His Curvy Obsession

"Hey, Fat-ass!"

A heavy sneaker kicked the back of my chair, jarring my hand and sending a jagged blue ink line tearing across my neat English notes.

I didn't turn around. I kept my eyes glued to the whiteboard, my jaw locked so tight it ached. I knew exactly who it was without looking. Asher Vanguard. Captain of the varsity hockey team, the school's golden boy, and my absolute nightmare.

"I know you're not deaf, Elena," he whispered, leaning forward. The scent of cold winter air and expensive cologne suddenly crowded my space. "Look at me when I'm talking to you."

A few guys from the hockey team snickered a row over. This was their daily entertainment. Because I didn't fit their perfect, petite mold, I was Asher's favorite target.

"Alright, quiet down," Mrs. Gable called out, clapping her hands. "Before we start, I'm handing out the mid-semester project pairs. This is forty percent of your grade, so no slacking."

A collective groan went through the room.

Behind me, Asher leaned back, his varsity jacket creaking. "Hey," he muttered to his buddy. "Bet you a hundred bucks I get paired with a cheerleader. At least she'll do the typing."

I squeezed my pen, wishing I could disappear. Just give me someone quiet, I prayed. Anyone else.

"Mia with Carter. Chloe with David," Mrs. Gable read off her clipboard. She paused, her eyes scanning the back row. "Asher Vanguard... and Elena Vance."

The classroom went dead silent.

My pen literally snapped in my grip.

"Wait, what?" Asher stood up so fast his chair screeched against the linoleum. "Mrs. Gable, you're kidding, right? You're pairing me with her?"

"Sit down, Mr. Vanguard," Mrs. Gable said smoothly. "Your grade is a D-minus. Elena has the highest average in class. If you want to stay on the ice for the championships next month, you need this grade. End of discussion."

The bell rang a second later, and the room exploded into motion. I shoved my books into my bag with shaking hands, desperate to escape before Asher could say a word.

I swung my backpack over my shoulder and bolted for the aisle-only to slam straight into a solid chest.

Asher stood there, blocking the path completely. Up close, his broad shoulders blocked out the rest of the classroom. His dark eyes were fixed on mine, burning with pure frustration.

"Listen to me," he said, his voice dropping to a low, intense whisper meant only for me. "You might have the brains, but don't get comfortable. We aren't friends. You do the work, you stay out of my way, and you don't make me look bad."

My heart was hammering against my ribs, but his arrogance snapped something inside me. I looked him dead in the eye. "And if I don't feel like doing your work for you?"

Asher stepped closer, taking away the last bit of space between us. A slow, dangerous smirk touched his lips as he reached out, his hand gripping the strap of my backpack, pulling me just an inch closer.

"Then I'll make sure the rest of your senior year is hell," he murmured. "See you after school, partner."

The library after hours smelled like old paper, floor wax, and my impending doom.

I sat at a secluded corner table, staring at the empty wooden chair across from me. The clock on the wall ticked loudly, mocking me.

3:45 PM.

He was forty-five minutes late.

"Stupid," I muttered to myself, aggressively highlighting a passage in our English textbook. "Why did I actually think he'd show up?"

Asher Vanguard didn't do libraries. He did ice rinks, high school parties, and whatever else a privileged hockey god did with his free time. I slammed the textbook shut, the loud thud echoing through the empty stacks. I was done waiting. I wasn't going to let him drag my GPA down into the gutter with his D-minus average just because he was too arrogant to care about his own future.

I packed my laptop into my bag, pulled my oversized hoodie down over my waist, and stood up to leave.

I didn't even make it three steps before the heavy library doors swung open.

Asher walked in. He didn't look like a guy who was late; he looked like he owned the building. His varsity jacket was swung loosely over one shoulder, his dark hair was slightly damp from the showers, and he carried a duffel bag that practically smelled like the rink.

