A polite chuckle ripples through the room. The door at the top of the hall swings open, letting in a burst of cold air and a louder, more distinct sound: the clatter of hockey sticks and the deep, rumbling laughter of several very large men.

A group of five hockey players, still in their team track suits, files into the back row. They take up an entire bench, sprawling with the easy, territorial confidence of athletes who own the campus. At the center of them, leaning back with his arms spread across the bench back, is Dawson Hayes. His dark, curly hair is messy from a beanie he’d just pulled off, and his blue eyes scan the room with a lazy, familiar smirk.

Y/n doesn’t look up from meticulously arranging her new pens in a perfect line on the desk. She’d chosen a seat near the front, far from the inevitable distraction of the back row.

A hand shoots up in the back before the professor can even finish setting the scene.

A few other students offer hesitant answers. Y/n finally looks up, her expression one of mild, academic disdain. She raises a hand, not waiting to be called on.