Chapter 3
NOT THE BEST DAY
Maverick
Six weeks later
Forty-eight percent.
That’s my grade on my most recent creative writing assignment.
I tried to get out of this class—went straight to the registrar’s office after Clover took over as the professor and begged them to change my schedule.
But I’d missed the deadline by a week, and I needed the elective to graduate, which meant dropping it wasn’t an option either.
So, I had no choice but to ride out the semester and hope to hell I could eke out a passing grade.
I probably would have managed if Professor Connelly had been the one grading my papers since he’s a hockey fan.
It didn’t seem to matter that the last time I’d written a creative anything was probably in high school.
But Clover taking over the class changed things. In theory, sleeping with my hot professor sounds awesome, but in practice, it’s really fucking awkward.
And now I’m sitting here with a forty-fucking-eight percent because I’m 2500 words shy of the minimum word count.
That’s like ten fucking pages of words. Also, according to my mental calculations on my other assignments, I’m at risk of failing the course.
My initial grades were decent, but since the professor swap, it’s gone downhill, and my midterm grade was trash.
And now I only have a handful of weeks to bring it up.
My dad is going to shit a brick if I fail a class. He was pissed enough when he saw I was skating on thin ice with two of my courses at midterm. I got the whole speech: “Just because a team owns your rights doesn’t mean you’re going to get called up. Everyone needs a backup plan.”
He’s not wrong.
Not having a backup plan is stupid. And at the end of the year, I’ll have a kinesiology degree.
With hockey seven days a week, school, and my part-time job at the gym, which includes teaching self-defense, I didn’t want to overload myself with difficult classes.
This course was supposed to be an easy C.
And maybe it would have been if the woman who replaced Professor Connelly hadn’t been on the receiving end of my orgasm delivery before the semester started.
I spend the rest of the class trying to find a way to appeal to my professor that doesn’t entail sexual favors.
Though I would willingly provide those, because hot damn, Clover Sweet—her last name has become a bit ironic—is incredible between the sheets.
But considering the way she’s avoided any and all contact with me, I don’t see her jumping at the opportunity. Also, it would be considered bribery.
So I need to find a way to dig myself out of this hole. And I’m not exactly sure how to do that.
At the end of class, I take my time packing up, watching student after student approach her to talk about their creative writing assignment.
“You going to the pub, Mav?”
The girl sitting to my right is twisting her hair around her finger and snapping her gum.
She looks a lot like my cousins Lovey and Lacey Butterson—they’re identical twins and only people who know them well can tell them apart.
I think this girl’s name might be Sandy or Suzy or something.
I’m pretty sure it starts with an S. Despite the gum snapping, she’s damn well brilliant.
She always has an entire monologue prepared on whatever we’re discussing in class, and it makes Clover—Professor Sweet—absolutely glow.
Which makes me hard. In turn, I don’t have very fond feelings toward Sandy-Suzy.
“Not today. I got a few things I need to take care of.”
Her face falls fractionally before her smile widens and she twists more of her ponytail around her finger, pulling her head to the side. “Maybe next week.”
“Yeah. Maybe. Have a good time tonight.” I force a polite grin and wait for her to leave with one of the other girls in the class.
I pack up my books and hang back until I’m the only one left.
Then I head for the front of the room where Professor Sweet is busy packing up her worn leather bag.
She’s wearing a white blouse with a loose, droopy cardigan, and a pair of dress pants.
Her dark hair is pulled up in a tight bun, and her black-framed glasses hang perilously close to the end of her nose.
I adjust my backpack as I amble her way. She glances up at me over the rim of her glasses, then focuses on the papers scattered across her desk, tapping them into a neat pile before sliding them into a folder. “How can I help you, Mr. Waters?”
She always addresses me this way. Never by my first name. Maybe because she screamed it a lot that night we had together at her cabin. I need to not think about that right now.
I lean my hip on the edge of her desk. It’s been a weird kind of torture, sitting in her class, listening to her smart talk about books and literature, knowing what she looks like naked.
How she tastes. What she sounds like when she comes.
It’s been a lot of weeks of awkward, three-hour hard-ons.
I’ll blame the fact that half of the blood in my body is pooled in my dick for the words that come out of my mouth. “You look nice today, Professor Sweet.”
She pauses in her mission to get her laptop into her bag, and her gaze flicks up to mine. Slate gray eyes—piercing and shrewd and not at all impressed.
I flash her my most winning smile and basically shovel my own grave by saying more stupid shit. “I like your cardigan.”
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.