Not in time for class, anyway.
Coop’s grin widens. “Sounds like a challenge. What do you think, Reid?”
“I think you should try acting your age instead of your shoe size.”
I snort. “Good luck with that.”
“Parker!” Coach barks my name, and I’m instantly at attention. His playing days might be long gone, but Coach is still intimidating as hell.
“Yes, sir.”
“Am I boring you?” he asks, widening his stance.
“No, sir.” It’s a damn lie and we both know it, which is probably why he presses the issue.
“Then why are you talking during my team meeting?” It’s a rhetorical question and when I don’t answer, he continues. “If you’re so confident about the Idaho game, perhaps you’d like to come up here and address the team?”
Fuck no, I wouldn’t.
“No, sir.”
“Then keep your damn mouth shut when I’m talking,” he finishes, pointing his clipboard at me.
I swear, if they made a Coach action figure, that clipboard would be his accessory. He waves it around week in and week out on the sideline, and it’s become a running joke on the team because it’s featured in The Collegian as often as Coach is.
When he finally wraps up, I haul ass to the locker room and take the world’s fastest shower, ignoring Coop’s ribbing, because yes, of course I washed my balls.
It’s 8:45 when I exit the football building and I don’t have time to wait for a shuttle, so I hoof it across campus. If I hurry, I might still make it to class on time.
Keep telling yourself that, asshole.
Sweat dampens my brow as I jog up the stone steps to the College of Communications, textbooks jabbing me in the kidney every time my backpack shifts.
I quicken my pace as I enter the building, my sneakers silent on the tile floor. The clock in the entry reads 8:59 and the halls are nearly empty because most people are still in bed sleeping off last night’s hangover or have already slipped into their classrooms to grab seats in the back row.
Thanks to Coach, I’m late for my first Advanced Multicamera Production class.
That’s one way to make a first impression.
Yeah, a bad one.
The classroom door is closed when I find it—never a good sign—and I pray Mac Jones isn’t the kind of prof to give you the boot for showing up late. Normally I wouldn’t sweat missing one class, but I only have Comm 383 once a week and if I miss this three-hour lecture, I’m screwed.
I suck in a breath, paste a smile on my face, and open the door.
The classroom is packed and all eyes turn my way as the door clicks shut behind me.
“Welcome to Comm 383, Mr. Parker,” says the middle-aged white dude at the front of the room. He’s got longish brown hair that falls almost to his shoulders and the top button on his dress shirt is open, giving him a chill vibe most profs can only hope to achieve. “Ready for Idaho?”
He’s not going to give me shit for being late? Mac Jones’ cool factor just doubled.
“Yes, sir. Coach Collins has been working us hard to prepare.” I flash him an apologetic smile. “Sorry for being late. It won’t happen again.”
“Call me Mac.” He turns to the class. “That goes for everyone.”
He resumes his introduction as I scan the auditorium for an empty seat.
There’s only one. In the third row. Next to Sutton.
