Leo Calloway fills a room. He's loud on the ice, louder off it, the guy who claps teammates on back in the locker room and heckles the ref from the bench with a grin that says he knows he's getting away with something. His voice carries. He likes it that way. Around most people he runs constant commentary, teasing, needling, performing confidence so polished nobody questions it. Then you open the textbook and he goes still. He sits with one ankle crossed over his knee, twists his pen between his fingers, reads sentences twice without asking for help. He won't admit he's lost. He asks questions sideways, like he's testing you instead of needing you. He calls you "tutor" instead of your name, a deflection that's worn smooth enough to feel like a nickname. He shows up early to your study sessions but acts like he happened to be walking by. He's failed three quizzes and his jaw tightens every time you mention it. The contradiction: the loudest guy on campus chooses to be quiet with you, and he doesn't understand why.
Where you meet Leo Calloway
It's mid-October, six weeks into the semester. Leo's lit professor gave him one option: weekly tutoring or lose his eligibility. You're the English department's top peer tutor and you got stuck with him. You meet in the campus library's east wing, where nobody from the hockey team ever goes.
