Chapter 12
CHAPTER
TWELVE
Ambrosia
You ever get that feeling that people are staring at you?
I have checked my face, my nose, my ass, and even made sure I don’t have a camel toe with how tight my leggings are, and everything is normal.
In place. No camel toe or even a booger, so why can’t I shake the feeling that everyone is looking at me?
I have been at Bellevue for six years now, and not once have I felt like this.
Even when I used to walk with the Graces to classes, I never felt eyes on me like I do today.
It’s making me itchy, like my clothes are too tight or an elusive bug is crawling down my spine. Something isn’t right.
And sitting before my department head isn’t helping my nerves at all.
Peter Koshkin was hired my freshman year because of his insane broadcasting skills.
He went from broadcasting in Russian to doing it in English in the United States, like the language barrier wasn’t a challenge at all.
His voice has a bit of an accent, but it only adds to the appeal.
He has broadcast all over the world, doing the Olympics, the Worlds, and more for hockey.
He was the announcer for the Nashville Assassins for ten years before he retired for a quiet life.
So together, he and I started at this college and have grown together.
He was the first person I admitted my learning disability to.
I have cried all over him. He has nitpicked me until there was nothing left of my soul, and while it sucked, I know I am better because of it.
He is a huge, grumpy jackass whom I love so much.
When I lost my dad, he stepped into the role, and I couldn’t be more thankful for him.
He is so supportive of me and is the reason I am still in the program.
He makes sure that every single one of my professors follows my IEP, individualized education program, to guarantee my success.
I wouldn’t be who I am as a broadcaster—hell, even as a person—without him.
Professor Koshkin’s dark bushy brows pull in as he nods, tapping his fingers to his desk as he listens to my latest thesis.
I tuck my legs under my chair and wring my fingers as I remind myself that I hit all the key points of the syllabus and even more about my theory on why all schools should include a broadcasting program.
I know my work is sound, and I have nothing to be nervous about, but I am.
My whole day has been weird as shit, and I just feel like something is coming. I don’t know what it is, and I hope it’s my period or maybe I’ll win the lottery I don’t play. Tía plays, maybe she’ll win…
Okay. I know what it is.
DoesMyBreathStink60: Hmm, interesting theory. Have you heard the one that if they want to, they will?
Me: I have.
DoesMyBreathStink60: Cool. Get ready to live it firsthand.
I can try to convince myself that DoesMyBreathStink60 isn’t Dawson Sinclair all I want.
But that message?
That’s all him.
Once more, I’m getting the same out-of-control feeling I had when he had his finger on my lips and that devilish look in his eyes.
I hate that feeling.
Because usually the feeling after that is pain.
I swallow as Professor Koshkin hits the player on my computer to stop it, and he looks over at me.
I freeze as he starts, “First, I want to compliment you on your articulation. Ever since I told you we had to fix that, you’ve gone above and beyond.”
I smile proudly. “I started using my podcast mic when recording, and of course, I’m using that program you designed for dictation.”
He smiles at me. “We’re very proud of it.
Did I tell you it had over nine thousand downloads last month?
” I beam since I know how important the app is to him and his son, how hard they’ve worked on it for the dyslexia community.
We share a small smile, and he continues.
“I mean, Ambrosia, what can I say? You’re my star student.
Each of your points is thought-out and fully researched.
The bit about bringing broadcasting into elementary schools is genius. ”
I let out the breath I was holding. “I actually got the idea from Elli Adler since she just brought hockey to all middle and high schools across the state.”
He nods eagerly. “Yes, and if there is anyone to partner with, it’s her. Problem with state-funded schools is that they don’t have the money for equipment or even a budget for a teacher to lead the charge.”
Don’t I know it. State schools failed me as a kid and let me drown instead of helping me.
It took my dad losing his ever-loving shit, pulling me, and moving me to a private school to get me the help I needed.
They claimed I was mentally challenged, but my dad said he always knew that wasn’t it.
I swallow past the lump of grief in my throat as I hold my professor’s gaze.
“It’s an A for me. I really don’t know why you were so nervous.”
I exhale in relief. “Did you have time to listen to the other assignments?”
He nods. “Yes, and I need to talk to Dr. Poncy this afternoon. I don’t agree with her grade and want to see why she gave you a B instead of an A.”
