I SPENT SO much time flirting with my bookstore girl, I ended up coming to class late. The one class I absolutely hate and wish I could avoid.
English.
And my professor wasn’t happy about it.
At all.
I slid into a seat at the very back, trying to be discreet, but I didn’t miss the hard look she sent my way. Then when she asked a question about our current read, she called upon me to answer it.
And I faltered. I fumbled and stuttered and made up some bogus answer that had nothing to do with the book. She narrowed her eyes at me and accused me of not reading the material like she wanted to embarrass me, causing the other students in class to titter nervously.
It sucked.
I sit through the rest of class in absolute misery, trying my best to keep my gaze focused on my notebook, scratching a line here and there, but still struggling to even know what the hell she’s talking about.
Considering I’m already behind on the reading, this is the best I can do.
The minute class is over, I’m leaping out of my seat, quickly shoving my stuff into my backpack, so I can hightail it out of there.
“Mr. Maguire, a word please?”
Her snooty tone rubs me the wrong way, but I take in a deep breath, straighten my shoulders and head toward her desk.
Only when the room is empty does she speak.
“You were late. I would appreciate it if you respect my time as much as I respect yours.” She stares down her glasses at me, her gaze cold.
“I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.” I don’t bother with excuses. I know she doesn’t want to hear them.
Professor Johnson leans against the front of her desk, crossing her arms as she contemplates me. Like she doesn’t know what to do with me. “How are you doing so far?”
“In class?”
She nods. “You still haven’t turned in your first assignment.”
I scratch the back of my neck, my brain scrambling. “There was a first assignment?”
Pushing away from her desk, she stalks around it, settling into her chair and resting her arms on top of the desk. “If you don’t want to take this class seriously, I suggest you find an alternative. You still have time to drop.”
“I can’t drop it. I need this class to graduate.”
“Then I suggest you get to work on the assignment that’s already late. I’ll give you partial credit if you turn it in tonight. Along with the second assignment that’s due tonight as well.”
My mood spirals. Fuck. I have statistics homework to do tonight too, and while it’s not hard, it’s tedious. “I’ll turn both in.”
“It’s due by midnight.”
“No problem. I’ll get it to you.” I’m sweating. Seriously.
“See that you do, Mr. Maguire.” She’s quiet for a moment, so long I’m about to get the hell away from her, but she finally speaks. “I know you’re one of the star players on our football team. You’re considered an important asset to the university, but your schoolwork still matters. You can’t play football forever.”
Her last words piss me off and fill me with all of those insecurities I battle on a nightly basis. “Right.”
That’s all I say. I’m guessing she can tell she made me angry, but I don’t know if she even cares. A single brow lifts, and she murmurs, “You may go.”
I hurry out of there, fighting my anger and the frustration that swirls within me. I hate it when people are quick to write me off as just another dumb jock. I’m not stupid. I just struggle in class sometimes. It takes me a little longer to catch onto things. And I didn’t even remember that I had that first assignment due in English. I can’t believe I forgot, but shit. I’ve done this sort of thing before…
Now I have two assignments to complete. And I don’t know how I’m going to do it.
I have a fifteen-minute break between classes so I settle my ass on a bench just outside the building where my next class is, scrolling through the university app on my phone. I log into my portal and check out my class list, clicking on my English class to see exactly what I need to do. Yep, there it is. I have to write a short essay answering at least three of the seven questions listed in the assignment.
Fuck me running, I haven’t even started reading the book yet.
“Why do you look so stressed out?”
I glance up to find Cam standing there, frowning at me.
“That stupid English class,” I admit, launching into a brief description of what just happened between me and my newest nightmare, Professor Johnson.
“You should get a tutor,” Cam suggests when I’m done complaining. “They even have a scheduler on the app now. You choose your subject, they give you a list of tutors available and the open times they can meet with you, and that’s it. You’re done. You’ve got help coming once or twice a week, whatever you need.”
“I don’t know.” It’s hard to admit to people—strangers—that I don’t always catch on as quickly as others do. That I need help.
But it’s probably better getting a tutor than going this alone, struggling the entire way and barely passing. Or worse…
Not passing at all.
“Don’t let this fuck with your head. You’re trying to do well at school this semester, right?” When I nod, Cam continues, “Well, then you need to utilize every tool available to ensure you’ll get solid grades, especially with those classes you struggle with.”
I know Cam is right. It’s like it was meant to be, for me to run into him, so he can say this stuff to me.
