The Heart's Perfect Pitch

Chapter Two

"Oh, great," he mutters, rolling his eyes with the kind of look that says I'm somehow responsible for the rain, traffic, and any other inconvenience he's ever faced. "Watch where you're going, Amber," he says, his tone dripping with sarcasm, like I somehow planned this. Then he adds something under his breath in Spanish—probably another one of his signature curses.

And it's the way he says my name, too, with this low, almost teasing tone, like he's daring me to react. There's something about it that's... intriguing, in a way I don't like. At all.

I stare him down, forcing myself not to blush, because I am not giving him that satisfaction. "Could say the same to you," I snap back, trying to match his indifference.

He just raises an eyebrow, looking me up and down with a mix of amusement and mild irritation. "You're soaked," he points out, his tone flat, as if stating the obvious is his personal hobby.

"Yeah, well, that's what rain does," I reply, probably a bit too sharply. But before he can throw another one of those cool, detached comments my way, I'm already darting past him, shoes squelching with each step. No way am I sticking around to let him get under my skin, especially in the middle of a downpour.

That's Bryan. Tall, tan, and built like he was made for the cover of some sports magazine. He's got these intense, deep brown eyes that never give anything away and this perfectly messy brown hair that somehow always looks like it's styled that way on purpose. And those tattoos peeking out from under his sleeves and collar? They add a whole extra layer to his vibe, making him look like the kind of guy who could either save the day or start a fight, depending on his mood.

Everyone on campus knows him—or at least, they think they do. He's the guy on the baseball team, practically a legend already. But he's not exactly the friendly type. He's got this cold, distant energy, like he's always a few steps removed from everyone around him. Most people steer clear, intimidated by the whole untouchable vibe he gives off. But then there are the ones who try to get close, convinced there's something deeper under that stoic, tough exterior. And sometimes, with the right people, he'll crack a joke—a quick, dry remark that leaves everyone laughing but still guessing about what's really going on in his head.

Girls, especially, seem drawn to that mystery, like they're trying to solve some puzzle only he knows the answer to. They think he's got this soft side hidden under all those walls, like he's secretly waiting for someone to understand him. Honestly, I don't see the appeal. To me, he's just another cocky guy who probably thinks the universe revolves around him, with his carefully crafted indifference and that "too cool to care" attitude he wears like a second skin.

But as much as I'd love to ignore him, he's hard to avoid. He's everywhere—at practice, at parties, somehow always in the way. It's like fate decided to throw us together just to test my patience. And sure, maybe he's got that whole "brooding, misunderstood athlete" thing going on, but I'm not interested in trying to figure him out.

When I finally made it to the studio, dripping wet, I had to do some fast talking with the receptionist just to let me in. Walking in, I was immediately hit by the energy of the place. The studio is spacious with high ceilings, and the walls are lined with mirrors that reflect back the hustle and bustle of dancers moving around. The hardwood floors gleam under the warm lights, perfect for spinning and leaping.

In one corner, there's a barre set up along the wall, and I can see a couple of people practicing their routines, their movements fluid and graceful. The sound of music fills the air, blending with the soft thud of feet hitting the floor. There are large windows on the far side that let in a flood of natural light, creating a bright and welcoming atmosphere.