The Trade (Coastal Rivals Book 1)
The Trade: Chapter 7

This essay is pure fucking nonsense. An unmitigated disaster, really.

My attempt to express my thoughts has resulted in an unfathomable sea of words, and I’m drowning without my usual tutor. The syntax, grammar, and overall sentence structure—they’re all a mess. The one salvation I’ve managed is ensuring my sources have been cited correctly this time.

At least, I think I did them correctly.

My gaze lands on Jade as her eyes skitter across my laptop screen. She takes a thoughtful pause, rhythmically tapping her pen against the table’s surface.

“Theo,” she starts with a reassuring smile. “You’ve got some fantastic ideas here. Your writing mechanics, however, could use a little bit of polishing.”

“West,” I correct her yet again. “And yeah, I’m listening. Go ahead.”

“Alright, here.” She extends her hand, her finger landing on the first paragraph on the screen. “This sentence is a run-on. You’ve got two distinct ideas here, jammed together. You’ve attempted to link them with commas, but now you’ve created a comma splice.”

“And that’s a bad thing?”

“Correct,” she says. “You want to separate those sentences into two independent clauses.”

“Okay, so just replace the comma with a period, then?”

“You could technically do that, but you’d still have two separate ideas here. You could always split up the sentence and then move the second half down further in the paragraph.”

“Yeah, okay,” I say. “That makes sense.”

She pushes the laptop toward me. “Do you want to try to fix up your intro, and then we can go over it together?”

“I can handle the actual editing part later,” I say, waving her off.

She gives me a small, uncertain nod, drawing the laptop back toward her. Her gaze darts across the screen, critically evaluating the rest of the paragraph. “Right here in this section” —she points out, her finger hovering over the concluding sentences—“the definition of your thesis isn’t clear enough. I get the gist of what you’re aiming for, but it needs tightening.”

“Alright,” I say, making a mental note of it.

“You might want to consider eliminating this portion and weaving it into your final sentence.”

“Got it.”

She pushes the laptop back my way. “Here, why don’t you try it out?”

“No, really, I’ll remember your feedback and implement it later,” I reassure her, pushing back gently.

“But it’d be a lot easier if you just edit as we go.”

“Nah, it’s fine. I’ve got this.”

“Theo,” she presses on, concern lacing her voice. “This will just simplify the process for both of us.”

“I said I’ve got it,” I snap, my tone sharper than intended. “I can damn well remember your pointers outside of these four walls.”

“Okay,” she says, nostrils flaring in a silent display of frustration. “That’s your choice, then, but I think I should probably leave.”

Rising with deliberation from her chair, she hoists her backpack over one shoulder, her posture rigid. Her head is tilted downward, a few rebellious curls falling forward to partially obscure her face.

Jesus Christ. Why is it that I’m always putting my foot in my goddamn mouth around this girl?

“Wait, Jade,” I call out, reaching out to gently hold her wrist, desperation coloring my tone. “I didn’t mean to snap. Please, don’t go.”

Her gaze drops to my hand, confusion evident as she stammers, “I—I don’t understand. Do you want my help or not?”

“Yes, I do, I truly do,” I rush to say. “I actually need your help.”

“Then why aren’t you following my advice?”

“I, uh, I can’t just edit my writing spontaneously like that,” I explain awkwardly. “I use dictation software to write my papers.”

Her confusion deepens. “What?”

“Dictation software,” I repeat. “It’s a speech-to-text tool for my computer. I voice my thoughts, and it types them out for me to edit later.”

“Oh.” The realization dawns on her, and she sighs, her shoulder sagging as she slides her bag off. “I see.”

My voice is barely a whisper as I confess, “I’m dyslexic and, uh, dysgraphic, if you’re familiar with either?”

She sinks back into the chair beside me. “Yeah, a little bit.”

“Well, it affects my reading and writing, but also . . . my fine motor skills, among other things,” I continue, offering her a lopsided, self-deprecating grin. “I kind of hit the jackpot, I guess.”

“And you don’t receive any accommodations from Professor Hartman?”

“Not really.” I give a disappointed shrug. “At the college level, it somehow ends up being at the discretion of the professor, even when it’s legally not supposed to be. I did receive help during grade school, but things have changed. I even tried to explain my situation to Hartman during freshman year. It didn’t go well, and I ended up failing her class.”

“That’s fucked-up,” she says, indignation flaming in her dark eyes.

“Yeah, so I’ve stopped trying to explain. To her and probably most of the faculty, I’m just a lazy, entitled athlete.”

