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12
Taylor
Between the NFL pre-season, and the beginning of Fall Semester at Utah, the next two weeks flew by. Juggling my academic career and my cheerleading gig kept me plenty busy, to the point that I rarely got to see my boyfriend Eric. The only exception was at Tuesday Trivia with a few other faculty members, which we always made time for.
Sometimes I saw Brody at the football field, but we never spoke directly. The extent of our interaction was an occasional glance from across the field, or a polite nod in passing if the cheerleaders ever walked by the players on the sideline.
It wasn’t meant to be, I began to think. That night at trivia didn’t matter at all.
A few mornings later, I was teaching a lecture at the university. It was an introductory class with a lot of students, so it was held in one of the larger lecture halls with stadium seating. I had been intimidated by the room at first, but had quickly gotten into a groove by the second week of classes.
I liked this class because the students were smart and attentive. Unlike my eight o’clock class, where the students hardly seemed awake, the members of this class constantly raised their hands to ask questions that proved they were paying attention. As someone who was trying to impart knowledge on them, it was deeply satisfying.
Halfway through class, the door to the back of the lecture hall opened and a late student entered. They tried to sneakily slip into one of the back chairs, but I noticed.
“That brings us to the sauropod family of dinosaurs,” I lectured. “Who can tell me when the titanosaur subgroup replaced all others in global distribution?”
Five hands shot up. I started to call on one of them, but then shifted my gaze to the student at the back of the room.
“You,” I said, pointing. “What period were the titanosaurs dominant?”
“Uh,” the student said with a hint of a Texas accent. “The Jurassic period?”
I gave a start at the voice. Brody.
I didn’t recognize him from this distance, especially not with the hood covering his head, but I would have recognized that voice anywhere. It sent a happy little shiver up my spine.
“Late Cretaceous,” I said. “Which should be obvious to anyone who read this week’s chapter, rather than watching Jurassic Park. You need to study more.”
“Yes ma’am, I do,” he replied.
The class laughed softly, including Brody himself. I found myself smiling as I continued the lecture.
Yet as the class went on, I felt more nervous than before. I could feel Brody’s intense gaze on my body, especially when I turned around to write notes on the whiteboard. Knowing he was looking at me was thrilling, and I felt my pulse racing the way it had on my first day of class.
When my lecture was concluded, I explained the next reading assignment and dismissed the class. Everyone got up and walked up the stairs to the back of the room, except for Brody, who walked down the stairs toward the lecture stage. He kept his hoodie up, the students didn’t recognize him.
“Going back to school for your degree?” I asked when he climbed onto the stage.
“Already got me one of those from Texas.” He made a fist, then extended his pinky and index finger. “Hook ‘em, horns!”
I pretended to shuffle through my notes because it gave me something to focus on rather than his large, muscular presence. “Then to what do I owe the pleasure?”
He approached until he was close enough for me to smell his deodorant or cologne. A flood of memories from that trivia night returned to me—giddiness and excitement and raw sexual attraction. Then he pulled out his phone and held it to me.
“You lied,” he said.
I squinted at the phone, which showed a photograph of a man’s palm. I recognized my phone number written in my own handwriting.
“What do you mean, I lied?” I said. “That’s my number!”
“It surely isn’t,” he replied.
I pulled out my own phone and opened the settings. “Look. There’s my number. Just like what I wrote.”
He punched the number into his phone and hit dial. My phone immediately rang. I waved it at him victoriously.
Brody scrunched up his chiseled face as he went back to the photograph on his phone. “That last number ain’t a four. That’s a nine.”
