Chapter 5
Hadley
Professor Flannigan’s office looked exactly like it always did — like a library and a landfill had a baby. Papers everywhere, books stacked in leaning towers, and him hunched behind the ‘organized’ chaos with his glasses halfway down his nose.
I stood in the doorway, hovering, not sure I wanted to disturb him, but also needing to disturb him.
“Your loitering is annoying, Hadley. Either come in, or flutter away so I can concentrate, don’t just stand in my doorway.”
I grinned at him as he looked at me over his glasses. “Morning, Professor.”
He took his glasses off and pinched the bridge of his nose. “I already feel the heartburn . . .”
“You’re so funny, really, you should have been a comedian, sir.” I slipped inside his office and closed the door. I liked that he’d replaced his frosted window on the door with clear glass, and he never had the blinds refitted. Anyone could look in.
I’d heard Dean Cole mutter a few times about him getting his “shambles of an office cleaned.” I was kind of invested in the office staying like a hurricane had passed through, and anyone who looked could see it too.
“So, remember the other day I pitched my idea to you and you said, and I quote—” I held up my phone and read out loud — “‘That’s an interesting idea. I think you should do it.’” I glanced up at him.
The glasses were back on, but the look of wariness hadn’t dissipated. “And then you said, and I quo—”
“You don’t need to quote me, Hadley,” he grumbled. “I know damn well what I said.”
I put my phone down. “Well, it’s just that I know others have been making connections with their projects, and I haven’t heard anything from you. So . . .”
“I changed my mind.” He gave me a flat look. “Don’t give me wide-eyed innocence. You know why.” He stared out into the hallway. “I’m not in the mood to fight for your place in this school again.”
I rolled my eyes. “Will you stop being such a crybaby? That was one time. And it wasn’t even really anything.”
“It was last semester,” he reminded me. “And you’re still in the hot seat for it.”
Fair. Painfully fair.
“They overreacted.”
He gave me a look so skeptical I grinned.
“It was a simple mistake for a blogger,” I carried on.
“It’s not my fault they thought you were involved.
” True, but I did still feel bad for dragging him into my mess.
I pulled out my form from my backpack and placed it on his desk, right on top of the stack of papers he was grading, so he couldn’t avoid looking at it.
“Just hear me out. I learned my lesson, and as I said to you when we spoke about this, I think that it will show you and the dean—” I grumbled when I spoke of him and pushed hurriedly on — “that I have learned a valuable lesson in impartial reporting, and what better way to prove that than to cover the team? It’s going into spring training, they get all excited and stuff, the media covers all the stats and the sporty things, but let’s dive deeper into the players.
How does it feel for them? What are their pressures?
Hang-ups? Concerns? Team dynamics? You know. Delve into the men behind the stats.”
He was watching me shrewdly. “They will never let you near Dante Spence.”
I blinked. “Oh God, no. I wouldn’t want to. Have you seen him? He’s just so . . . fake.”
Professor Flannigan actually smirked. “He’s really not, and he’s insanely talented. Hadley, you don’t even like football. You don’t know the difference between the offense and the defense.”
I frowned. “Well, see, a double learning opportunity for me. And even better that I don’t know, it will make the dive into the players be even more about the men and not the stats. Because I don’t know the player,” I added lamely.
He was already shaking his head. “I think you need to deep dive into something that doesn’t involve the athletic department.
And in particular, let’s keep you away from the football program.
You barely avoided academic misconduct charges last year.
I’ve thought about it, and while it is a good piece for the project, it is not a good piece for you. ”
“If they weren’t corrupt, they wouldn’t have had so much to hide.”
“I think you just made my point.”
I glared at his desk in frustration. I’d been so sure my Jedi mind tricks had worked on him. “Honestly, despite my grumblings, I know better. I had no proof, only hearsay, and I made a mess. I almost got kicked out. I need this. It can be their piece, but my arc of redemption.”
“You should be a fiction writer.” He leaned back in his chair. “Your ability to create fantasy is impressive.”
“Definitely missed out as a comedian.” I needed to form a new line of attack. “You know, I think you aren’t considering all the points here—”
“I am,” he deadpanned.
“This isn’t an exposé.” I carried on pretending I hadn’t heard him, holding my ground.
“It’s . . .” I rolled my eyes like this was actually costing me to admit it.
