“The next eight months make or break my future.”
“And you’ve got it locked down. You were the best player in our high school.” I’d take the diversion to LJ’s worries about football and cling onto it like a crazy-glue-covered spider monkey.
“But it means going after it with a singular focus.” An intensity burned in his eyes and I wished he was going after me with a singular focus.
Brush it off, Marisa. Focus. Isn’t that what we were talking about? Like how his t-shirt was tight across his chest and his gray sweatpants made me want to climb him like a Redwood.
Focus! His lips were still moving. Lock up those feelings and throw away the key.
“Of course. I get it. I was at the sidelines for all those games. I badgered you through summer workouts in the gym. If there’s anyone out there who wants you to make it, it’s me.”
His face softened. “I know, Marisa.” He opened his mouth before snapping it shut like he was trying to capture words before they could escape.
“And as much as I’d love to give you another pep talk, I’ve got to tutor, so I can make rent and not get kicked out of this beautiful college townhouse.” Taking my escape, I darted from the room and disappeared into the bathroom, closing and locking the door behind me. I held my clothes—not even mine, my borrowed clothes—to my chest and squeezed my eyes shut.
I had less than a year left until he was drafted, and I needed to figure out what to do next. This time I wasn’t going to be left behind. This time I’d do the leaving.
The walk to the athletics building didn’t take long. I shoved my long sleeves up and hitched my backpack higher. The championship trophies and mini banners lined the hallway along with the jerseys of all the drafted FU players over the years. LJ’s name would be up there soon with LEWIS scrawled across the back, hanging beside Reece’s, which they hadn’t put up yet.
Inside the auditorium they used for team meetings as well as tutoring, I sent up a silent prayer that Chris wouldn’t arrive. Signing in with the tutoring monitor, I reminded myself of how much I needed the cash.
“Good luck.” The mentor added, spotting the name of who I’d be working with.
I found a spot and pulled out my supplies, wishing I had some holy water and a crucifix for this session.
Five minutes past our scheduled time, I closed my notebook. The study halls were mandatory for any player on the edge of eligibility due to their GPA, but tutors only had to stay until fifteen minutes past the scheduled start time, if the athletes didn’t show.
Nine minutes after that, I slipped everything back into my bag. This would be the quickest cash I’d made all week.
The door swung open and he sauntered in like he’d stepped into a saloon.
My silent prayer became a not so silent curse, and a couple people glanced in my direction.
I sank lower in my seat and prepared for the pain.
Chris Farrell strolled down the steps, his grin widening when he spotted me.
This was going to be a long hour.
“We’re calculating limits here.” I checked over Chris’s answers to his calc homework.
“Can’t you just do this for me?”
The football player study hall paid better than tutoring at the student center, but it came with drawbacks. Mainly, asshole football players who thought they could be assholes because they could punt, kick, throw or pass a ball. Thankfully, I had no illusions that this only extended to football players, but the volume I interacted with showed me they went one of two ways.
They could be total marshmallows, or absolute d-bags who didn’t understand why ladies weren’t lined up around the block to blow them. The funny thing was, it was often inversely proportional to how good they were on the field.
“If I did it for you, you’d never pass your final exam, which is in…” I checked my imaginary watch. “One week.”
“This is bullshit. What does calculus even matter?” He shoved his papers forward almost knocking them off the desk.
“You signed up for the class, not me. And you missed the add/drop window after warnings from everyone to let you know how close you were to failing the class.”
He grumbled like a three-year-old. “I won’t need any of this shit once I’m drafted.”
From what LJ said, it wasn’t happening. If anything, he needed to knuckle down and study his ass off, so he at least got his degree when his pro goals went up in a puff of smoke.
“I’ll pay you a hundred bucks to take the test for me.”
I glanced up at the team monitor in the auditorium dotted with other players working with their tutors. “Are you trying to get us both in trouble?” I seethed, gripping the edge of my desk. Getting fired or worse, drawing the attention of the coaching staff—like my father—to my low-key tutoring job wasn’t on my list of to-dos before I left for the summer.
“You know all this shit. Have you taken your calc exam already?”
“I’m not taking calc.”
His head jerked back and he stared. “What do you mean you’re not taking calc?”
“I mean I’m not taking calc. I haven’t taken it since high school.”
“Then how the hell are you tutoring me?”
“Why do I need to be enrolled in a class to tutor you? I took it as a senior in high school.” Calc wasn’t easy, but I’d taken it to get a leg up on college admissions. It wasn’t my fault that Chris barely paid attention, never took notes, and didn’t do any of his homework.
“What are you majoring in now?”
“Art history.” I wasn’t going to lay out my course load in analytical chemistry and the chemistry of art, so I could take on preservation as well as curation work.
“Now that we’re finished with the getting to know you portion of our session, can you get back to your problems?”
“You’re not even a math major. No wonder I can’t figure any of this out.”
I squeezed the bridge of my nose. Think of the money. Think of the money and think of Venice. “You can’t figure this out because you’re not paying attention. Let’s go over it again and I’ll do a sample problem for you, so you can see the steps to solve it again.”
“This is bullshit and I’m out of here.” He flipped the notebook sending it crashing to the floor and stormed out. Whelp, at least I’d still get paid for the whole hour.
The tutor monitor called his name, but the door was already slamming shut behind him.
I cleaned up the papers and walked up to the front to sign out for my session.
“Only one week left, right?”
“One week too many.” I scribbled my initials next to my sign-in and left. Instead of heading back to The Brothel, I took a detour to the Franklin Building. My department was tucked in with the history department, but the couches were comfy and worn in and no one was ever there.
Reprints of works by Klimt, Van Gogh, and Monet hung on the walls in ornate frames with their own lighting. The framing probably cost as much as a year’s tuition.
Being here always relaxed me. It was quiet and out of the way, and I could stare at the paintings and imagine what it was like to be the first person to see the finished artwork. Or think about having a chance to preserve them so future generations could appreciate them.