Chapter 4
Chapter Four
Professor Dickhead - Wyatt
“Young man?” Professor Hillenbrand says into his microphone. “You, walking up the steps, who came in late for my class? Turn around.”
I freeze on the spot. Fuck, is the professor actually talking to me? Yeah, I came in late—thanks to my phone not charging from the night before—but barely. It’s a miracle I’m only late by a few minutes.
I turn around, feeling all eyes in the lecture hall on me. Christ, I play hockey in an arena that seats fifteen thousand, no problem, but being called out in a lecture hall is causing me to break out in a damn sweat.
“Don’t ever be late for my class again. You have ten seconds to find a seat. If you do not by the time I finish counting, you can leave.”
What the actual fuck? Is he kidding?
“Ten … nine … “
Christ, he’s not.
I turn around, looking at the few rows that are left in the back of the lecture hall. Then I spot a pink backpack taking up a seat, next to a pretty blonde. Her eyes meet mine, but she doesn’t move the backpack.
Is the backpack serving as a cockblock or what?
I pin her with my gaze, pleading with her. Please move your bag so I’m not thrown out of class, I will her to understand.
“Six …” Professor Hillenbrand says, his count slow and dramatic.
This professor is such a dick.
I continue to stare at the blonde. Normally I’d be checking her out, but right now, I’ve got to get her to move the backpack.
“Four …”
She puts her hand on it and moves it to the floor. I sprint up to her row, down the aisle, unfortunately smacking some guy in the back of the head in the process. I drop into the seat just as the professor says “One.”
“Saved by the woman with the pink backpack,” Professor Hillenbrand quips, causing some students to chuckle. “Now, before I was so rudely interrupted, this is Greek and Roman History …”
I study the girl next to me. She seems familiar. Have I seen her somewhere before? A party, maybe?
But first things first. I lean closer to her, and I notice how good she smells. Like honey and vanilla.
Wait. There’s a faint hint of chlorine on her skin, too. Did she just come from the pool?
I push that thought aside and move forward with what I need to do. “Thank you,” I whisper to her.
Beautiful inky-blue eyes fringed by long black lashes meet mine. “You’re welcome,” she whispers before turning her attention back to the lecture.
Why does she look so familiar? I continue to study her as she stares straight ahead.
Not a party. I’m sure of that now. Definitely not a hookup.
One, my focus is on the ice and preparing to make it in the NHL.
I keep my hookups to a minimum, so I’m not distracted.
Two, if I hooked up with her, I’d definitely remember.
I shift my gaze straight ahead like I’m listening, but my mind is still trying to place her. I steal another quick glance at her. Long, silky blonde hair hangs past her shoulders. Nice breasts. There’s a flash of her toned stomach from the slightly cropped shirt she’s wearing—
Shit. She’s the girl from Phi Mu Phi. The girl I saw in the parking lot on Thursday.
The girl from the bet.
Professor Dickhead is already droning on about expectations for this class, and I’m still pissed that this is my free elective. I signed up for surfing. Apparently that—and all my alternative electives, like wine tasting—were filled.
So the computer decided a comparable elective would be Greek and Roman History.
The computer is full of shit.
I shift back to thinking about the girl next to me. I have to know if this girl is Grace.
I open up a blank document and type out a message to her:
The professor isn’t wrong. You saved me. I do owe you one. I’m serious. Iced coffee? Donut? Starbucks gift card?
Then I lightly tap the end of my pen on her forearm to get her attention. When she looks at me in surprise, I angle my laptop toward her so she can read it. I watch as her lush, pink lips begin to pull up—not quite a smile, but the hint of one.
I wonder what she looks like when she really smiles.
I add one more sentence to the document for her to read:
I’m Wyatt, by the way. Tell me what you want before the end of class. I’ll bring it on Wednesday. I’ll even give your pink backpack its seat back.
I’m rewarded with a brilliant smile, one that makes her look even more beautiful.
And for some strange reason, my breath catches.
She begins typing on her laptop and then angles it back to me:
I’m Grace. You don’t have to bring me anything, but if you want, I love muffins.
Holy shit, it is the same girl. I can’t believe it.
Grace shifts her attention back to Professor Dickhead, and I’m left reeling. I don’t care what kind of person she is, she doesn’t deserve to be the center of a stupid bet made up by those douche-lord fraternity brothers of mine.
I’m going to do something. I’m not sure what options I have, but I’ll think about it later.
I try to focus on Professor Dickhead, but I’m distracted. I’m distracted by the scent of Grace. The way I can see her abs out of the corner of my eye. How she wants a muffin …
Okay, Professor Dickhead is droning on about his expertise, I don’t have to pay attention to that. I type Grace another message:
A muffin. There are a lot of muffins in the muffin universe, any kind in particular?
I angle my laptop toward her again and her blue eyes lock on the screen. She smiles and begins typing back:
I didn’t know there was a muffin universe.
I find myself smiling at that.
There’s absolutely a muffin universe. Chocolate chip, blueberry, banana. I hear there’s bran muffins, but those aren’t top tier. Those don’t belong on ANY tier.
She smiles again, and my ego swells. She types on her keyboard and then turns the screen my way:
My top-tier muffin is chocolate espresso. But if a muffin has streusel or a drizzle of icing on top, it’s a solid runner-up.
I wonder where the hell I can find a chocolate-espresso muffin near campus.
Because it’s my mission to bring her one on Wednesday.