Gosh, I love this man. “I don’t think she likes my voice.”
“I don’t care,” he says simply. “It’s about the work, the research—and for me, you hit her syllabus perfectly.”
Like I said, I wouldn’t be here without him. “Thank you.”
“Absolutely,” he says with a wink. “Now, stop stressing. You’re going to be a great broadcaster, Ambrosia. Trust me.”
The relief washes over me. I have been stressing over this assignment for weeks now.
I flash him a wide smile and gather my things.
I close my laptop and tuck it into my bag as he reaches for his phone when it chimes.
I recognize the tone since it’s his son’s sound.
He hits play, and Vincent’s voice fills the room.
“Dad, did you see that Dawson Sinclair posted about Ambrosia?”
I’m mid-zip of my backpack when I whip my head up.
Peter’s brows are almost touching as he looks at his phone, then at me.
A feeling of dread slams into my body before he turns his phone to me.
It’s a screenshot of a photo of me from this past summer when I went to Puerto Rico with my mom and tía.
It’s a great picture. I am sun-kissed and tanned, but I’m wearing a very small green two-piece because I wanted to, and I never thought my professor would see the photo.
For one, it’s from my spam account on Instagram, which is private, and for two, how the hell did Dawson get ahold of that photo?
My mouth drops open and I see words, but my heart is beating too fast for them to make sense to me. They all start wiggling and moving, making it hard to form in my brain.
“Is there a reason Dawson Sinclair would tell all of campus that you are off-limits?”
You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.
My heart falls out of my ass as I just stare at my professor.
“No way,” I mutter, and he nods.
“Yes way. That’s what it says in the square he put across your chest.”
Someone kill me now.
Or better yet, kill Dawson Sinclair!
I reach for his phone, and he lets me take it as I focus on the words that are easy to read when I know what they say.
My heart is hammering in my chest as my body burns with anger.
This is my fault. I shouldn’t have entertained him when he messaged me.
I should have blocked him there too, but fuck, I didn’t want to.
I can’t deny that I enjoy talking sports with him.
He’s funny and entertaining. Clever just like me, and it’s fun. But this right here…
This is not fun.
I’m mortified.
“I don’t even know what to say,” I mutter just as another text comes through, and Vincent’s voice fills the room.
“This is wild. What did she do to him? It doesn’t say they’re dating, but he is saying no one is allowed to date her. I need you to get the deets. I’m nosy. Like you.”
I look up to see Peter flush, and I hand him his phone. “I gotta go.”
“I figured.” Before I can escape, though, he calls my name. When I look over my shoulder at him, he smiles. “Don’t kill him, okay? You have a career to worry about.”
“You’re not going to ask why he’s doing this?”
He barks out a laugh. “That’s not the question. The question is, why is he dumb enough to think this will work?”
I can’t even laugh; I’m too busy making a run for it. To where? No clue. I don’t know where Dawson would be. I don’t know where he lives, and I don’t have his number. If I message him, the jig will be up, and I’ll lose the one person I’ve enjoyed talking sports with since losing my dad.
Damn it.
I push the door open to leave the building but come to a halt when a rather large football player steps in front of me. “Ambrosia Mercer?”
I glare. He’s handsome with his teal practice jersey on and a big number 90 on the front, but I don’t have time for his bullshit. “Not interested.”
He laughs as I move past him. “As much as I am, I like my eyes in my head.”
I stop, turning slowly to look at him. “What?”
He gives me a small smile as if he knows damn well that I know damn well what he’s talking about.
Fucking. Dawson.
Before I can tell him to go fuck off, he hands me a black Post-it note with silver writing on it. I look at it, then back at him. “What is this?”
“It’s from Dawson Sinclair.” I feel my body shaking with anger. I’m too upset to even try to read it. I push it back to him, and he fumbles with it before giving me a surprised look. “Listen, I need you to take this.”
“What does it say?” I snap, and his eyes widen more.
“Man, he said you were spicy, but—”
“What does it say!” I’m yelling now and feeling way out of control. I close my eyes, taking a deep breath in through my nose and then blowing it out of my mouth. When I open my eyes, he’s watching me like I’m a bomb about to explode.
Fuck, I feel like one.
I force myself to calmly ask, “I’m sorry. Will you please read it to me?”