His eyes scanned the room and locked onto me. A small, irritatingly confident smirk crossed his face as he walked over, cutting off my exit path.

"Going somewhere, Vance?" he asked, throwing his heavy duffel bag onto the table. It made a loud clatter that earned us a sharp glare from the librarian three rows over.

"Home," I said, keeping my voice tight and flat. "Our session started at three. I don't waste my time on people who can't keep a schedule."

Asher didn't look bothered. He pulled out the chair opposite mine, turned it around backward, and sat down, resting his chin on his arms as he looked up at me. "Practice ran late. Coach wanted to run drills. You know how it is."

"No, Asher, I don't know how it is," I said, refusing to sit back down. "I don't play games. I study. If you want to pass this class so you can keep playing your little sport, you show up on time. Otherwise, I'm telling Mrs. Gable I want a new partner."

The easy, bored look vanished from his face in an instant. The air between us turned freezing cold as he stood up slowly, erasing the distance between us until I had to tilt my head back just to keep eye contact.

"You're not telling Mrs. Gable anything," he said, his voice dropping to that low, quiet register that made my chest tighten. "You think you can just swap me out like a bad pair of skates? No one benches me, Elena. Especially not you."

"Then show up!" I snapped, my voice rising a little too loud. "I have a life too, Asher! I have a job after this, and I can't just sit around waiting for the king to grace me with his presence!"

He blinked, a flicker of genuine surprise crossing his dark eyes before his expression hardened again. He reached out, his hand wrapping firmly around the strap of my backpack-the exact same move from the classroom-and gave it a gentle tug, pulling me a step closer.

"Fine," he muttered, his eyes dropping to my lips for a split second before snapping back to my gaze. "Tomorrow. Three o'clock sharp. My house."

My heart did a dangerous, erratic flip. "Your house? No way. We work here."

"The guys are coming over to my place after practice tomorrow to watch film. I'm not skipping it," Asher said, his grip on my bag tightening just enough to let me feel the heat radiating off him. "You want me on time? You come to my turf. Don't worry, plus-size, I don't bite. Unless you want me to."

He let go of my strap with a smirk, grabbed his duffel bag, and walked out as fast as he'd arrived, leaving me standing in the quiet library with a pounding heart and a terrible feeling that I was walking straight into a trap.

AUTHOR'S NOTE ❤️

Okay... Elena just got paired with the ONE person she can't stand. 😂

But here's the question:Do you think Asher actually hates Elena... or is there something else going on? 👀

Tell me your theory in the comments!

My fingers gripped the steering wheel of my battered sedan so tightly that my knuckles turned stark white. 

I stared through the windshield at the massive, colonial-style mansion looming at the end of the cul-de-sac. This was the Vanguard estate. It was a house built on old money, championship trophies, and a total lack of reality.

Three o'clock sharp, he had said.

I checked my dashboard clock. It was exactly 2:58 PM. I swallowed hard, trying to dissolve the massive, suffocating lump of anxiety forming in my throat. I didn't want to be here. Every protective instinct I possessed was screaming at me to shift the car into reverse, drive back to my cramped apartment, and figure out a way to explain to Mrs. Gable why I couldn't be paired with the school's golden boy.

But I couldn't. I needed this AP English credit to secure my scholarship. I was a plus-size girl from the wrong side of the tracks; I didn't have a wealthy family or a prestigious hockey scout waiting to hand me a future on a silver platter. I had to build my own path, block by block, and I wasn't letting Asher Vanguard smash my foundation just because he was throwing a temper tantrum.

I took a deep, steadying breath, smoothed down the front of my oversized grey hoodie, and stepped out into the biting autumn wind.

The walk up the pristine brick driveway felt like a march to the gallows. Before I could even reach for the heavy brass knocker, the massive oak front door swung open.