“Fine. I’ll get a tutor,” I say, reluctantly.
“Trust me when I say I think it’ll help you.” Cam waves a hand at my phone. “Look it up. Make an appointment. Oh, and if the first one doesn’t work out, you can always reschedule with another.”
I reopen my portal and start searching. “That doesn’t sound so bad.”
Cam says his goodbyes before making his way to class, while I sit there and kill the last few minutes before my next class starts, trying to figure out the tutor appointment thing. I scan the list of names, bypassing all the guys. I don’t need some nerd trying to explain to me what I have to do. Or what if he’s a football fan and just wants to talk game strategy and go over stats?
No, thank you.
Of course, it might not be smart to go with a female either. What if they’re a total fan in the other way and just want to flirt? I like flirting, but I need to get serious.
I need to pass this class. I want to do better than a C, but I’ll be happy with that kind of grade, if that’s all I can muster. Beggars can’t be choosers.
There’s a short list of tutors who specialize in reading problems including dyslexia, and I scan those names, stopping at Joanna Sutton. I frown, thinking of Jo Jo at the bookstore. Could it be her? Damn, I wish they had photos next to their names, so I could know for sure. I like her, but not necessarily in a sexual way. She means business. She isn’t impressed by me at all. I got her smiling and even laughing a little bit today, but I threw my all into flirting with her. It’s as if once I decided I’m not going to hook up with girls, I’ve become the world’s biggest flirt.
I need to calm my shit down, especially if Joanna Sutton just so happens to be bookstore Jo Jo.
I probably couldn’t be so lucky.
Practice was a slog thanks to the heat. We kept fucking up and the coaches kept making us run, which only made us even more tired. By the end, we were all snapping at each other and I was glad as hell to get away from all of them.
I’m grumpy. The confrontation with my English professor didn’t help. What a bitch. But I’ve run into this kind of thing before. Some of the university’s instructors get all pissed off that I’m a successful player on the football team because they believe we get special favors.
Here’s where I admit that sometimes we do. Professors will forgive us for missing class or being late with an assignment every once in a while. Some professors are more forgiving than others, that’s for sure. I try not to take advantage of it, but sometimes, they make it so hard not to.
Professor Johnson isn’t going to cut me any breaks. That much is clear from the way she treated me earlier. The moment I get back to my place, I’m holed up in my room, my laptop open on my desk, waiting for me to answer the assigned questions. I’m scanning the book, trying to absorb the words on the page, but I’m so tired.
I’m completely lacking focus.
Tossing the book on my desk, I grab my phone to see if I have any notifications. Nothing on social media. No texts from anyone.
Though I do have a notification from the tutor scheduler.
I open it up, reading what it says.
Congratulations! Your first meeting with your new tutor Joanna Sutton is confirmed! It’s scheduled for 2 p.m. Thursday at the campus library, meeting room 226. If you need to make any changes or cancel the appointment, please do so by responding to this message.
The only reason I’m not canceling this session is because I want to see who Joanna Sutton is. That’s it. Otherwise, I’d already be trying to bail. I know myself. I don’t want to do any of this.
Even though I need to.
Clicking out of the student portal, I decide to send my mom a quick text, knowing she’ll approve of my latest move.
Me: I’m meeting with a tutor for my English class tomorrow.
It takes her a few minutes to respond—and I attempt to read a few more pages while I wait—but finally she sends me a text.
Mom: Oh, that’s great! I’m glad you’re being proactive with the class you know you’ll have the hardest time with.
She said exactly what I figured she’d say.
Me: I knew you’d say that.
Mom sends me a string of laughing emojis.
Mom: Here’s what’s funny. That’s how I met your dad.
I’ve heard this story before. Countless times.
Mom: History is repeating itself! Oh, unless your tutor is male. Or maybe you go that way. I don’t know.
I decide to call her because this text exchange is getting awkward, quick.
“Mom,” I groan at her when she answers laughing, “I’m not gay.”
“I never said you were, and there’s nothing wrong with it if you are.” Her laughter slowly dies. “Do you know who your tutor is?”
“It’s a she.”
“What’s her name?”
“Joanna. Don’t read too much into this,” I warn her. “I can’t let some pretty tutor distract me this semester. I need to focus on this stupid class.”
“Oh, I know. Your father told me all about your little plan.” She pauses. “How you’re now celibate. Not sure if that’s going to work, though.”
I groan some more because, damn it, nothing is sacred. The last thing I want to talk about with my mother is my sex life. “I can’t believe he told you.”
