Chapter 8
Chapter
Eight
MADDOX
“You left awful fast,” Crista says as she steps into my office Monday morning. She looks around and whistles. “It’s really coming along. I swear your little Mr. Archer might be a better TA than Thomas. And he kept you in line.”
Yeah, Thomas kept me in line so much that I made him cry on at least three occasions when he put shit away and didn’t keep a system. The only thing that kept him on for so long was the fact that literally no one else wanted the position.
I grunt and thread my fingers together, placing them on my belly. “What do you want?”
She takes up residence on her favorite part of my desk. “Mika says she saw you leave right behind a cute brown-haired twink. Seeing someone already?”
I roll my eyes, but gaze at her to make sure she doesn’t know it was Luca.
For some reason, I don’t think he wants anyone to know he was there. I’m not sure if it’s because the club was queer friendly or because it was a kink club. Either way, I want to keep his secret.
It’s important for Luca to trust me if I’m going to pursue him like I want.
Yeah, it’s stupid and I’m a fucking fool, but after the way he freaked out and practically levitated from my car, I need to know what’s going on in that pretty head of his.
Memories of how he unconsciously worked his cock against my leg, and how his warm breath drifted over my face washes over me. He was so into it, not displaying any of his usual shy, fluttery behavior.
Not until I asked if I could kiss him.
There’s a story there, one he’s reluctant to tell me, but I won’t find out if he doesn’t trust me. Which leads me to my original point: I have to keep his secret about him showing up at Mask so he’ll trust me and let me into his world.
Luca is intriguing as fuck, and I’ll make it my fucking mission to make him mine. To unravel all of his secrets and make him feel safe. To make him—
“Earth to Maddox,” Crista snaps in my face, bringing me back to the present. I shake my head and glare at her, swatting at her fingers. She laughs as she lowers her hand. “What’s on your mind? Students giving you trouble?”
I tick up an eyebrow. “Why would they give me trouble?”
She fidgets, wringing her hands in front of her. “Well… I overheard a few students say your intro class is easy and they’re only there for the credit.”
Narrowing my eyes, I stand and ask, “Who?”
“Some kid on the football team. Can’t remember his name, but I think he’s one of the kickers.”
I run through the football students in my class and realize she’s talking about Justin Echer.
Justin fucking Echer.
Not only is he a know-it-all who thinks he can act out every fucking character I put in front of them, but he’s full of himself without cause.
He’s a second-string kicker who pretends he’s months away from the NFL draft.
I’m sure Crista feels bad about diming out a student, but she’s my friend, not theirs.
And to her, it may look like some sort of constructive criticism on how I can do better.
But I don’t need to do better. I run a tight program, but it’s the best on campus.
Even though students are sometimes afraid of me, they know in order to hone their craft and make it further—perhaps even all the way to Broadway—they need to study under me.
Using my class as an easy credit won’t fucking fly.
Looking down at my watch, I see that my class starts in less than five minutes. Luca should already be there, handing out play scripts and updated syllabi as my students walk in.
Crista gets up from the desk and throws her hands up. “I knew I shouldn’t have told you. You haven’t made anyone cry in about a month. I thought you were turning over a new leaf.”
I give her a hard look. “I don’t make students cry. I tell them the hard truth and they can’t handle it. If they cry over that, it’s on them.”
Her expression slackens as she gives me a look. “Bro, what?”
I grimace. “You’re hanging around these kids too much.”
“We’re not that old, so don’t give me that. You can’t pretend that making kids cry is their problem. Stop being mean.”
“I’m not. And I won’t make him cry.” I pause as I gather my things. “In front of the class.”
She grimaces. “I’ll keep my mouth shut next time.”
“I’ll see you later,” I say as I brush past her.
Stepping into the theater, I see Justin sitting with a blonde girl who I recognize as Zander’s ex-girlfriend. She’s not in this class, so I stare her down until she squeaks and races out without saying goodbye to her boyfriend.
“Babe!” he shouts at her back, throwing his hands up. Then he turns around to me, hands on his hips. “What gives, Prof? You didn’t mind her being in here before.”
