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I pack up my books and hang back until I’m the only one left. Then I head for the front of the room where Professor Sweet is busy packing up her worn leather bag. She’s wearing a white blouse with a loose, droopy cardigan, and a pair of dress pants. Her dark hair is pulled up in a tight bun, and her black-framed glasses hang perilously close to the end of her nose.
I adjust my backpack as I amble her way. She glances up at me over the rim of her glasses, then focuses on the papers scattered across her desk, tapping them into a neat pile before sliding them into a folder. “How can I help you, Mr. Waters?”
She always addresses me this way. Never by my first name. Maybe because she screamed it a lot that night we had together at her cabin. I need tonotthink about that right now.
I lean my hip on the edge of her desk. It’s been a weird kind of torture, sitting in her class, listening to her smart talk about books and literature, knowing what she looks like naked. How she tastes. What she sounds like when she comes. It’s been a lot of weeks of awkward, three-hour hard-ons. I’ll blame the fact that half of the blood in my body is pooled in my dick for the words that come out of my mouth. “You look nice today, Professor Sweet.”
She pauses in her mission to get her laptop into her bag, and her gaze flicks up to mine. Slate gray eyes—piercing and shrewd and not at all impressed.
I flash her my most winning smile and basically shovel my own grave by saying more stupid shit. “I like your cardigan.”
Her lips flatten into a line and her back straightens, shoulders rolling back. “I don’t have time for this, Mr. Waters. If this is about your assignment, I suggest you follow the instructions. Your piece was more than two thousand words under the minimum word count.”
I hold up a hand, not to stop her, but in apology. Unfortunately, my mouth is my nemesis. “I meant no offense, Professor Sweet. I think you already know this, but I’m on the school hockey team. We have practice every day, and games—”
I have no idea why I’m leading with this. Maybe because I’m an idiot? Professor Sweet doesn’t give a shit about my games or practice.
“I’m aware of your athletics involvement. It’s not an excuse for handing in an incomplete assignment.”
“I know. And I’m sorry. I just, I have a lot on my plate, you know?” This is better. I can appeal to her sympathetic side. I know she can be soft. I’ve experienced it.
“There’s a lot of pressure for me to do well—in hockey, I mean. Since there’s a good chance I’ll be playing pro next year.”Nope. I can see immediately that this isn’t working, but I can’t seem to shut up. The words just keep coming out, not helping my case at all.
“I’m not sure if you know this, but my dad donates to the school’s mental health foundation.”Because my sister mentioned that donating to a sports team I played on was nepotism, so he should put his donations elsewhere until I graduate. She’s needed a shit ton of therapy, so it seemed logical.
Professor Sweet plants her fists on her desk. Her right eye twitches. “Is this some sort of backwards blackmail because you refuse to take responsibility for your lack of effort?” she growls.
I bet angry sex with her would be amazing.
I shake my head. “Of course not, Professor Sweet. I’m just explaining—”
“Explaining what, exactly? That your father’s donation should excuse you from following the rules like everyone else? You’re a fourth-year student in a second-year class. You know what the expectations are. Maybe your other professors let you get away with this kind of laxness, but I’m certainly not one of them. You are skating the edge, Mr. Waters, and I will not be giving you a passing grade if you haven’t earned it. And you certainly havenotearned it thus far. Now, unless you’d like me to report you to the dean for trying to blackmail your way to a passing grade, I suggest you put in the time and earn the grades you’re capable of. If you would like to resubmit your piece with the minimum required word count, you’re free to do so. However, you will be penalized for handing it in late. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have other things that need my attention.” She shoves her folder into her ancient bag and slings it over her shoulder. Then she spins on her heel—she’s wearing flats—and storms out of the room.
That did not go nearly as well as I’d planned.
* * *
I checkmy phone on the way out of the building, and of course, because this day isn’t already a giant shitstorm, I have messages from one of the guys on the team saying he’s at the pub and Carly is there, asking about me. I semi-hooked up with her early in the semester. Mostly as a way to get Clover out of my head. Not realizing that she would end up taking permanent residence in my brain by becoming my professor.
Since then, I’ve been trying to shake Carly, and I thought things were good—she’s stopped showing up at parties, like she did at the beginning of the semester—but evidently, she’s still going to be a challenge.
Going homeorto the pub means the possibility of running into people I don’t want to see. Home will have my family and Kody. It’s not that I don’t like my family, or my best friend. I need to get in a better headspace before I deal with them, though. Now that Lavender and Kody have sorted themselves, they’re perpetually all cozy-cozy, and it’s awkward. As much as I’d been waiting for them to figure their shit out, I’m finding I don’t like the way it changes the dynamic.
So I go to the school’s athletic facility instead. I don’t want to risk running into my teammates and getting sucked into a conversation about our upcoming game. So I avoid the facilities dedicated to division one athletes, in lieu of the regular gym where the normal students work out.
On the way, I call my dad, who has texted a bunch of times. Apparently, the coach from Nashville called my coach, which isn’t unusual. They’re always checking on their investments, but it sucks that my dad is actually friends with Nashville’s coach, and that means there are conversations being had. My dad is going to be relentless about messaging me until I answer.
“What’s this I’m hearing about you being late for practice and distracted again?” is his greeting.
“I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.” It sounds like lip service, even to me.
His silence makes me want to fill the space, but I bite my tongue.
“Please tell me you weren’t late for practice because of woman problems.”
I can’t tell if it’s disappointment or frustration in his voice. Or both. “I’m not dating anyone. I’m focused on getting to the end of the year and being called up.”
What else can I tell him? That I’m back to following his advice to remain uncommitted until my career is sorted out? For a few weeks, I needed the distraction from being stuck up in my head, and Carly seemed like a good way to do that. Except that backfired on me in spectacular fashion.
