Total pages in book: 144
Estimated words: 136296 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 681(@200wpm)___ 545(@250wpm)___ 454(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 136296 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 681(@200wpm)___ 545(@250wpm)___ 454(@300wpm)
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 have not earned 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 check my 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 home or to 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.