn't smirk or look away or show any sign that this arrangement bothers him.

He just waits, letting the silence stretch between us like a challenge I'm not equipped to meet.

Out of all the universities in the world, all the classes at Yale, all the possible seating arrangements in this one small classroom, fate has decided that I'll be forced to work closely with the one person who might already know exactly who I used to be.

We're partners, whether I can handle it or not.