“Ah, yeah, we know.” An eye roll of exasperation followed by another searching look. “So? Is Luck gonna buckle down now?”
“How’s he feeling physically?”
“More like mentally.” Dwight/Dwayne mocks a chicken, arms flapping.
I glare at him, but don’t answer.
“He’s not gonna do shit. First picks always fizzle out,” says a guy at the window with a small sneer.
“No, that’s what the ladies say about you,” Brian—it’s totally Brian!—snaps back.
“Not what your mamma said last night.”
“Boys.” A cute blonde, way more likely to be dating a star quarterback, scoffs at them then leans toward me with wide eyes. “God, August Luck! I can’t believe you... I mean, is he, like...” She makes a rolling motion with her hand. “You know? Is he?”
I have no earthly idea what the hell she’s talking about. Surely, she’s not asking me about...?
“I mean those eyes! That body just... slaps.” She sighs expansively. “He must betranscendent.”
I guess she is. My face flames. I’m part horrified and part outraged.
Thankfully, I don’t have to answer. The professor enters, saving me from further questioning. I like Professor Jackson. He’s always been professional and informative. Dressed in a rumpled brown suit and an argyle sweater vest, he plays the part well.
Rubbing his mop of gray hair, the professor sets down his leather bag, adjusts his wire rim glasses, and immediately starts class. I fall into the familiar comfort of reading lists, expectations, and upcoming assignments. And if the other students keep glancing back at me? I can handle it.
I’m fairly certain the blonde—who I learn via roll call is Jessica—has been texting her friend about me the entire lecture. Her thumbs are tapping away like mad, only paused by intermittent looks my way. Our gazes clash at one point, and she flashes a quick apologetic smile before going back to her phone.
It’s fine. Icanhandle this.
Class ends, and I tuck away my writing pad. Call it old-fashioned, but if I don’t physically write notes down, I forget them as soon as I’m done. I’ll go back and type them into my laptop, which adds an extra layer of memorization.
As I pass Jackson’s desk, he stops me.
“A word, Ms. Morrow.”
I halt, perplexed. Out of everyone today, I know I actually paid attention.
The chair Professor Jackson sits on creaks as he leans back and surveys me with a stern expression. “Are we going to have a problem here?”
“A problem?” My heart thuds hard and fast within my chest.
Jackson pulls off his glasses and rubs the bridge of his nose before setting them back on. “Is Mr. Luck going to be a problem?”
“You mean is he going to pop up in class and offer to sign autographs?”
Watery blue eyes narrow in warning. “Don’t get smarmy with me, Ms. Morrow.”
Heat races over my skin and pulls it tight. My mouth goes dry. I hate confrontation. But, on the heels of that comes another thought. How dare he? Drawing in a sharp breath, I steel my spine.
“I was aiming for baffled, Professor Jackson. Because I truly am.”
“I fail to see how, when your mere presence disrupted the entire class.”
“I would say the entire class has a concentration problem, given that I didn’t utter a word during the lecture.”
“You know perfectly well it’s your connection to Mr. Luck that has them distracted.”
“With respect, Professor, this is UCLA. We’ve had Oscar-winning guest lectures, legends of film. Most of us have interned at studios and interacted with huge stars.” Well, at leastseenthem walk past. But still.