Asher stood in the threshold. He wasn't wearing his varsity jacket today. Instead, he wore a tight, form-fitting black long-sleeve shirt that clung ruthlessly to the broad, muscular contours of his chest and shoulders, paired with grey sweatpants that hung low on his hips. He looked completely relaxed, completely in his element, and entirely too attractive for my own peace of mind.

He leaned against the doorframe, crossing his arms as his dark eyes slowly tracked my movement up the steps. There was no mockery in his gaze right now-just a heavy, calculating focus that made my skin prickle with sudden heat.

"Look at that. You're actually on time," he murmured, his voice a low baritone that seemed to carry in the crisp air.

"I don't play games, Asher," I said, stopping a couple of steps below him so I wouldn't have to crane my neck quite so much to meet his eyes. "I told you I wouldn't waste my time. Where are we working?"

He stepped aside, gesturing into the grand, marble-floored foyer. "Inside. Upstairs. My room is the only place quiet enough right now."

My feet glued themselves to the concrete step. "Your room? Absolutely not. We can use the dining room or the kitchen."

Asher let out a short, mocking laugh, the familiar arrogant smirk returning to his lips. "Trust me, Vance, you don't want to sit in the kitchen. The guys are in the media room right off the main hall, and they're loud. Unless you want a repeat of third period in front of the whole varsity lineup, you'll follow me upstairs."

He didn't wait for my answer. He turned and began walking up the sweeping spiral staircase, completely confident that I would follow.

I bit my inside cheek so hard I tasted saliva, but I stepped inside and shut the heavy door behind me. The distant sound of raucous laughter and shouting echoed from a room down the hall-definitely the hockey team. Shaking, I hurried up the stairs, my sneakers making soft thudding sounds on the plush runner carpet.

Asher's bedroom was massive, practically the size of my entire apartment. A massive king-sized bed sat against one wall with a dark charcoal comforter, and the walls were lined with hockey memorabilia, framed jerseys, and shelves of shiny trophies. But what caught my attention was the sheer, overwhelming scent of him-ice, mahogany, and a clean, masculine musk that filled the space entirely.

"Sit," Asher ordered, gesturing toward a sleek leather armchair near his desk while he tossed himself carelessly onto the edge of his bed.

I didn't sit in the chair. Instead, I unzipped my backpack, pulled out our heavy literature textbook, and laid it firmly on his desk, remaining on my feet. "Let's just get this over with. We need to choose three poems from the romantic era and write a comparative analysis on their structural themes. I've already highlighted a few options."

Asher didn't look at the textbook. He was staring at me, his dark eyes tracing the silhouette of my body beneath the oversized hoodie. The intense, unreadable look in his eyes returned, making the air in the room feel incredibly thick, almost hard to breathe.

"Why do you do that?" he asked suddenly, his voice quiet.

I blinked, thrown off balance. "Do what?"

"Wear clothes that look like they belong to a guy twice your size," he said, tilting his head as his gaze lingered on the hem of my sweater. "Pretending like you don't care how people see you"

A defensive wall instantly slammed down around my heart. The heat in my face flared, but this time it wasn't from attraction-it was anger. "I'm not hiding anything, Asher. And my wardrobe choices are none of your business. Can we please just focus on the project?"

"It is my business if my partner looks like she's showing up to a funeral," he countered, standing up slowly from the bed. He walked toward me, his movements fluid and precise, like a predator tracking prey on the ice. He stopped just a foot away, completely invading my personal space. "You're smart, Vance. You've got a mouth on you when we're alone. But the second someone else looks at you, you pull that hood up and try to blend into the drywall. Why?"

"Because of people like you!" I snapped, my voice cracking slightly as the raw truth slipped out before I could stop it. I took a step back, my spine hitting the edge of his heavy desk. "Because the second I don't try to blend into the background, you and your little hockey friends make it your personal mission to remind me that I don't belong here. You kick my chair, you make your stupid jokes, and you treat me like a punchline. So excuse me if I don't want to show off for your entertainment."

