On a Tuesday

by Whitney G.

  Our offensive coordinator stepped into the room and began passing out his personal critiques from this morning’s practice drills. When he handed me mine, I flipped it over expecting to see tips on how I could improve, but there were only three words: You were perfect.

  “I need you all to be focused and I need you all to be sharp,” Coach continued. “I know a lot of you are seniors and you’re trying to enjoy the last of your so-called glory days before you graduate or pursue other things. I also know that some of you need to be reminded that certain activities don’t ever need to come before football, and that there’s a time and place for everything.” He stepped directly in front of Kyle and glared at him.

  “Is there something you’re trying to imply right now, Coach?” Kyle smiled. “You can’t assume that I’ll always catch your not-so-subtle messages.”

  “You’re lucky you’re so goddamn talented, son,” Coach stepped away from him and walked to the other side of the room.

  “We need you all to look at our comments on your morning performances and take them very seriously,” Coach said. “For those of you who scored a four or less on the conditioning regimen, you can head out to the field now to see if you can impress me and get into the seven range. The rest of you, I’ll see you on the field in an hour!”

  There were a few groans, but he ignored them, as usual.

  “Can I talk to you for a minute, Connors?” He motioned for me to follow him into the hallway.

  “Sure.”

  He waited until he was sure no one was following us. “So, look. I know what happened this summer was painful and difficult, but I want you to know that I never, for one second—”

  “Can we not talk about it?” I interrupted him. The sooner I could erase it from my memory, the better.

  “Oh, thank fuck.” He let out a breath and crossed something off his clipboard. “Check on Grayson Connors’ emotional well-being and try to sound like a parent instead of a coach. Glad we’re all done with that.”

  “Is that all you wanted with me, Coach?”

  “Not so fast.” He shook his head. “I received an email from the registrar this morning. Something about you missing some core credits you need to graduate, I think. Or maybe it was about you having a low GPA.”

  “That’s impossible,” I said. “I have all A’s.”

  “Really? With what I’ve heard about your reputation, when do you find the time to study?”

  I gave him a blank stare.

  “I mean, I’m very impressed to hear that. Good for you, son.” He cleared his throat. “You’re excused from practice this afternoon so you can talk to your advisor. Go get that sorted ASAP, will you? And if you need any more emotional support from me about any lingering feelings you have from the summer—” He paused. Then he shrugged and returned to the locker room, not even bothering to finish that sentence.

  Thankful that he’d dropped it, I grabbed my bag and left the practice facility, taking a shuttle back to campus. I’d known all along that my avoidance of Literature classes would eventually catch up to me, but I thought it could’ve waited until the spring semester instead of this one.

  I walked into the Cathedral of Learning and took the elevator up to the Honors College, knocking on my advisor’s door.

  “Come in,” a soft voice said. “The door’s open.”

  “Hey.” I stepped inside and crossed my arms. The woman behind the desk was not my advisor. She was his secretary and ever since my freshman year, she’d made it more than clear that she hated me because she thought I was ‘taking up someone else’s deserving spot’ in the Honors College.

  “Where’s Mr. Henderson?” I asked.

  “Well, hello to you, too, Mr. Connors.” She pursed her lips. “Good to see you in person for a change.”

  “Where’s Mr. Henderson?” I repeated. I could feel contempt rolling off her in waves and I didn’t have time for her bullshit today.

  “He went down to the English Department to meet with someone.” She motioned for me to take a seat. “Is there anything I can help you with?”

  “I’ll wait for him to get back.”

  “Oh, come on,” she said, motioning for me to take a seat. “I can totally help you. I’ll be nice.”

  “Fine.” I remained standing. “I’m missing some Literature credits, but first I want to make sure that I’m on track to graduate on time.”

  “You waited all the way until your senior year to check on that?”

  “I’ve been busy winning championships.”

  She ignored my comment and tapped away at her keyboard. “Well, let’s have a look. This can’t be right, can it?” She squinted at the screen. “Your grades are so not what I was expecting.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “Nothing, I’m just—Wow.” She was staring at the screen in disbelief. “There’s nothing but A’s here. Not a single C or D, and you've made Dean's list repeatedly. What exactly is your worry?”