“Your father keeps no secrets from me, and I do the same for him. We are completely open with each other. Someday, hopefully, you’ll find a woman you’ll want to tell everything to as well.”
“I doubt it. You and Dad have a—special relationship.” The teasing tone is showing in my voice, and she can hear it loud and clear.
“If you’re trying to make fun of us, it’s not working. I love your father, and he loves me. We’ve had a great life together and I’m lucky to have him.”
“You guys are both lucky,” I say, my voice softening. I grew up in a relatively normal household—as normal as it can be, considering your father was an NFL superstar. My parents never fought much, at least not in front of us kids, and were always respectful toward each other. They were also overly affectionate sometimes, which grossed us all out because who wants to watch their parents make out in the kitchen?
No thanks.
I realize now it was good to see them treat each other with respect. To witness their love and affection for each other. I want that for myself…someday.
But not now. I’m too young. Too busy.
“You’ll find someone for yourself,” Mom says. “And you never know, she might be a cute, smart tutor.”
“Mom, stop. Geez.” When she gets something stuck in her head, she won’t let it go. “There will be no falling in love with the tutor. Or even messing around with her. I’m celibate, remember?”
Mom starts to laugh. “How could I forget? My strong, handsome son, celibate! Watch out. Your dating status might make ESPN.”
“If it does, that’s some bullshit.”
Her laughter dies. “Is she aware of your dyslexia?”
“I chose her because she specializes in reading disabilities.” I wince the moment the words are out of my mouth.
I hate that I have reading issues. It makes me feel dumb, even though deep down, I know I’m not. It’s just hard to admit that I have a problem.
Maybe this tutor can actually help me. I hope she can.
We start talking about other stuff. Mom asks about my classes and football. If I’ve spent any time with my sister.
“I took her shopping for her laptop earlier today.”
“I heard you ditched her and went to flirt with some girl who works at the bookstore.”
Again, nothing is sacred—or secret—in the Maguire household. “I wasn’t flirting with her.”
“Blair mentioned you sang the entire chorus of ‘Jolene’ to her.” Mom sounds infinitely amused, bringing this up.
“I was just teasing her,” I mutter.
“Teasing is your way of flirting. And you’re still allowed to flirt, right?”
“I guess.” I clear my throat, hating how grumpy I sound. “Blair had everything handled. She didn’t need me there.”
“Maybe she just misses you and wanted to spend some time with you.”
“Yeah, right.” I don’t know what Blair’s ulterior motive was for asking me to accompany her to the Apple section at the bookstore, but I’m glad I went. Otherwise, she would’ve ratted me out to Mom and Dad and I would’ve had to hear the, ‘I’m so disappointed in you’ speech.
I like to avoid that particular lecture as much as possible.
“She said she’s going to your game this Saturday.”
“It’s an away game.”
“Oh. Well, I guess she’s still going to go.”
“With who?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t ask for those details,” Mom says. “Why don’t you ask her? Doesn’t your school provide a bus for students to travel to the games?”
“Yeah, you’re right. But I’ll talk to her. Don’t really get the point of her going if it’s an away game.” I’m getting a little shouty, and I tell myself to calm down.
I can admit that I’m overprotective of both of my sisters, but sometimes it’s warranted. Blair does flighty shit that gets her in trouble, and don’t even get me started on Ruby. She’s trouble with a capital T. I’m surprised Mom and Dad let her go away to a college on the East Coast, though I don’t know how long she’ll last there.
Ruby’s all about being wild and free, but she’s secretly a homebody. She’s going to miss it here in Colorado, miss our parents, miss her siblings. Just miss…everything.
“She’s probably going with friends. Don’t worry about her. She’s become very responsible,” Mom says.
“Yeah right,” I mutter, feeling like a dickhead.
“I’m just sorry we can’t make it.” The disappointment in her voice is clear, and I wonder about that.
They’ve been at pretty much every home game the entirety of my career, and most of the closer away games as well. With the exception of this year. They made it to the first home game but otherwise, I haven’t seen them.
I don’t know what’s up.
We’re about to end the call when Mom says, “Hey, good luck with the tutor tomorrow.”
“Thanks. Hopefully she can help me.” I hesitate. “I’m worried about this class.”
“She’ll help you,” Mom says firmly. “I know she will.”
Yeah. Hopefully, though I’m not betting on it.
All I know is…
I’m going to need every last bit of help I can get with that class.
