Chapter 4
Savannah
The path from the arts building to the admin wing was slick from this morning’s rain, the kind of damp Alabama cold that settled in your jacket and refused to leave. My gloves were stuffed in my bag alongside a box cutter and a small hacksaw.
I’d stayed in the studio late after his session.
Too late. And still I’d caught myself thinking about the way he talked.
I’d learned he was from Ohio, and like many from northern Ohio, he had the same broad non-regional accent that most broadcasters and reporters adopted.
Either way, he had too much charm for someone who claimed he didn’t need a tutor.
I’d told myself last night that Dante Spence was going to be just another assignment. With his C-minus in Education Policy and Governance, he was a problem to fix. Nothing more.
I’d almost believed it.
I’d submitted what the Academic Association needed, knowing it was late, knowing that my signature on the bottom of it would stop the potential negative feedback about not submitting in time.
That wasn’t my issue to fix. I’d jumped in when they needed me, and I’d do my part to ensure QB10 passed his class.
QB10 — Dante Spence. I’d never spoken to him before last night, but I’d seen glimpses of him at events, academic gatherings, when alumni wanted to mingle with the up-and-comers. He’d always looked composed — fully in control. It was the same last night.
He’d stayed in my head longer than he had a right to, so much so that I’d forgotten my stuff when I locked up the meeting room. This afternoon was my first chance to go get it.
My phone buzzed in my pocket, pulling me back from the mental replay of the easy smile he wore, the twinkle in those ice-blue eyes.
The fact that he was just so damn relaxed and laid back went against everything I knew about sportspeople.
Weren’t they supposed to be like Road Runner on crack or something?
Not Dante. He was so stress-free, the guy was horizontal.
I glanced at my phone. It was my roommate, Bev, telling me she had rehearsals for an upcoming recital and would be out late. The idea of having our dorm apartment to myself tonight made me smile.
I liked Bev, but it was nice knowing I didn’t have to hide my tools while I ate dinner before heading out to my studio.
My studio was an out-of-the-way shed that the art department used for storage.
Or they used to. I was using it for a project I would never submit.
For a class I could never take. Because my dad didn’t approve of my ‘hobby.’
My father would call my work a waste of time.
A distraction from the real work I should be doing.
In his world, hobbies were for people with no ambition, and art wasn’t a career.
Not for his daughter. If I wanted to keep my freedom, what little scraps I still had — I had to keep this part of myself hidden away, out of sight, even from my roommate.
Art was my passion, and while I knew exactly why my father hated my pursuit of an art degree, I hadn’t expected him to shut down all art electives for me — not quietly, not as policy, but visibly.
Just the thought of Dad learning about my art shed was bad enough, and I’d do anything to make sure he never did. Because the truth? He would have the shed cleared out in no time, and the professor who allowed me to work here would be saying goodbye to his illustrious career at Wrighton.
My phone buzzed again. Speak of the devil.
I opened my phone and saw the notification: Meeting request: Dean Cole. Time: 4:15 p.m. Location: Office 204.
Great. In true Maxwell Cole style, he’d sent a meeting request with fifteen minutes’ notice.
He usually reserved in-person meetings for academic crises or political maneuvering.
We’d spoken enough this week about my liaison work that I couldn’t imagine what else he needed — unless he’d somehow found out about the sculpture project taking over my studio space.
Or, worse, the fact that my current star pupil had a jawline that didn’t belong in the same list of students that I was used to assisting.
Dante would have picked his grade up by himself with no support from me, I was sure. He pointed out, in that way of his, that he’d played and trained through winter break, and a C-minus on a pop quiz three weeks back into the semester wasn’t enough to push the panic button and call in the tutors.
I refrained from mentioning the fact that I wasn’t sure he had a panic button. Or what it would look like if it were pushed. Did he stand up quicker? Everything about him was just so . . . languid.
I knew he was quick on the field. I, and every student in Wrighton, had seen the man play. But off the field, he was just . . . not.
I had to stop myself from studying him last night, instead of helping him study. He was strangely fascinating.
I didn’t know what to do with that.
But he was also irritating, cocky, and smug — so smug. It balanced him out.
By the time I pushed open the heavy glass door to the admin wing, I’d pushed said quarterback from my head and turned my attention to what Dad could want. It was probably nothing. Routine.
It wasn’t.
Dad’s office always smelled faintly of old books and polished wood, like he wanted everyone to remember the university’s ‘prestige’ before they even sat down.
There was one photograph of my mother on his desk, a recent award she’d received.
There was nothing else personal. The photo of her getting a reward was another strategic move to remind everyone that his wife was brilliant.
Just not at parenting. Or marriage. But those things didn’t win awards.
“Savannah,” he greeted as I sat down. It was almost as if he knew I was glaring at her photo.
“Hi, Dad.” I told myself not to react as he looked over my clothes, and I saw the slight frown at my faded jeans, sweater, and jacket. “Thanks for the fifteen-minute warning.”