“What gives?” I ask in a quiet, steady voice, throwing the question back at him.
“What gives is a student of mine using the class I love as an easy credit.” Justin’s eyes widen and he swallows thickly, but puffs up his chest as if trying to impress his little friends who are watching on.
“What gives is that a second-string kicker, who needs help both on the field and in this class to be a better person, is talking down about my program.”
“You can’t—”
“I can,” I say, stepping into his space. “The next time you want to talk shit about my class, make sure no one is around to hear you. Since you think this is an easy class, you don’t need to take it. I’m dropping you. Find something else to fulfill your elective requirement.”
“You can’t fucking do that,” he shouts at my back.
Turning around, I walk back over to him, letting our chests touch. “I can do whatever I want, Mr. Echer. And what I’m doing now is kicking you out of my class.” I point to the back of the room. “There’s the door.”
He glares at me for a few moments, anger flashing. Licking his lips, he looks at his friends, who are pretending as if they didn’t just watch the entire back and forth between us and realize that Justin’s bullshit wrote him a check he can’t cash.
When he looks back at me, the anger is gone as if it had never been there. Dropping his voice, he says, “Please, Professor. I need this class.”
“No, you need to find something that will challenge your mind.” I look him up and down. “What little mind you have. Now, leave my class. I need to teach those who want to be here.” Over my shoulder, I say, “Mr. Archer?”
Luca stares open-mouthed for a moment before answering, “Yes, Professor?”
“Make a note reminding me to drop Mr. Echer from my rolls. He won’t be attending another class.” I glare down at Justin, who is still begging with his eyes for me to change my mind.
“Yes, Professor,” Luca says.
I continue to stare at Justin, not moved by his silent pleas.
Realizing I’m not backing down, Justin mutters, “This is bullshit,” under his breath as he packs up his things and storms out.
I watch him leave, my arms crossed over my chest. Then I walk over to the stage and prop my hip against it. “If anyone else thinks my class is an easy credit, leave now. I take my work very seriously and refuse to teach anyone who is just here to lounge around.”
I meet the eyes of Echer’s friends, who drop their gazes, fiddling with their phones or pencils or whatever the fuck. No one says anything or even breathes.
It’s very rare that I dress a student down in front of others. My philosophy is praise in public and punish in private, but I get my hackles up when someone shits on theater.
When I was in college, I got shit for doing theater, for not focusing on football when all I wanted to do was act.
I was at home on stage. Every play, every lead was fucking mine. I was better with lines than I was on the field. I could have gone pro if I’d entered the draft, but I liked my brains and didn’t want my head scrambled after years of playing. A future of concussions wasn’t in the cards for me.
So for anyone to disrespect my craft, to chalk this class up as an easy credit… not on my fucking watch.
When no one makes a move to leave, I glance over at Luca.
I wish I hadn’t.
The look he’s giving me heats me from the inside out and it’s not even anything overtly sexual. He’s looking at me as if he’s in awe. Like defending my class did something to him and he can’t keep the expression from bleeding into his gaze.
Tamping down my attraction to him, I beckon him over. He trips over his feet, his cheeks heating when he rights himself and hurries over. “Yes, sir?”
I fight to keep the hum to myself.
“Did you hand out all the play scripts?”
“Umm… yes… yes, sir. For Hamlet?”
“Yes, for Hamlet.” Facing the class, I say, “We’ll start with Shakespeare, but only because that’s a great introduction to theater.
You’ll learn vocal control, as some of these roles need voice projection without yelling.
This class is highly collaborative; there will be a group project starting in three weeks. ”
Students groan, but I give them a hard look and they practically snap their mouths shut.
When I have everyone’s attention, I say, “The group project will be a play you’ve written based in the Shakespearean period.
You’ll not only be graded on the play itself, you’ll be graded on the script—if the language matches the period, if your costumes are authentic.
There will be research, there will be teamwork.
If you think any of it will be easy, you’re in the wrong class. ”
I meet each of their eyes, making sure they all understand I won’t tolerate their bullshit.
“Let’s get to work.”