My eyebrows shoot up. “Could have fooled me.”
Mac’s smirk is back. I have to sit on my hands so I don’t accidentally slap it off.
“I’m not handing this class to you. You chose to be a student athlete, and with that comes a responsibility to manage your time. You didn’t tell me ahead of the class when you’d be missing, or that you’d need notes. You didn’t communicate until the day of class you missed and then the second time, afterward. That tells me this class isn’t a priority, and frankly, I think it needs to be. This is a foundational course if you want to be prepared for any kind of business management down the line.”
I shift in my seat. I knew I’d be missing classes for games, but asking him ahead of time was daunting. I would have had to meet him separately, ask for those considerations. It felt…well, it felt uncomfortable, and as I’ve said, I don’t do verbal confrontation well.
“Which leads me to believe,” he continues, “that you’re one of those athletes who thinks she doesn’t need an education, who’s just punching in and out, going through the motions. That doesn’t fly in my class.”
I open my mouth to tell him that’s really unfair, that I love learning what I need to know for business management. That I truly want to do well in this class and my other major-related courses, because I know I won’t be a professional athlete forever. When I’m retired, I hope to use my platform for philanthropic work, and I want to ensure I run it myself and do a damn good job of it. I should tell him all of that, but nothing comes out. My jaw clamps shut and my stomach knots sharply.
MacCormack leans in, elbows on his desk. Nerdy black frames obscure ocean blue eyes. His near-black hair is stylishly messy, he has a constant five-o’clock shadow, and if he weren’t such a giant sabotaging jerkface who was at least ten years older than me, I’d probably think he was cute. Right now, all I can think is that he’s the guy who’s going to ruin my soccer career.
“You look upset,” he says quietly.
I take a jagged inhale as hot tears prick my eyes. No crying, Sutter. Never show them your weak spot.
“I’m sorry,” I manage around the lump in my throat. “I’m not…I don’t talk well when…” Swallowing, I pinch the bridge of my nose and breathe deeply. When I exhale, I’m somewhat together and I find my courage. “I care about this class. I realize I haven’t shown you that very well. I should have asked you before the semester started, but I’ve never had to do that before. In the past, professors have automatically held notes for me and sent me what I needed.”
Mac sits back in his seat, brow furrowed. “Well, I’m not one of those professors, and if you’re going to make it as a professional female athlete, I’ve got news for you—you have to learn how to start sticking up for yourself.”
I reel. “Yeah, so, I’m aware of the prejudices and double standards female athletes face, and I’m prepared for them. But thanks for the lecture anyway.”
“Fine.” He throws his hands up. “My point is, I’m not impeding your success in this class. I’ve been here, available to you, and there’s a sea of people in that room you could ask for notes. I handed you Ryder on a silver platter—”
“A silver platter?” I slap my hands on his desk and lean in. “He ignored me, entirely.”
“Maybe you didn’t do enough to make yourself heard.” Mac shrugs, standing and sweeping a pile of papers and his laptop into his arms. He looks at his wristwatch, then at me. “Either way, your success is not my responsibility. I’ve given you a solution to your problem. I’m not holding your hand to get there. Figure it out. Talk to him. Don’t just whisper once, then give up and throw him a death glare.”
My eyes widen. “Do you have surveillance in that room?”
That damn smirk widens to a grin. “Just eyes in the back of my head. What professor doesn’t? Come on, Sutter. Time for class.”
This time I’m not the only one who’s late. MacCormack strides briskly ahead of me, dropping his pile of papers onto the desk with a thwack, hooking up his laptop to the projector, and immediately jumping into the lecture. Once again the place is packed, and once again, the only remaining seat is next to the tall asshole, Ryder, Keeper of Notes.
While I was too angry to really process his appearance last time, I recognize in retrospect that he’s wearing essentially the same thing, a uniform of sorts: frayed dark blue ball cap, another soft-looking flannel loose over his torso, and faded jeans. His long legs stretch out from his seat, and his eyes are down, scanning this class’s lecture notes. Once again, he completely ignores me. I drop into my seat, huffing as I whip open my notebook.
At least this time I’ll be able to follow the lecture in its entirety. No thanks to him.
As MacCormack lectures, I’m sucked into the class material, because like I nearly chickened out on telling him, I really do love learning about business management. My concentration is unflappable. I’m making notes left and right. I even raise my hand and ask Mac a question that earns his surprised, approving smile. I’m getting back on track. I still have to figure out how to get notes for the remaining coursework I’ll miss, but for today, Willa Rose Sutter is on her game—
My arm’s bumped, and my writing hand flies diagonally, sending a slash of black pen across my notes. I whip to the right, meeting eyes with Ryder. His are annoyingly, startlingly green like last time, and once again they’re wide, as if I surprised him by existing.
I glance down from my page, then back to him. “What the hell was that?” I hiss.
His mouth drops open, and for a second I’m oddly distracted by that. With his startled expression, that haphazard hair and scraggly beard, the blue-and-green plaid flannel he’s wearing, he looks like a lumberjack interrupted mid-swing. My gaze lowers from his eyes, searching his face. So much is hidden behind that blond scruff. Cheekbones, lips, a jawline.
What does he look like underneath all that?
Snapping myself out of those bizarre thoughts, I lock eyes with him again, my gaze widening with expectation. I’m waiting for an apology, an explanation, anything that accounts for why he just threw an elbow into my arm and made me screw up my notes.
But nothing comes. His jaw clamps shut, his eyes narrow, and then he spins forward, his focus back on the chalkboard. Mac turns off the projector, earning a groan from roughly one-third of the class who wasn’t writing fast enough. That would include me, thanks to the asshole lumberjack who distracted me from reading and recording the last few minutes.
“You’ll remember,” Mac says to the class, “that the format of this course is the first six weeks are dedicated to drilling into you the foundation of Business Mathematics. I’m teaching you theory, and I’m cramming it down your throat. I realize you’re probably overwhelmed at this point.”
A collective sigh followed by a wave of mumbles and whispers indicates MacCormack might be a formidable instructor, but at least knows his audience.
“Now we are at the point in our course in which you are assigned a collaborative partner for the remainder of the semester. This is for two reasons. One, because of the size of this class,” Mac says. “Unlike many instructors, I’m not passing you off to TAs. You get me, all semester, all office hours, and the trade-off is I halve the number of papers and projects I have to keep up on grading when I pair you up. Two, because anybody who wants a career in business needs to develop core skills of collaboration, negotiation, and compromise. Knowing numbers and economic theory is useless if you can’t talk with your teammates, listen to their ideas, and synthesize your insights into a practical, successful application.