  “I purposely put off all the Literature requirements until now, and the system finally caught it. I need to find a way to do some type of alternative.”

  “Ah.” She started typing again. “Well, that’s a big problem. There are no alternatives allowed for Literature—especially for someone who wants to earn a minor in English Writing. You’ll need to take three advanced lit courses per term to catch up, and the easiest ones are on the freshman and sophomore level so they wouldn’t count towards your graduation anyway.”

  “Is there any good news?”

  “I could pair you with a peer tutor, if you like.”

  I groaned at the thought. We had plenty of peer tutors at our mandatory team study halls and except for a few, most of them were more interested in hooking up with me and my teammates than helping us with our studies. If it weren't for the fact that I’d made my mom a promise about keeping all A’s in college, I wouldn’t have even bothered trying to fix this.

  “Are you sure there aren’t any alternative courses?” I asked. “Maybe I could talk to the dean?”

  “Now, Grayson, I think he’s pulled his fair share of favors for you, don’t you think? I know there’s no way you got these grades in honors classes and played football. I heard about the mess he got you out of this summer. Come on now.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Oh, I’m so sorry.” Her cheeks turned bright red. “That didn’t come out the right way. I can schedule a meeting with the dean, if you like. What day works best for you?”

  “That’s okay.” I gritted my teeth. “I’ll get a tutor on my own.”

  I heard her calling after me as I turned away, but I didn’t look back. I slammed the door on my way out of the office and headed down to the fifth floor to find my real advisor.

  I shook off whatever the hell her “his share of favors” implied and walked right through the doors of the English Department.

  “Well, hello there!” Mr. Henderson waved at me from the copy machine. “Nice to see you, Mr. Connors!”

  “Nice to see you, too.”

  “I was on my way back to my office, but I guess I was taking too long.” He laughed and picked up his papers. “I didn’t get the chance to tell you personally last year, but congratulations on winning the Heisman Trophy.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Just so you know, me and my son are huge fans and we’re crossing our fingers that you’ll make history with a fourth championship this year. No pressure, though.” He walked over to me. “What can I do for you today?”

  “I need to be placed into three advanced literature classes this fall,” I said, then I hesitated. “I also think I need a private peer tutor.”

  “Not a problem.” He snapped his fingers. “I actually have a person in need of someone to tutor, so you’re in luck. Let’s pull you up in the system first, and then we’ll call the registrar to make sure everything lines up. You won’t mind having a female tutor, will you?”

  “No.” I tried not to smile. “Not at al
l.”

  CHARLOTTE: THEN

  Seven years ago

  Pittsburgh

  I GLANCED OUTSIDE THE massive windows of Highland Coffee and tapped my watch. The girl I was assigned to tutor was now fifteen minutes late, and I was wondering if I should've picked a coffee shop that was easier to find. I'd looked her up in the student directory earlier and noticed that she was an honors student, so I figured these tutoring sessions wouldn't take up much of my time this semester.

  A girl with raven black hair suddenly rushed into the café and headed toward me, but she made an abrupt left and joined the guy across from me instead.

  I knew I should’ve suggested Starbucks.

  I looked outside the windows again and noticed Grayson Connors crossing the street. Looking devastatingly sexy as usual, he was wearing a light blue shirt that clung to his muscles in all the right places and dark jeans that hung low enough to expose his body’s perfect V line.

  Looking confused, he looked up at the sign above the cafe before pushing the door open. He walked over to the counter and every girl in the room followed his every step, as if he was a living, breathing God.

  “I’m rooting for championship number four this season, Grayson!” Someone yelled. “Congratulations on your Heisman!” someone else said. “Go, Panthers! Go!” A table of friends near the back shouted.

  Ugh.

  He walked over to each of the people who’d sold their souls and said, “I appreciate your support.” When he walked by my table, I picked up my headphones.

  “Are you Charlotte Taylor?” he asked, his voice deep.

  What? “Um. What did you just say?”

  “Charlotte Taylor,” he said, pointing to his phone. “I'm supposed to meet my tutor here, unless there's another Highland Coffee around somewhere. So, are you Charlotte Taylor?”

  “I’m not sure yet.”