The room went dead silent. I was breathing heavily, my chest rising and falling as I stared at him, waiting for the cruel retort, the mocking laugh, or the petty insult.

But it didn't come.

Asher just stood there, his dark eyes wide with a strange, turbulent emotion. His jaw tightened, a muscle pulsing beneath his sharp skin. He stepped even closer, cutting off the remaining distance until the heat radiating from his body completely enveloped me. He reached out, his large, calloused hand surprisingly gentle as his fingers brushed against the fabric of my hood.

Slowly, deliberately, he hooked his fingers under the edge of the hood and pulled it back, letting my thick, dark curls fall loose around my shoulders. His fingers lingered near my jawline, the heat of his skin sending an electric shock straight down my spine.

"I don't treat you like a punchline, Elena," he whispered, his voice dropping to a dangerously low, gravelly register that made my knees feel weak. His eyes dropped to my mouth, his breath coating my lips. "If I'm looking at you, trust me... I'm not joking."

My heart hammered frantically against my ribs, a wild, confusing hunger flaring deep in my stomach. The tension between us was so thick it felt like it was about to snap.

He was leaning in, his face tracking lower, his grip on my shoulder tightening with a sudden, fierce possessiveness-

BANG!

The bedroom door flew open, slamming against the wall.

"Yo, Ash! The coach just called, the ice time got moved up-" Miller stopped dead in his tracks, his eyes darting from Asher's hand on my shoulder to my wide, breathless face. A slow, knowing smirk spread across his face. "Oh. Shoot. Didn't realize you were actually studying the... extra material."

Asher ripped his hand away from me, his entire demeanor turning lethal in a fraction of a second as he whipped around to face his teammate. "Get the hell out of my room, Miller."

If looks could kill, Miller would have been a puddle of melted ice on the hardwood floor.

Asher stood like a brick wall between me and his teammate, his jaw clenched so tightly the bone looked sharp enough to cut glass.

The dark, intoxicating fog that had just filled the space between us shattered instantly, leaving me shivering and desperately pulling my oversized hoodie back up over my head.

"I said," Asher repeated, his voice dropping into a terrifyingly quiet, jagged register, "get out, Miller."

Miller raised his hands in mock surrender, though the annoying, knowing smirk never left his face. "Hey, man, chill. I'm just passing along the word. Coach wants us at the rink in twenty. If you're too busy doing extra credit, I can tell him you benched yourself."

Miller shot one last lingering look over Asher's shoulder straight at me, his eyes tracking down my body. Before he could even blink, Asher stepped aggressively into his line of sight, completely blocking me from view. The sheer, protective territoriality of the movement made my breath hitch.

"Five minutes," Asher barked. "If I see your face in my hallway again, I'm going to introduce your teeth to the boards."

Miller chuckled, finally backing out and clicking the door shut behind him.

The silence that returned to the bedroom wasn't thick with heavy tension anymore; it was chaotic. My heart was practically drumming a frantic rhythm against my ribs.

I scrambled backward, grabbing my textbook and slamming it into my backpack, my hands shaking so hard I could barely pull the zipper shut.

"I'm leaving," I announced, my voice trembling despite my best efforts to sound tough. "This was a mistake. We can do this over email. Or zoom. Or never."

"Elena, stop."

Asher turned around, but I didn't give him the chance to corner me again. I lunged for the door, but he was a hockey player-his reflexes were terrifying.

In a split second, he crossed the room and placed his palm flat against the wood right above my head, effectively pinning me between his towering frame and the locked door.

"Let me out, Asher," I demanded, pressing my back against the hard wood, glaring up at him.

He didn't look angry anymore. In fact, looking down at my panicked expression, a slow, dangerously playful glint entered his dark eyes.

The brooding bully vanished, replaced by an arrogant, infuriatingly charming bad boy who knew exactly how much power he had over my heart rate.

"Are you always this dramatic, plus-size, or am I just special?" he teased, leaning his weight against his hand, trapping me further. He was so close I could feel the intense heat radiating off his chest, completely overriding the cool autumn air coming through his window.