Her voice is soft as she asks, “Why do you think that?”

“Because she practically said it to my face,” I say, grimacing at the memory. “She told me to ‘put in more effort,’ that I won’t receive special treatment just because I’m an athlete.”

“Theo . . .”

I scoff, attempting to lighten the heavy conversation. “I don’t blame her. Most people just see a brainless jock when they look at me. And the sad part is, I can’t even prove them wrong. I mean, I can barely fucking read as it is.”

“But you have a learning disability,” she counters passionately. “You’re not brainless, careless, or any other negative adjective you’ve been taught to ascribe to yourself.”

A bitter laugh escapes my lips, even as a heavy sinking feeling settles in my chest. She’s wrong. I might put in the effort, but I’m destined to fail at the end of the day.

“You’re not,” she insists, her tone laced with conviction. “I already told you—you have some genuinely great ideas in this paper. If Professor Hartman can’t take a moment to read between the lines, then she’s the one who’s ignorant.”

“Damn.” My lip twitches as I force back a smile. “Okay then.”

“I’m serious,” she says, thick brows knit together. “No one should make you feel less than for something like this.” She taps her pen against the table a few more times. “You know what, I think you need your own personal mantra.”

“Mantra?” I parrot, confusion lacing my voice.

“Yeah, like a phrase or saying you repeat to yourself every morning when you stare at your reflection. A positive affirmation, you could call it.” She nudges the laptop away, swiveling in her chair to face me directly. “I have one I’ve been using for the last few months.”

“Yeah?” I smirk, a spark of curiosity igniting. “And what might your mantra be?”

“Okay, here it goes . . .” She clasps both hands together, a serious expression clouding her features. “My name’s Jade, and I’m a force to be reckoned with.”

A burst of laughter shoots out of me. “That’s it? That’s what you say to yourself?”

“Mhm,” she says, an infectious grin lighting up her face. “Every single morning. Want me to come up with one for you?” she proposes with a twinkle in her eyes. “How about . . . My name’s Theo, and I’m smart as hell.”

A snort escapes me before I can contain it. “You want me to say that to myself in front of a mirror?”

“It works, I swear,” she says, tone full of conviction.

“Yeah, that’s not happening.”

“Suit yourself. Just know you’re missing out.”

“I think I’ll live.”

“Alright, your loss. But I do have another suggestion for your paper.” She turns away from me now, her gaze laser focused on my laptop. “What if, at least for this one, we talk about the changes, and then I’ll just edit it for you?”

“Isn’t that, like . . . academic dishonesty?” I ask, not that I actually give a shit.

I’m certain Jade’s the type of person who would care, though, and I don’t want her to compromise her integrity for something as minor as this.

“No,” she says firmly. “I won’t change anything unless we both agree on it.”

“Yeah, okay then.”

Her smile blossoms, reaching her eyes as she extends her hand for a solid shake. “Then we have a deal.”

We work through the paper for a few more hours, carefully passing my laptop back and forth. Jade explains where to make corrections, and we rework each paragraph together. Somehow, when all is said and done, she’s helped twist my words into something I can be proud of.

“This is actually quite good,” she praises, a hint of admiration in her voice. “It’s solidly in the C+ or B- range.”

As she leans over to retrieve her bag, my gaze instinctively follows her movements. Unfortunately, she’s donned that oversized sweatshirt again. But today, her hair’s casually gathered into this half-up, half-down style, a few curls escaping to frame her face.

Up close, I can spot this tiny spattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose. Plus, a heart-shaped beauty mark right above her top lip. It’s cute, charming, a unique little feature that’s caught my attention.

In a way, it’s almost strange that I didn’t notice it before today.

“Jade,” I say, a certain tentativeness edging into my voice. “Before we head out, can I ask you something?”

She turns her gaze to meet mine, her brown eyes sparkling with curiosity. “What’s up?”

“Alright, I promise I’m not trying to be a jerk, but why do you always wear that sweatshirt?”

Her laughter fills the room, surprising me with its soft, sweet undertone. She glances down at the faded fabric. “Oh, this old thing? It’s kind of ugly, I know, but it’s also my good-luck charm.”

This piques my interest. “What do you mean?”

She reclines in her chair, her fingers tapping a steady rhythm on the table. There’s a distant look in her eyes, as if she’s recalling some cherished memory. “I wear this sweatshirt when I study and during all my exams,” she says, her voice trailing into a comfortable silence. “It’s a small thing, but it helps me focus.”

