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“I’m glad you’re a senior,” she says. “I won’t miss you next season.”
“That feeling is mutual.”
She leans over and hugs me, catching me off guard. “Rumor has it that you’ve turned down every scout visit because you’re not playing in college. Why not?”
“My parents forced me to play this sport,” I say. “I’ve never loved it like you and the other girls.”
“Then go pro and get paid for all the work you’ve put in at least.” She zips her bag. “You can always go back and get a degree.”
“I’ll think about it.”
“For the record, I’ll be rooting against you whenever you go. I hate you that much.”
“I hate you more.”
She hugs me one last time, and I watch the next two rounds.
While the men set up to play, I head to the field house.
As I'm approaching the hall, someone grabs my elbow from behind and pulls me into a closet.
My back hits the wall, and Mr. Donovan is standing before me.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” He fumes.
“What are you talking about?”
“This.” He holds up the note that came with my gift. “What the hell is this?”
“Something I'm making sure you keep.”
“I told you I didn’t want it.” He pins me against the cement with his hips. “What part of that don’t you understand?”
“All of it.”
“Allow me to help you get on the same page with me once and for all,” he says, looking deep into my eyes. “First of all, I’mnotattracted to you. Second of all—”
“I’m not going to stand here and listen to youlie to me.” I try to wriggle free from him, but he grips me harder.
“I won’t put up with any more gifts, notes, or inappropriate essays from you.” He hisses. “Third, you’re not worth a potential prison sentence, and since you strike me as the type with the propensity to snitch out of spite, I would very much like to act like we never met.”
“Let go of me, Mr. Donovan.”
“I need you to commit to letting go ofmefirst,” he says. “Delete my phone number, never email me, and give all your questions to the classroom aide from here on out. Do we have a deal?”
“Depends.” I swallow. “What’s in it for me?”
He looks completely taken aback by my answer.
“I’m way too old for you, Genevieve.”
“You say that like I’m a minor or something,” I say. “I just turned eighteen.”
“I’mthirty-five.”
“The age of consent in New Hampshire is sixteen.”
“I’m thirty-fucking-five.”