He gave me that administrator look he’d perfected after years of working in education.
“You were in the economics building, Savannah, not the opposite side of the campus.”
I had been almost at the opposite side of campus, but I just let it go and clasped my hands together. “What do you need?”
“A father can’t ask to see his daughter?”
I’m sure he could, but my dad wasn’t that father. I didn’t say that, though. I merely kept the pleasant smile on my face.
“You’ll keep tutoring Dante Spence,” my father said, the statement so casual it took me a second to realize he’d changed the subject.
I frowned. “You’re suddenly okay with me spending more time with the quarterback?”
“I’m not suddenly okay with it,” he said, folding his hands on the desk. “I’m making a judgment call.”
Which, in Dean Cole speak, meant he’d decided what benefited him most.
“You’re a good liaison, Savannah. Smart.
Capable. The committee’s been circling like vultures since the championship, waiting for a reason to push harder on the athletics department.
More money into the athletics divisions in this school is not what this educational institution needs. But if Spence fails, they’ll have one.”
“So this is about saving the football program’s image? Or money?”
“It’s about saving the university’s image,” he corrected, his tone sharpening.
“The team’s reputation impacts enrollment, donations, and the very leverage we have in state funding negotiations.
They are an asset to Wrighton U. They do not need any more investment in the sports program. You know that as well as I do.”
“And if you protect their image, you protect your reputation on the committee and get funding for educational improvements at the same time,” I said, because we both knew where this was heading.
His mouth curved faintly — not a smile, more an acknowledgment. “If Spence stays eligible and performs, it shuts down the critics. If he doesn’t . . .” He gave a small shrug. “It won’t be because the academic office didn’t do its job in the first place and get him over the line.”
“And by ‘do its job,’ you mean . . . ?”
“Keep him on track. If there’s something I should know before it becomes a problem . . .” He let the sentence hang, all suggestion and no direct order.
I crossed my arms, not sure what I was hearing. “Are you asking what I think you’re asking?”
“What do you think I’m asking, Savannah?”
“You want me to spy on him for you.”
“I want you to be thorough,” he said smoothly, without a flicker of emotion. “If that happens to mean you notice . . . patterns. If it’s likely he needs more than tutoring help, something that might bring this program into the spotlight for the wrong reasons, then I trust you’ll use your judgment.”
Patterns. God, he made it sound so clinical.
I sat with the request for a moment. He was asking me to watch a student and report back. That wasn’t what tutors did. Well, not report back to the dean.
I said nothing — not about the football team, not about Dante — and I let my father fill the silence as he thought about what he had just asked me.
“And if I notice something. . . I come to you?” I asked curiously.
Dad sniffed. “You come to me.”
I fought back my surprise. “The Blues have just won us the national championship. Don’t they have a right to be proud of their accomplishment?”
Dad gave me a skeptical look. “I’m aware of what they won.” He blew out a breath. “Every conversation seems to include it,” he added with a small shake of his head. “Do you know how many other accomplishments this school has achieved this academic year?”
“A lot.” I didn’t want it to sound like a question, but he heard it anyway.
“Yes. Do they get the same recognition? No.”
“I’m guessing they don’t come with the same TV deals, ticket sales, and merch sales.”
Dad gave me that pointed stare, and then I saw the small twitch at the corner of his mouth. “Yes, well, there’s that,” he said with a wry smile. “You’re clear on what I need?” he asked, all business again.
I forced a tight smile. “Of course, Dean Cole.” I stood. “Is that everything?”
“Yes,” he said, already reading his computer screen. “The Sunday brunch is at eleven, and we have the . . .”
“Benefactors Booster,” I supplied, “on Saturday.” I nodded. “I know, Dad.”
He looked up, even though my tone had been perfectly pitched, but his eyes were focused on my jeans.
“I allowed you to live in the dorms and not in the dean’s residence with me, Savannah, but please, remember your position and that you represent the school.
” He pointed his pen toward my jeans. “You’ve thrown away better clothes.
Slacks, if you have to wear pants, hmm?” He’d already turned back to the screen.
Don’t argue.
“I was late this morning.” Should have kept my mouth shut; his head snapped up like a cobra’s ready to strike.
“Why?” he asked. “Did the quarterback do something?”
“No!” I debated my next words for a second, but didn’t hold back. “Like you said, he’s a jock. You never know, Dad, he might be intelligent.”
Dad gave a huff of derision, the screen once more holding his attention. “If he were intelligent, he wouldn’t be close to failing, would he?”
“Bye, Dad.” I headed for the door.
“Make sure he benefits from those many sessions, Savannah. I’m counting on you.”
“Of course,” I said as I closed the door behind me. I had already made the promise to myself that my tutoring sessions with Dante would be short.
What Dad had failed to see in his assessment of the Wrighton University quarterback was that Dante wasn’t an idiot. I wasn’t sure Dante was the kind of guy you could spy on.