“And what makes it so lucky?”

“It’s a hand-me-down from my brother,” she says, her tone laced with affection. “He’s incredibly smart. I always joked that wearing his sweatshirt might somehow make his genius rub off on me or something like that.”

“No shit? I just said the same thing to a friend of mine the other day.” A chuckle bubbles up from my throat, my amusement spilling over. “So, obviously, you think it worked.”

She nods emphatically, a triumphant grin stretching across her face. “I know it did. I wore it for all my freshman exams, and to my surprise, I aced them.”

My laughter grows louder, the absurdity of her belief tickling something in the pit of my stomach. “Don’t you think you’re giving the sweatshirt a little too much credit?”

Her expression turns stern, her conviction evident in her voice. “No, Theo. I know very well that it wasn’t the sweatshirt that aced my exams. But it did give me the confidence I needed. It made me feel like I could conquer anything.”

My grin doesn’t falter. “Alright, that does make sense. But why wear it while you study, too?”

“Do you know about the principle of generalization?” she asks, tilting her head slightly.

“Yeah, I think so.”

“That’s all it is, basically. If you recreate the conditions in which you studied, it’s easier to recall the material later.”

Her words are met with another bout of teasing laughter. “Sounds a little far-fetched to me.”

“No, Theo. It’s science.”

“Okay, I’ll take your word for it.” I shake my head, chuckling. “I’m just relieved you’re not wearing it because it belongs to a boyfriend or something.”

“Nah, I don’t have a boyfriend.”

The words bounce around in my mind, the implications slowly sinking in. “No?”

“Nope,” she affirms, her tone bright as she pushes away from the table. Well, there you have it. My opportunity has just presented itself.

Deciding to seize the moment, I start my next question just as she’s slipping on her backpack. “Can I ask you something else real quick?”

A warm smile graces her features as she faces me, her cheeks flushing a soft shade of pink. “Is this one gonna be about my jeans?”

“No, you dork,” I tease, gathering up my belongings. “I was wondering if you knew about the Spring Banquet?”

“Your team banquet?”

“Yeah, that one.” Together, we make our way toward the library exit, our conversation continuing as we navigate the stacks of books.

“Who doesn’t?” she says, an undertone of amusement in her voice. “Just another chance for football players to get drunk and give themselves trophies, right?”

“Oh, I see. So, you’ve never secretly wished you could attend?”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“Yeah, and what if you went as my date this year? Would that be ridiculous?” I ask, nudging her with my elbow.

She freezes midstep, her wide eyes meeting mine. “What?”

“Yeah,” I confirm, a reassuring smile tugging at the corners of my mouth. “The banquet’s at the end of next month. Would you come with me? Just as friends, of course.”

She eyes me skeptically, her brow arching in question. “As friends? We barely know each other.”

“I mean, we’ve hung out, like, four times now. Doesn’t that count as a start?”

“We ran into each other in the library a couple of times, and I helped you with your paper. I’d hardly call that hanging out.”

“You got me there.”

Her gaze narrows as she considers my proposition. “So, why ask me, then?”

“I’d rather not risk taking another jersey chaser,” I explain, hoping my fractured attempt at honesty might convince her. “Besides, my roommate’s already asked Shan. We could make it a double date.”

She pauses outside the library doors, her teeth sinking into her bottom lip as she mulls over my words. “I’ll think about it,” she finally decides.

“Wow, Jade,” I say, pretending to nurse a wounded ego. “You sure know how to deflate a guy’s confidence.”

“You said you were asking as a friend!”

“We are friends, then?”

“Yeah, Theo. Sure, we’re friends.”

“I prefer West, but I’ll take what I can get,” I say, nudging her lightly. “Just think about the banquet and text me your decision, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Thanks again for your help with the paper,” I say, tapping her backpack lightly. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

“The morning?”

“Yeah, I promised you coffee every day for a week, remember? Just send me your address, and I’ll be there.”

Her eyes widen in surprise. “Really?”

“It’s only fair play. I owe you.”

“Okay, but just don’t show up before 9:00 a.m.”

“Wouldn’t fuckin’ dream of it.”

We take a few steps apart, and she waves me off with a tiny furrow in her brow. Then, with her soft laughter echoing in my ears, I walk away from the library and from her, my mind still buzzing.

Spending time with this girl—with her quirky, little rituals and her penchant for calling me on my bullshit—well, I have to admit, it’s like a breath of fresh fucking air.

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