Once I’m confident he’s been thoroughly farewelled, I slip out of his car and head toward my dorm. I make it three steps before he calls my name. I already have my playlists rolling through my head, prepared for the bump and grind routine he has requested every time we’ve seen each other or FaceTimed the past three weeks, so you can imagine my surprise when he simply asks, “Can I see you tomorrow?”
“Don’t you have that thingy tomorrow?” “Thingy” is code for the numerous business meetings he attends at all times of the morning, day, and night.
“I’ll have that all wrapped up by four.”
He flashes me a flirty grin before jerking up his chin.There’s the request I was waiting for.
Acting like one of the many Neanderthals at my school, I bob across the concrete, dancing to my own tune. . . and perhaps the fire burning in Elvis’s eyes.
“IT’S A KNEE BRACE.”My voice clearly relays what I think about Dr. Peter and his request for me to remove the flesh-colored brace supporting my knee. “It’s barely visible, but even if it were, I don’t see the issue.”
Dr. Peter’s eyes stray from the road to me. I’m sitting in the passenger seat of his car, my assurance that I can drive myself to my workplace not confident enough to save me from a highly embarrassing situation. “This institution is extremely important to the athletic department at our university. With this being the first time a student has been granted a placement at this establishment, I want to ensure you don’t mess it up.”
“And a knee brace could be the possible cause of that?” When Dr. Peter nods, I screech, “How?!”
“The people you’re being entrusted with are gifted athletes. Their bodies aren’t like mine and yours. They’re conditioned to perform, to succeed, to have people like us marvel over them. You’re wearing a knee brace, which not only insinuates you don’t take care of yourself, but it means you’re not at the same level of fitness as the people you’re preaching peak physical fitness to. Some may say that makes you a hypocrite.”
Although our conversation started in regards to my knee brace, Dr. Peter’s glance down my body shifted our conversation. He’s not staring at my knee brace; his focus is locked on the bulge that will take months of dance classes to budge.
“I eat healthy—”
“I’m not saying you don’t, Willow,” Dr. Peter interrupts, “but this is about showing balance. Ensuring the output exceeds the intake. That you know the correct nutrition for your body type and size. You are a representation of my skills in sports management and nutrition.”
He doesn’t say it, but I know he’s giving himself a big fat F for failure.
“I want you to not only represent yourself during your internship, but I want you to represent our university as a whole.”
“A whole bunch of assholes.”
If we weren’t entering the parking lot of a place I despise more than appreciate, I would have said my comment louder. Unfortunately, my lungs are too busy amassing air to force it out in anger.
“You got me an internship with a football team?” I don’t sound impressed because I am far from it. “I requested over two dozen placements; the 69ers were never listed on any of my forms.”
“Don’t worry, I was just as surprised by their call as you. “ He still sounds shocked, like all his Christmases have come at once. “I’m just grateful they granted my request to supervise your placement here. I’ve been looking for an in for years.”
“Great, so you’re using me to unleash your fantasy? I’d rather have you picturing my tits while you wank in the shower than be subjected to this.”
Dr. Peter’s eyes pop up from his wallet to me. “What was that?”
“Nothing,” I lie with a shrug. “I didn’t say anything.”
Can you smack a professor without punishment? I’m asking for a friend.
No? Well, you suck.
I remember how far I am down the totem pole of wealth when the guard hands back Dr. Peter’s license before directing him to park in the employee side of the parking lot. There are pricy rides stretching as far as the eye can see, and I doubt one of them is under a quarter of a million dollars to buy.
“Nope. Not happening.” I fire Dr. Peter a stern finger point when his spit-loaded hand comes within an inch of my face. I don’t care if I have vegemite smeared from one ear to the next, he is not licking and spitting my face clean. “They’re antibacterial wipes. Look them up sometime.” After snagging a wet napkin from the packet in my purse, I fling the packet into Dr. Peter’s chest.
I scrub my face like I’m scrubbing off any possibility of this nightmare being true. It does me no good. Even with my cheeks raw and my face sparkling, we’re still sitting in the 69ers’ parking lot.
Goddammit!
Like a child being guided to the principal’s office after placing tacks on their teacher’s chair, I follow Dr. Peter through the underbelly of the 69ers stadium. It’s not as bad as I was anticipating. The adrenaline-laced sweat I expected is in abundance, but the rowdy players, half-naked cheerleaders, and the walls lined with photos of toothless, muscle-bulked players are missing.
Oops. Nope. Here they are. I jumped off the blocks too early. The cheerleaders might be clothed, but their outfits don’t cover much of their teeny tinyhow the hell is it possible to be so small? bodies. And although the pictures lining the walls are most definitely filled with Hulk-inspired men, most also have their teeth.
I store each name and face into my memory bank for future use. Skylar will shit her pants when she finds out where I’m “working” the next six weeks—if I tell her. I don’t want to lie, but imagine the whining that will come with my confession? She’ll demand I accept her as a volunteer in a job I’m not getting paid at. If that doesn’t work, I have no doubt she’ll rig every button in my clothes with hidden cameras. She wouldn’t leave my side for the entire six weeks. That could be both a catastrophe or a godsend.
