Just the thought of getting a disciplinary call from Dr. Barnes sends a shiver racing up my spine.
She’s the kind of instructor who believes there is no separation between the teacher and the job. As far as she’s concerned, we’re on duty 24/7. There is no down time, even in the privacy of our own homes.
“My advice is to conduct yourself at all times—in school, after hours, on social media—as if you are being watched. Because if you fail your assignment, you may find yourself in need of an alternative career path.”
The words prick at my skin, a silent warning, but I shake them off.
Dr. Barnes isn’t one for subtleties. If she knew about my Fangirl channel, I’d have already been disciplined, but the speech is just another reminder of what I stand to lose if I get caught.
Barnes continues lecturing, but my attention is on the TA as he distributes pre-student teaching info guides. He’s quick and efficient, all business as he moves from one aisle to the next. I can see why Barnes chose him to assist her. They’re practically a matched set.
He stops at our row, counting out the correct number of packets, and when he hands them to me, our eyes meet. For a beat, he says nothing. Does nothing. Just stares down at me, face a blank slate.
“Thanks,” I whisper, taking an envelope off the stack before I pass the rest to Jenna.
He nods and moves on, oblivious as my bestie twists around in her seat.
“Quit staring at his ass,” I hiss. “You’re going to get us both in trouble. And whatever happened to Tripp?”
“Tripp?”
“You know, the frat guy you were crushing on?”
“I’m keeping my options open.” She pretends to study her nails. “I’m young and single. It’s perfectly natural to be attracted to more than one sexy, intelligent man.”
“Agreed, but banging your TA is a recipe for disaster.” She smirks, as if I’ve just issued a challenge. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
Because any instructor—official or otherwise—who’s open to sleeping with one of his students is shady AF.
8
BRADY
I hitchmy bag up on my shoulder and jog up the steps to the football building. It’s Friday afternoon and we’ve got our last practice before the Nebraska game tomorrow. We’re 5-0, and the buzz surrounding a championship run has reached a fever pitch.
It’s all anyone wants to talk about, even in the agricultural college.
Case in point, I’m running late because I stayed after class to ask a question about the homework assignment in Supply Chain Management and the prof turned what should have been a five-minute conversation into a thirty minute one, grilling me about the team’s prospects.
Ironically enough, the only respite to be found is in the pole studio.
No one there gives a damn if I play ball. They’re more interested in whether I can complete a chair spin without injuring myself.
I can’t.
That shit is harder than it looks and after three weeks of classes, I’m no closer to mastering the move than I am scoring a date with Piper.
It’s frustrating as hell.
I push through the glass doors at the front of the building and sigh in relief when the temperature drops ten degrees. Sunlight streams through the windows, glinting off the dated plaques and trophies that serve as a constant reminder of Waverly’s fifteen-year drought.
One day—one problem—at a time.
When I reach the locker room, my roommates are already dressed.
“It’s about time,” Parker says, glancing at the overhead clock. “I was starting to think you were going to have us all running laps today.”
It’s Coach’s go-to punishment, one I’m careful to avoid.