“It’s PR. It’s fluff. It’s safe. It’s for my Feature Journalism piece.
It helps them, and it gives me access to rebuild credibility with the dean because, you know . . .”
He was chewing the arm of his glasses as he watched me. “So what you’re saying is for your practicum, you don’t actually want to do any journalism. You want to do PR.”
Damn it.
“Obviously, it’s journalism. But it’s safe, and I think you knowing the full background, and me choosing to do this, no matter what my own prejudices or preconceptions are, will demonstrate my ability to be impartial in my reporting skills.”
“You should be a politician,” he said with a grunt.
“I’m mending bridges,” I said with my best innocent smile. “I just need access to start building them.”
The look he gave me said he knew exactly what I wasn’t saying. Professor Flannigan sighed, put his hands behind his head, and looked up at the ceiling. “I’m going to regret this.”
Hope surged within me. “Is that a yes?” I asked, biting the corner of my lip in anticipation.
“No.” He lowered his head and looked at me across his desk. “It’s a ‘God help us both.’”
He signed the form.
“Professor Flannigan . . .”
“Out.” He pointed to the door, the form in his other hand. “Take it and run before I change my mind.”
I grabbed it and got ready to bolt.
“Hadley!”
Damn it.
“Professor Flannigan?” My hand was already on the door handle, ready to run in case he tried to take it back.
He looked at me over his glasses. “You are not investigating. You are not snooping. You are not pissing anyone off.”
“I think that’s a bit extreme. I mean—”
“Hadley.”
I swallowed. “Yes, sir. I will try not to piss anyone off.” I saw his look. “Oh, come on, you know I have a knack for it . . .”
He didn’t crack a smile. “Listen to me. I do want to see if you can remain impartial. I do actually think this is a demonstration of your maturity and your reporting skills. But . . .” His brow furrowed, and I already knew he was regretting his decision.
“Mend the bridge, don’t blow it up. Understand? ”
I nodded. “I got it.” I smiled widely at him. “Trust me.”
He groaned. “Leave.”
I went.
I walked across the quad feeling as if everyone was watching me.
To be fair, I’d felt like that since last semester, after Coach Sutherland and the dean had lectured me extensively on slander, defamation, and litigation.
Professor Flannigan had then proceeded to give me another lecture, only with more curse words.
I’d done everything they asked — removed and shut down my blog.
They’d left me with no choice but to keep my head down and stay silent.
Exactly how they wanted me. Muzzled.
My assignments were graded by the dean himself.
Not my professor. We were both under observation; even though it was never said explicitly for Flannigan, it had definitely been implied.
I genuinely regretted that Professor Flannigan had been dragged into it.
He had vouched for me, talked them into believing I was merely stubborn, fanciful, and full of the righteousness and zest of youth.
And he had the cheek to say that I was the one who should be a politician.
My whole class had to endure a mandatory core subject: litigation and defamation law.
That was my fault. I couldn’t even apologize for it, as I wasn’t allowed to talk about it.
At all. Ever. The course was interesting, and it had previously been an elective, so all that changed was that we were required to take it instead of opting for it. But still . . .
I had a small apartment off campus. A tiny studio, all open plan and cozy. If you had a long arm stretch, you could reach the fridge from the couch, so some may call it cramped, but I preferred cozy.
I bounded up the stairs, my boots clanking on the wooden boards, and before my key was even in the lock, I could hear my cat, Milly, behind the door.
“Hey, girl,” I greeted her as I opened the door slowly, using my legs to block her from getting out.
Milly was a house cat. She used to get out, but then some asshole hit her with their car and never stopped, and once she was better, and I was still paying the vet fees, she became a house cat. Milly was still adapting. It’d been eighteen months, but she was a persistent girl.
Her white, squidgy face looked up at me, blue eyes already narrowed in disapproval.
“How was your day?” I asked as I gently herded her inside.
“You hungry?” She walked with me to the kitchen.
It wasn’t far. Milly meowed at me again.
“I know, you want to be fed. You want out. You want to go play with the cars again. I know. But all I’m giving you is food and some cuddles.
” I looked down at Milly. “If you let me.”
She meowed and pawed her bowl.
I think my chances of a cuddle were fifty-fifty.
That about summed up the state of my life at the moment.
* * *