“Exactly.” He shrugs. “It’s a classic.”
True, but if we weren’t sleeping together, would he have made the same choice? I’m not sure I want to know the answer and the realization leaves a bitter taste in my mouth.
It shouldn’t matter.
But it does.
35
PARKER
Despite the nearmiss with the microphones, Sutton and I killed the sound portion of the mock broadcast. Mac only had good things to say about our prep, and to his credit, he even noticed the clusterfuck that was the cables when we arrived in the studio.
Maybe that’s because he was the culprit.
My gaze slides to the main stage, where he stands behind the anchor desk, congratulating today’s hosts. Could Mac have been the one to screw with the mics and tangle the cords? Maybe it was a test to see if we’re prepared for the realities of studio work.
If so, we passed with flying colors.
Sutton and I make a good team. There’s no denying it.
Beside me, Sutton shifts her weight.
She’s wound tighter than a spring today. Not that I blame her. Every week, every project, brings us one step closer to the Sports Stream internship.
I sling an arm around her shoulders, wrapping her in a tight embrace. She fits perfectly, as if the spot at my side was carved for her alone. “Nice work today, Shorty.”
“Thanks. You too.”
Her words are clipped and while a bystander might think she’s annoyed, I know her well enough now to recognize she’s in the zone. Most likely thinking about our term paper. Which is probably the only reason she doesn’t shrug me off given we have an audience.
No one’s paying attention to us, though.
Like Sutton, most of our classmates are watching Mac or the clock, doing a piss-poor job concealing the restless energy that has them in a stranglehold.
It’s nearly eleven, and he still has to hand back the term papers before dismissing us.
On a good day, eleven o’clock means a chaotic mass exodus, everyone eager to get an early start on the weekend.
On the Friday before a holiday break? It’s likely to be a stampede.
“Good work today, everyone!” Mac raises a hand, gesturing for silence. “As promised, I’ve got term papers to hand back before we break for the holiday. If one member of each group could come forward when I call your names, I can get you out of here on time.”
Sutton tenses and I lower my mouth to her ear as he begins calling names. “Why don’t you grab our paper, Shorty?”
She nods, and when her eyes meet mine, they’re brimming with gratitude.
Did she really think I’d make her wait one second longer than necessary to see our grade?
Not a chance.
Mac calls off names in quick succession and our classmates dart forward to collect their papers.
“Cruz and Parker!” Mac calls, lifting our paper in the air.
It’s folded to protect our privacy, but it’s still a weird experience, reminiscent of high school. Most profs would’ve entered the grades directly into WildcatPATH, the system used to record all student information, but Mac isn’t like other profs, probably because he’s not actually an academic at heart. He’s a broadcaster first, a teacher second.
It’s one of the things that makes him so effective.