I shift my gaze straight ahead, looking at Dickhead, but not hearing him. There’s something else I need to do, too.
And that’s figure out a way to blow up the bet.
***
“You realize this is the optimal week of the year to go out, right?” Sebastian asks, tugging a T-shirt over his head. “And you’re going to sit here on your laptop?”
I glance over at my roommate. There are four of us here, all juniors on the team, and Sebastian’s father is letting us rent this amazing house that even has a pool, a few blocks over from Greek Row.
It’s been gutted and upgraded—thanks to Sebastian’s mother, who flips houses for a living—and I couldn’t have asked for a better place to live this year.
Sebastian Johnson is a defenseman, and my closest friend not only on the team, but here at OCU. Our other roommates are Austin Reynolds, a center, and Nolan Wayland, Sebastian’s D-line partner.
Sebastian isn’t wrong. It’s Tuesday night, and this is syllabus week at OCU. Most professors aren’t giving homework.
Except for Professor Dickhead. He gave a massive reading assignment and suggested a quiz is possible tomorrow.
That tracks.
But reading Greek and Roman history is the last thing on my mind tonight.
Trying to find a bakery that has chocolate-espresso muffins is, however.
I stop for a moment. Have I lost my fucking mind?
Yes. Yes I have. I go back to googling.
“I’ve got shit to do,” I say, thinking I might have to settle for a streusel muffin for Grace as I look at bakeries not far from campus. Where are these elusive chocolate-espresso muffins anyway? LA?
Nolan enters the room, running a hand through his hair. “Are you not going to Milo’s, Wy?”
Milo’s is a sports bar that’s popular with the students at OCU. It’s our favorite bar because the vibe is laid back. We can shoot pool, watch a game, find girls you want to snap up later.
Why am I staying home again?
“How much shit can you have to do?” Austin asks, walking into the kitchen and heading straight for the refrigerator, rummaging inside of it. He retrieves a carton of leftover Chinese food and shuts the door. “It’s the second day of school.”
“Nah, I’ve got to read for a class tomorrow,” I say. “Potential quiz.”
My goal is to get drafted by the NHL next summer, but grades matter to me. I know the odds of making it in the NHL are difficult at best, and I know I want to finish my degree at some point. My dad wants me to do the bare minimum, just enough to stay eligible to play.
But I want more than that for myself.
So that means studying for Professor Dickhead’s class, even if it’s the most boring thing I’ve ever read in my life.
“Dude. My priority is finding a girl tonight,” Austin says. “I need to get off.”
My dick should be saying the same thing. It’s been a while since I hooked up with anyone. But as soon as I think it, my mind flicks back to Grace.
I shove my laptop aside. “I need advice.”
Sebastian looks at me with interest. “A girl?”
“No, no, don’t do that, don’t engage!” Nolan says. “You don’t want a relationship! It will ruin everything, trust me.”
“You might be biased,” I say, quirking a brow as he drops down next to me on the sofa.
Nolan dated a girl last year, and she pretty much ripped his heart out, threw it in the middle of the street, and drove her Range Rover right over it.
Then put the car in reverse and went over it again for good measure.
And he’s still not over it.
If I didn’t have my own reasons for not wanting a relationship, Nolan’s relationship with Sarah gives me about a million more reasons not to get involved.
“No, it’s not that,” I say, pushing down on my backward baseball cap. “Girl, yes. Relationship, no.”
Sebastian leans against the door frame, folding his inked arms across his chest. “Go on.”
“There’s this prick in my fraternity who put out a bet on a girl from Phi Mu Phi. Said she’s frigid, and the first brother to get in her panties would win the bet. A group of them have money on it.”
“Your fraternity is full of dicks,” Sebastian says, shaking his head. “You should have gone Phi Sigma with me.”
I groan. “You’re probably right about that.
Anyway, it’s bullshit and I’m determined to fuck it up for those assholes.
But I actually met this girl on Monday. She saved my ass in history class.
And Grace seems nice. But that’s not the point.
No girl should be treated like a fucking bet for entertainment.
I can’t let these guys jerk her around. I’m just trying to figure out what to do about it. ”
Sebastian wrinkles his brow. “Wait. Grace Walsh? The artistic swimmer?”
Now I’m the one looking at him with confusion. “I only know her as Grace from Phi Mu Phi.”
Then I remember the faint scent of chlorine on her skin.
Sebastian grows more animated. “Wy, that’s the same girl. And your fraternity did her dirty last year.”
“What?” I ask.
“Shit, Wy, how did you not hear about this? It was all over Rating The Greek,” he says, referring to the national website where people rank fraternities and sororities—and post a bunch of trash and blind items, too.
I roll my eyes. “You know I don’t give a shit about any of that stuff.”
That’s the truth. I think I joined a fraternity just to ensure I had some kind of social life outside of hockey. But all the jackassery that comes along with it? I avoid that as if it were the second coming of the bubonic plague.
“Well, someone posted a blind item about Grace. And made it clear it came from Alpha Xi Pi.”
I feel my blood pressure crank up. “What kind of blind item?”
Sebastian levels his gaze at me. “That she was a frigid bitch, for starters.”
“For starters?” I ask, thinking that’s bad enough. What else could they have said about Grace?
“Yep. And dude, if she finds out you’re in Alpha Xi Pi? Trust me. After what your fraternity did to her? She’s going to hate you.”