His question fuels my anger. I want to scream, to break everything in this room, but I'm forced to control myself. My father holds my life in his hands, and he knows it. That's precisely why I'm forced to waste time in college.
"It's going," I comment soberly. “I know you at least heard about me starting.”
A silence stretches between us, and I finally glance at Bolton. Sunk into his chair, he stares at me without expressing the slightest emotion, but I've learned to be wary of still waters because there are always undercurrents threatening to drag me into their depths.
Memories try to resurface, but I push them back forcefully. I hate who I become when I'm facing my father. I feel like I'm that terrified little boy again.
Bolton eventually nods as if answering a question only he heard, then he stands up. His silhouette doesn't intimidate me as much now that I'm taller and more built than him, but an unpleasant shiver runs down my spine.
He walks around his desk before approaching me. I have to make a huge effort not to back away. It's absolutely out of the question for me to show any sign of weakness in front of him.
His gaze locks with mine, and with all the coldness he can muster, he declares, "You will go to class, and you will succeed in your studies. And next year, you will be the full-time starting quarterback."
I'm not mistaken, this is neither advice nor an order, but a threat. And he doesn't even need to specify his underlying thought because I clearly get it, if I don't get my degree and make the Boardman name even more influential, I'm finished.
"I've invested a lot of money in you," Bolton continues, "and it's an investment I fully intend to make profitable."
He has the attitude of the Wall Street wolf he's always been, and I'm the lamb he intends to devour. My teeth almostgrind and my fists start to ache from clenching them so hard. Part of me wants to escape this cursed place, while the other part wishes to end things with Bolton once and for all. But I'm not a criminal, at least not that kind, so nothing happens at all.
"I advise you to enjoy the few years you have ahead of you at the university," he adds.
The sentence has just been handed down again, and it hasn't changed—no probation period granted, no release for good behavior either. I know what I have to do, and this prospect doesn't excite me at all.
Without paying me any more attention, Bolton heads for the door. He doesn't bother to say goodbye or give me another glance; he simply ignores me completely.
The meeting is over.
To saythat my mood is foul would be a mild understatement, and by the time I get back to OMU, I'm about to lose it. Unfortunately for me, night fell long ago, and I can't take out my frustration on the field, though some good hard tackles would have been ideal to calm me down a bit.
The first thing I see when I enter the common room is stuff scattered across the table. I don't need to get closer to know they belong to Alabama. For some reason I can't fathom, she's made a habit of studying here when she has a perfectly fine room, or the library, or a hundred other places.
I take a few more steps before stopping short. Alabama is stretched out on the couch. Covered by her throw blanket pulled up to her chin, she's fast asleep. Seeing her lying there should infuriate me because we all have beds, and not without reason, but I feel my anger deflating like a soufflé.
Without even realizing it, I move closer to get a betterlook at her. Her face is completely relaxed, her lips slightly parted, a dark strand of hair crossing her cheek.
What is she wearing?This incongruous question pops into my head and starts running on loop. The memory of her tank top that barely hides her breasts comes back to me, so tempting, so arousing. My hand moves of its own accord and, with my fingertips, I pull back the blanket. The bare skin of her shoulder appears. How would she react if I woke her by caressing her breasts?
Shit!I'm spiraling again. This girl isn't for me; besides, I don't even like her. She's too naive, too young, too...
I don't know if Alabama feels the temperature change or my presence near her, but her eyelids flutter. Her gaze finds mine before her eyebrows shoot up in surprise.
We don't exchange a word, and I remain motionless above her. Her brown eyes probe mine as if trying to figure out why I'm there. To be honest, I'm wondering the same thing. Alabama gives me a small smile that brings me back to my senses. She better not imagine that I'm checking her out or something like that. She opens her mouth to speak, but I beat her to it. "You haven't grasped the concept of dorm live yet, Alabama. You have a bedroom and a bed for sleeping, and even a desk for studying. You're not supposed to camp out in the common room!"
She blinks several times before sitting up. The blanket slides around her, revealing that infamous tank top. I look her up and down shamelessly and notice her nipples are hard. Alabama blushes, but she doesn't cover herself.
"You're hardly ever here, so what does it matter to you?" she retorts.
"There are rules when you live with people."
Alabama snickers before replying, "You're the one saying that? Seriously?"
I stare her down without answering.
"Well, you can go to bed now," she adds.
I don't move, and a questioning look crosses Alabama's face. "What now? Are you the sleep police?"
"Why aren't you sleeping in your bed?"