"I am not being dramatic! Your friend thinks-he thinks we're-"

"Thinks we're what?" Asher tilted his head, a wicked smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. He lowered his face just enough so that his sharp jawline brushed against the fleece of my hood. "Thinks I brought you up to my bed to fuck you? Or thinks I'm finally getting a taste of the smartest girl in school?"

"Shut up!" I gasped, my face burning so hot I was certain I was turning purple. "You're a jerk. You bully me in class, and then you act like this when we're alone? It's sick. You're unhinged."

"I'm a hockey player, sweetheart. We're all a little unhinged," he murmured smoothly, his eyes dropping down to trace the curve of my collarbone beneath the heavy fabric. "And I don't recall bullying you today. I pulled your hood back. I wanted to see your face. Is it a crime to want to look at my partner?"

"You called me plus-size twenty minutes ago!"

"Because you are," Asher said, his voice losing its playful edge, turning suddenly deep, heavy, and incredibly intense. His gaze locked onto mine, stripping away all the humor in a single second. "And I like looking at every single inch of you, Elena. So sue me."

My breath caught completely in my throat. My brain short-circuited. Did he just say... what I think he just said? I stared at him, my lips parted, completely incapable of forming a coherent sentence. He was playing with me. He had to be. This was Asher Vanguard-he lived to make me look foolish.

"You're lying," I whispered, my voice cracking. "This is a joke. Another dare."

A dark shadow crossed Asher's face at the word dare, his brow furrowing as his eyes darkened into something fiercely possessive.

He reached down, his large, calloused hand wrapping around my wrist. He didn't squeeze hard, but the grip was unyielding. Slowly, he lifted my hand and pressed it flat against the left side of his chest.

Beneath my palm, through the thin fabric of his black shirt, his heart was roaring. It was racing violently, hammering against his ribs like a trapped animal.

"Does that feel like a joke to you?" he growled softly, stepping so close our bodies fully collided. My softer curves pressed right against the hard, unyielding muscle of his abdomen. "My heart doesn't lie, Vance. Now, I have to go to practice before my coach comes down here himself. But tomorrow, third period, you're sitting in the desk right next to mine. Not in front of me."

"And if I don't?" I breathed, completely intoxicated by the wild rhythm under my hand.

Asher leaned down, his lips brushing the sensitive skin right beneath my ear, sending a fierce, electric shiver straight down to my toes.

"If you don't," he whispered darkly, "I'll just have to carry you across the room and put you there myself. See you tomorrow, partner."

He pulled away, grabbed his keys from the dresser, and unlocked the door, stepping out into the hallway without looking back.

I stood frozen against the wood for a full three minutes, my hand still tingling where it had touched his chest. My mind was spinning, a dangerous, intoxicating mixture of fear and a wild, unbidden hunger flaring deep in my stomach.

The next morning, the hallway of Oakridge High felt louder than usual. I walked toward third-period English, my backpack feeling like it was filled with lead weights. I had barely slept, my mind replaying the feeling of Asher's heartbeat against my palm over and over again.

He's a player, I reminded myself fiercely. He's messing with your head to make you do the work.

I took a deep breath and stepped through the classroom door. The room was already half-full. I glanced toward the back row, expecting to see Asher surrounded by his usual crowd.

He was there, sitting in his usual seat. But the desk next to him-the one usually occupied by a quiet girl named Sarah-was completely empty. Sarah was sitting three rows up, looking slightly terrified.

And lying squarely in the center of the empty desk next to Asher was a pristine, glossy black hockey puck. Written across it in silver sharpie was a single word: RESERVED.

Asher looked up from his phone the second I walked in. A slow, arrogant, completely obsessive smirk spread across his face as he tapped the wooden surface of the empty desk.

The entire classroom fell into a hushed whisper, every eye turning to look at me.