Some guy across the table smirks. “They’re fucking hot.”
Professor clucks. “Language, Douggie. There will be no cursing in class. If you can’t curb yourself in here, how can I trust you to do live coverage?”
“Sorry,” Douchey—I mean, Douggie—says, not looking very contrite.
I raise my hand. “Could I possibly do one segment on cheerleading? And if you don’t think it’s newsworthy, I could cover something else?”
Fowler considers it. “If you cover the bronco art installations, you can do one segment on cheer.”
Did I just talk my way into doing more work than necessary? It’s too late to back out, though, so I nod as I scan the syllabus. “Thank you.”
“It’s more interesting than it sounds. Those broncos are supposed to be like Chicago’s 1999 CowParade, which featured fiberglass bulls that were decorated by local artists and later raffled off for charity. But a few mischievous Charming residents, who I’m guessing are Lone Star students, took it upon themselves to rearrange some of our statues.”
I start scribbling down notes on the back of the syllabus. If I have to do a segment on this, I want to make sure I understand the history behind the event.
Douchey laughs. “This morning, the horses were humping on Main Street in front of the library.”
And now I’m doing a segment on horny statues. Great.
Fowler taps on the desk. “As for football…” My head jerks up. “Any chance you could get Douggie access to your father or some of the marquee players after the games?” Glancing around the table, he motions to me. “Roxy is Coach Santos’s daughter.”
Ugh, why is he telling everyone? Usually, I don’t mind. I’m proud of my dad, but it sucks when people only want to get to know you because of who your father is.
As though he can read my mind, Fowler points to the second page of the syllabus. “If you read through my handout, you’ll see the personal questionnaire you’ll need to complete online. It will be shared with your peers in this class. You’ll have access to theirs. The reason we do this is because you never know who might have connections or affiliations you’ll need to access.”
“I’m happy to introduce student reporters to my father after a game…”Do it, Rox. Don’t chicken out.“Especially if I could do a football segment too. I know all of the players and coaches.”
That sounds braggy, but I feel like I need to negotiate to get caught up to everyone who’s been in class for the last two weeks.
“I generally don’t allow children of parents or coaches to cover their events due to conflicts of interest.” I understand his rationale, but damn, that sucks. “But let’s play it by ear.”
So, no. He just doesn’t want to shoot me down. Probably because he wants me to give the class better access to the team.
I suppose I have enough on my plate.
If he’s worried about conflicts of interest, he probably wouldn’t be a fan of me being a former cheerleader if I plan to cover the sport. If he asks, I will emphasize theformeraspect. Besides, no one can appreciate how hard we work more than someone who has done it.
After class, I drag myself across campus. My crotch is stinging like a mofo, and I’m so tired, I could curl up under a tree and sleep for the next week. Seeing Marley and Billy is the only motivation that keeps me going.
Billy and I took a look at our schedules and realized we would never see each other if we didn’t try to meet up during the day. We’re hoping to squeeze in lunch three times a week before he has to head to practice.
He had a great game last weekend, and we won even though the offense struggled to get into a rhythm. Ezra looked shaky out there, but we somehow pulled out a win.
When I reach the student union, I scan the cavernous room. I finally spot Billy.
He’s surrounded by women.
They’re all making goo-goo eyes at my baby. Though I’m guessing this is really about flirting with my boyfriend, who looks fucking delicious right now. His dirty blond hair is tousled, and his jaw is scruffy. His skin is golden brown from spending so much time outside. His jeans and t-shirt fit snugly, putting all of his muscles and tattoos on display.
The fact that Marley is strapped to his chest is the icing on the thirst-trap cake.
A cake I want to devour.
Except I have to wade through his fans to get to him first.
I press a finger into my twitching eye as I stand there and wait for him to see me.
“She’s gorgeous, Billy,” one girl says as she squeezes his shoulder.
