Total pages in book: 144
Estimated words: 136296 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 681(@200wpm)___ 545(@250wpm)___ 454(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 136296 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 681(@200wpm)___ 545(@250wpm)___ 454(@300wpm)
It’s nearly eleven by the time we get home. Kody disappears upstairs to Lavender’s room.
I mentally berate myself for paying my professor’s dinner tab, like I’m trying to buy my way out of my previous fuckup, as I sit down at my desk and pull up my school email. I’ve been obsessive about checking it, hoping for a revised grade on my paper.
I scroll past a couple from my coach about training and practices, and my mouth goes dry when I see one from Professor C. Sweet. Her TA is cc’d, and it was sent four hours ago. Before dinner at Eddie’s.
Dear Maverick,
Based on the resubmission of your assignment, your grade has been updated. There is a twenty percent penalty for late work, as outlined in the class syllabus. Please ensure that you include all components prior to the deadline on future assignments to avoid such penalties. Your revised grade is attached.
Please feel free to email me with any concerns or questions.
Best,
Professor Sweet
I check the comments. I managed to get a seventy-two, even with the penalty and my crappy grammar. It looks like it was marked by the TA again, based on the comments in the margins. I read through the email twice more, searching for a hidden meaning or some kind of . . . sign, maybe? Does this mean she’s not going to report me to anyone other than the athletics facility manager? That she believed me when I told her I was sorry? I don’t even know if she named me or not.
I debate sending her a reply to tell her I’ve just seen this now, but I’m not sure if that’s going to make the situation worse or better. So I leave it.
Two nights later, I arrive to class early. Today we’re talking about story structure, which is something I admittedly know very little about. My older brother, Robbie, always had a book in his hand, where I generally had a hockey stick.
At the end of class, I take my time packing up my stuff, and as expected, Sandy-Suzy asks if I’m going to the bar.
When I say no, her right foot rotates back and forth, and she does that ponytail twist thing, exactly like my cousins do. “Maybe you want to get coffee instead?”
The awkwardness of being asked out by one of my peers is magnified by the fact that it’s happening in front of someone I’ve slept with, and made that much worse since she’s my professor—whose good side I’m trying to get back on.
“It’s cool of you to offer, but I’ve got a lot of stuff going on, and I need to keep my focus on school and hockey this year.”
“Right. Yeah. Of course. That makes sense.” Her expression screams dejection, and I hate that I’ve made her feel like that. “I’ll see you next week.” She rushes for the door and ducks out of class.
I shoulder my bag and push out of my chair. Professor Sweet glances around the room, maybe realizing we’re the last two people here.
She crosses her arms. “What exactly were you trying to accomplish at Eddie’s?”
I take a step back. “It was me trying to apologize for my thoughtlessness, but I didn’t see how it could have been taken differently until after I left the restaurant. And I didn’t see the revised grade until I got home, which is when I realized how shady that probably looked to you.”
She stares at me for a few long seconds, saying nothing. Her throat bobs with a swallow, and she tips her chin up, looking down her nose at me. “You’re no longer failing the course, but there’s still one more independent assignment and the exam, so I wouldn’t suggest using your athletics involvement as an excuse to shirk your educational responsibilities again.”
“I won’t.” I tuck a hand in my pocket. “I’m not trying to be a pain in your ass, but, uh . . . Are you planning to report me to anyone else?”
She mutters under her breath before her gaze shifts my way—not to me, exactly, but in my direction. “Can you just be grateful I didn’t name you and leave it alone?”
Well, that answers that question. “I am grateful. I just . . . Thank you.”
She lifts her ancient bag. “Do not make me regret this decision. I didn’t do this because you’re on a sports team, or because of your family or their influence. Or because of what happened before. I did it because I see potential that’s being wasted, and I did not want to be the person to derail your future. I’m hopeful the lesson has been learned and the behavior won’t be repeated. Ever again.”
“It won’t. I swear.”
She nods. “I’ll see you next week.” She turns and stalks out of the classroom.
I should be glad this semester is almost over, but for some reason, the closer I get to the end, the less I want it to get here.