I leaned back in my chair, stretching my legs under the table until my foot almost brushed hers. “Guess we’ll see.”
She didn’t move back. Didn’t flinch. Just opened her notebook, clicked her pen, and said, “Page forty-seven. Let’s start there.”
It wasn’t much, but in my playbook, holding your ground was the first sign you were both in the game.
Chapter 4
Savannah
The path from the arts building to the admin wing was slick from this morning’s rain, the kind of damp Alabama cold that settled in your jacket and refused to leave. My gloves were stuffed in my bag alongside a box cutter and a small hacksaw.
I’d stayed in the studio late after his session. Too late. And still I’d caught myself thinking about the way he talked. I’d learned he was from Ohio, and like many from northern Ohio, he had the same broad non-regional accent that most broadcasters and reporters adopted. Either way, he had too much charm for someone who claimed he didn’t need a tutor.
I’d told myself last night that Dante Spence was going to be just another assignment. With his C-minus in Education Policy and Governance, he was a problem to fix. Nothing more.
I’d almost believed it.
I’d submitted what the Academic Association needed, knowing it was late, knowing that my signature on the bottom of it would stop the potential negative feedback about not submitting in time. That wasn’t my issue to fix. I’d jumped in when they needed me, and I’d do my part to ensure QB10 passed his class.
QB10 — Dante Spence. I’d never spoken to him before last night, but I’d seen glimpses of him at events, academic gatherings, when alumni wanted to mingle with the up-and-comers. He’d always looked composed — fully in control. It was the same last night.
He’d stayed in my head longer than he had a right to, so much so that I’d forgotten my stuff when I locked up the meeting room. This afternoon was my first chance to go get it.
My phone buzzed in my pocket, pulling me back from the mental replay of the easy smile he wore, the twinkle in those ice-blue eyes. The fact that he was just so damn relaxed and laid back went against everything I knew about sportspeople. Weren’t they supposed to be like Road Runner on crack or something? Not Dante. He was so stress-free, the guy was horizontal.
I glanced at my phone. It was my roommate, Bev, telling me she had rehearsals for an upcoming recital and would be out late. The idea of having our dorm apartment to myself tonight made me smile.
I liked Bev, but it was nice knowing I didn’t have to hide my tools while I ate dinner before heading out to my studio. My studio was an out-of-the-way shed that the art department used for storage. Or they used to. I was using it for a project I would never submit. For a class I could never take. Because my dad didn’t approve of my ‘hobby.’
My father would call my work a waste of time. A distraction from therealwork I should be doing. In his world, hobbies were for people with no ambition, and art wasn’t a career. Not for his daughter. If I wanted to keep my freedom, what little scraps I still had — I had to keep this part of myself hidden away, out of sight, even from my roommate.
Art was my passion, and while I knew exactly why my father hated my pursuit of an art degree, I hadn’t expected him to shut downallart electives for me — not quietly, not as policy, butvisibly.
Just the thought of Dad learning about my art shed was bad enough, and I’d do anything to make sure he never did. Because the truth? He would have the shed cleared out in no time, and the professor who allowed me to work here would be saying goodbye to his illustrious career at Wrighton.
My phone buzzed again. Speak of the devil.
I opened my phone and saw the notification:Meeting request: Dean Cole. Time: 4:15 p.m. Location: Office 204.
Great. In true Maxwell Cole style, he’d sent a meeting request with fifteen minutes’ notice.
He usually reserved in-person meetings for academic crises or political maneuvering. We’d spoken enough this week about my liaison work that I couldn’t imagine what else he needed — unless he’d somehow found out about the sculpture project taking over my studio space. Or, worse, the fact that my current star pupil had a jawline that didn’t belong in the same list of students that I was used to assisting.
Dante would have picked his grade up by himself with no support from me, I was sure. He pointed out, in thatwayof his, that he’d played and trained through winter break, and a C-minus on a pop quiz three weeks back into the semester wasn’t enough to push the panic button and call in the tutors.
I refrained from mentioning the fact that I wasn’t sure hehada panic button. Orwhat it would look like if itwerepushed. Did he stand up quicker? Everything about him was just so... languid.
I knew he was quick on the field. I, and every student in Wrighton, hadseenthe man play. But off the field, he was just... not.
I had to stop myself from studyinghimlast night, instead of helping him study. He was strangely fascinating.
I didn’t know what to do with that.
But he was also irritating, cocky, and smug —sosmug. It balanced him out.
By the time I pushed open the heavy glass door to the admin wing, I’d pushed said quarterback from my head and turned my attention to what Dad could want. It was probably nothing. Routine.
It wasn’t.
