“Like biology majors who need to take a lab and a lecture, our economics students do the same. However, the looks of our lab are a little different.”
He grabs a pile of papers off his desk and hands them to the students closest to him to pass back in their row.
“No matter what your career path is after you graduate, you’re here because you need to be. This isn’t a class you’re taking for shits and giggles; this class could determine whether or not you graduate. And I don’t care who you are—”
The door flings open, slamming into the wall, as everyone turns to see the person walking into the class almost ten minutes late.
Why am I not surprised?
Out of everyone, the world justhadto throw Declan Sanderson at me.
I would’ve assumed they had difficulty finding the classroom if it was anyone else, but that’s not the case. Declan probably wondered if this class was worth getting out of bed for but then decided he shouldgraceus with his presence.
As he walks to the closest open seat, about three rows away from the very front, every girl in the class follows him with their eyes. I can practically see the drool spilling from their mouths.
It’s disgusting.
“Ah, Mr. Sanderson,” our teacher tosses Declan one of the thick packets he was just handing out, “thank you for gracing us with your presence.”
He returns to his desk and rests on the edge, “And you couldn’t have arrived at a better time. I was just telling the class about the lack ofspecialtreatment I give to my students. I don’t care if your practice runs late. Hell, I don’t care if you were saving a goddamn kitten from a tree. My class starts at nine-thirty, so I expect you to be seated at nine-thirty.”
“Got it.” Declan glances at him, then directs his attention back to the paper.
I’ve had the great pleasure of knowing Declan Sanderson for most of my life, and I can thank my brother for that. But I’ve been lucky enough to avoid having classes with him until now.
“At nine-thirty, that door will be locked from this point forward. If you’re not in this classroom, you’re absent. There’ll be no making up assignments unless you have contacted me personally, and I feel your reason is valid.” He walks around the room, making eye contact with everyone. “And please know, I’m not stupid. Remember that when coming up with your excuses for not being in class.”
I’ve heard about Mr. Randsen being strict, but I’m hopeful he might be one of the few teachers who doesn’t let Declan pass just because of who he is on the ice. Most professors on this campus would never even consider failing one of our hot-shot hockey players; after all, they’re the ones who put this college on the map. Failing them would be blasphemy.
The hockey players could break the law, and our Dean would look the other way.
He stops in front of Declan’s row and looks right at him. “Understood?” He receives a universal nod and then returns to the whiteboard. “Then let’s get started.”
Mr. Randsen picks up one of the remaining packets off his desk and quickly starts reviewing the information. Which is nothing new from what I’ve seen as a college student. Grading, late work, extra credit, missing class, the basic and boring list goes on and on.
“Any questions on what I’ve covered in the syllabus?”
The room is silent. Probably, because, like I said, this isn’t new information for anyone in this room.
“Alright, now let’s move on to groups.”
Groups?
My throat feels like sandpaper. I knew Mr. Randsen was a hardass. Everyrate your teacherI read about him said he gives no shits what you’re going through; all he cares about is submitted assignments. But it also mentioned that the class doesn’t require group work… or at least didn’t.
“Groups?” Someone takes the question right out of my mouth.
“Yes, groups,” he says, turning back to us. “We’re a professor down this semester in the Economics department, which means our class sizes are larger than typical. We don’t have the time for you guys to each present your projects next semester, which means teaming up to complete them in a fraction of the time.”
Just my fucking luck. The yearItake this class, they have to switch things up.
“Before you get any ideas, I have a list of partners already put together.” He grabs a sheet from his desk and examines it carefully. “We were supposed to have fourteen groups of three, but we’ve already had a student drop the class. So, one of the groups will only have two students.”
I sigh, waiting to hear my name off the list. I tap my pencil against my notebook as he rattles off the students' last names. Even though I hate working with other students, the fact that he’s picking the groups is a weight off my shoulders. Because there’s only one thing I hate more than working in a group: being the last person chosen because no one wants to work with you.
“Williamson, Martin, and Stevens. Miller, Rivera, and Clarke. Diaz, Lewis, and Rutter.”
I count the number of groups in my head.Ten, eleven, twelve. And as we get to the last groups, the realization of who’s left hits me in a wave. I sit up, my pen tapping at a more rapid pace.
