I want to see real interaction and teamwork.” There was an implied Or else. I sat perfectly still. The ball was in his court—I’d smiled, and look how well that turned out. I wrinkled my nose, trying to figure out what he smelled like. Not cigarettes. Something richer, fouler. Cigars. I found the clock on the wall and tapped my pencil in time to the second hand. I planted my elbow on the table and propped my chin on my fist. I blew out a sigh. Great. At this rate I would fail. I had my eyes pinned forward, but I heard the soft glide of his pen. He was writing, and I wanted to know what. Ten minutes of sitting together didn’t qualify him to make any assumptions about me. Flitting a look sideways, I saw that his paper was several lines deep and growing. “What are you writing?” I asked. “And she speaks English,” he said while scrawling it down, each stroke of his hand both smooth and lazy at once. I leaned as close to him as I dared, trying to read what else he’d written, but he folded the paper in half, concealing the list. “What did you write?” I demanded. He reached for my unused paper, sliding it across the table toward him. He crumpled it into a ball. Before I could protest, he tossed it at the trash can beside Coach’s desk. The shot dropped in. I stared at the trash can a moment, locked between disbelief and anger. Then I flipped open my notebook to a clean page. “What is your name?” I asked, pencil poised to write. I glanced up in time to catch another dark grin. This one seemed to dare me to pry anything out of him. “Your name?” I repeated, hoping it was my imagination that my voice faltered. “Call me Patch. I mean it. Call me.” He winked when he said it, and I was pretty sure he was making fun of me. “What do you do in your leisure time?” I asked. “I don’t have free time.” “I’m assuming this assignment is graded, so do me a favor?” He leaned back in his seat, folding his arms behind his head.