Rhythmic knocking hasme snapping my head up from my lesson plans, and narrowing my eyes at whoever thinks it’s smart to interrupt me.
Zander Braithe, the quarterback for the school’s football team, and his best friend, Russell Washington stand at my door, looking a little stressed.
Dammit. If it were anyone else, I would have told them to fuck off and not given a fuck if they cried about it or not. But Zander has been coming to chat with me about football for the past three years, ever since he found out I played for Evergreen many moons ago. I could tell them to fuck off, but I doubt they’d listen.
Besides, Zander is only asking for help to secure his future. I asked my professors for the same as a student. If any had told me to go away, I probably wouldn’t be where I am now.
Sitting back, I wave them inside with a weary sigh. “Gentlemen.”
A smile spreads across Zander’s face, though he eyes my office warily, like one of my many books will reach out and bite him. “Professor. How’s it going?”
“It’s going, Mr. Braithe. How can I help you?”
After doing one more sweep of my messy office, he meets my gaze and his smile grows. “Did you see our game last week?”
I nod and interlock my fingers behind my head, and lean back in my chair. “I did. You both did really well. Though I’m sure you didn’t come all the way to my office to have your egos stroked.”
He barks a quick laugh. “Nah, nothin’ like that.”
Russ says, “We got game tape and were wondering if you could look it over with us? Their defense is super fucking good and we need some help readin’ the field.”
After they found out I played for Evergreen and saw my record, their initial question was why didn’t I go pro? I could have; many teams asked if I’d thought about entering the draft. But I never wanted to play professionally. I only played football in high school so I could get a scholarship and leave my podunk town. Playing in the pros held no appeal for me.
But I was one of the best when I played, and the students who caught wind of that liked to come and ask for pointers, especially Mr. Braithe. I do miss talking football, so I don’t mind when they come over and ask me for help.
Zander and Russ move papers and books from the chairs in front of my desk and have a seat. Russ pulls out his phone, presses on the screen a few times, then slides it onto my desk. “It’s a defensive play in the footage, but they tried the same shit—I mean stuff—on offense too. Tell us what you think.”
I grab his phone and check out the footage. It’s not a bad play. It could use some work, but if I can help them tweak it, it could be a secret for their D-line.
Once I’ve finished watching, I give the two my ideas. We go over a few different plays, and I end up drawing up a few they can take back to their defensive line coach.
Zander looks over the plays and nods with his usual smile. “Thanks, Professor. Coach might bitch about us coming to you about it, but he’ll use this.”
“No hard feelings if he doesn’t,” I say, standing to shake their outstretched hands.
“Coach is a lot of things, but he’s not an idiot. If this works how I think it will, he’ll add it to his arsenal,” Russ says, fist bumping Zander. “We’re going to crush those fuckers next time we play them.”
They take their leave just as a fellow professor raps her knuckles on my door.
Before I can even wave her in, she steps inside with a frown. “You need a new TA,” Professor Crista Hines, my best—and probably only—friend says. “Look at this place.” She motions to my desk where Zander and Russ stashed the playbooks and printed assignments for grading, and at the general untidiness of my office.
I glare at her as I take a seat back in front of my computer. “I don’t need a TA.”
She scoffs, moves papers from the corner of my desk to plop on my keyboard, and perches on the edge. “You do. Thomas left almost two weeks ago and you’ve been drowning since then. Again, look at this place. I’ve never seen your office look so… messy.”
A growl tries to percolate up my throat, but I tamp it down, though I’m pretty pissed.
My TA, Thomas Olsen, decided the middle of the semester was the best time to leave with no fucking notice. The last two appointed TAs who tried to fill his spot left in tears, unable to handle my instructions.
I desire perfection and nothing less will do. Thomas was the only TA I’d had for more than a few weeks, but he’s gone andnow I’ll have to train someone else to do what the fuck I want properly.
“I don’t need a TA,” I grumble again. “I can handle it.”
“Yeah, I can tell.” She makes a show of pushing more papers aside on my desk so she has more room to sit.
“Why are you here?” I ask, not kindly.
Crista brushes me off, unaffected by my attitude. “I was just walking past and saw this mess. It’s not like you. Are you stressed?”