  “Your necklace says Charlotte.” He glanced at it, smirking. “Are you sure now?”

  “No.” My mind was blown. There was no way he was assigned to me for this semester. “My advisor would know better than to do this to me.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “It means that the university must have made a mistake.” I pulled out my phone to check my email, making damn sure I’d read my advisor’s pairing as “Elizabeth Woods, English Writing” and not Grayson Connors.

  The second I opened my inbox, I saw that my advisor had sent me an email half an hour earlier.

  Subject: Peer Assignment Error

  Good afternoon, Charlotte,

  Just letting you know that your previous pairing, Elizabeth Woods, was made in error. She was supposed to be paired with a biochemistry major.

  I’ve now paired you with Grayson Connors since he'll need help with his final Advanced Literature courses. (Make sure he gets an A. We need him to win off the field, too! :) )

  —Charles

  I resisted the urge to scream and set down my phone. I looked up at Grayson and noticed he was staring at me intently.

  “Yes,” I said. “Unfortunately, my name is Charlotte Taylor.”

  “I'd already assumed that.” He set down his bag. “I’m wondering why I’ve never seen you around before.”

  “Probably because there are over twenty thousand students on this campus.”

  “You’ve seen me before, haven’t you?”

  “Not at all,” I said. “What’s your name?”

  “Funny.” He sat down and looked around the cafe. “Is this where you want me to meet you on Tuesdays?”

  I nodded. “Is that going to be a problem for you?”

  “Not at all.” He smiled. “I think Tuesdays are going to be my new favorite day of the week.”

  I bit my tongue to prevent myself from cursing my advisor again.

  “You know, I don't think you're going to be a good tutor for me, if you're going to be this hostile each time we meet.” Grayson looked amused. “Have I done something to you previously?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Explain it to me.”

  “Well, for one, you’re full of yourself, cocky, and you tend to play women like pawns on a chessboard. That, and I’m pretty sure that you think you're God’s gift to women. So, yes. You have offended me previously. Now, which Literature courses are you taking this semester?”

  “Not so fast,” he said, locking his blue eyes onto mine. “I think I deserve a chance to respond to that.”

  I tried to think of something sarcastic to say and beat him to it, but he continued before I could speak.

  “First of all," he said, “I am full of myself, but I have every reason to be.” He pointed to the bright blue and gold championship banners that were hanging above the bar. “I’ve earned this university one of those every year and I believe I won the Heisman Trophy last year, correct?”

  “I wouldn’t know.”

  “You would.” He leaned closer. “Second of all, I’m not sure I’d agree with me being 'cocky' but if your definition means that I’m well aware of how fucking good I am—both on and off the field—” He paused, looking me up and down. “Then feel free to call me that whenever you want.”

  “You know what?” I felt my cheeks betraying me with a blush. “Let’s just get to work.”

  “Third of all,” he continued, ignoring me. “I’m not even sure what type of metaphor you were going for with that chessboard line, but I’ve never used girls like pawns on a chessboard. I've just never believed in dating or girlfriends, and I make it perfectly clear what someone is getting when they're with me.”

  “How romantic.”

  “And lastly,” he said, as that familiar smirk returned to his lips. “I don’t think I’m God’s gift to women. I know that for a fact.”

  “Please tell me you’re joking right now.”

  “We both know I’m not.” He winked at me, and I was certain I was having an out of body experience, because I felt my cheeks reddening again.

  “Anyway,” I said, finally. “Which Literature courses are you taking this semester?”

  "As of today, these." He handed me a printout of his schedule and I looked at it. He had Creative Writing Appreciation, Modern Expressionism: Women’s Words in Post-Modern Literature, & Hidden Feminist Themes in Contemporary Works.

  So he’s a feminist? Perfect.

  “Okay, well ...” I uncapped my highlighter. “If you give me ten minutes, I can go over what I think our best course of action will be between now and next week.”

  “What year are you?” he asked.

  I ignored his question, looking up his first course and pulling up the syllabus online. I was scrolling through the required books, when he pushed the screen of my laptop forward—forcing me to look up at him.

  “Yes?”

  “What year are you?” he repeated.

  “I’m a senior,” I said. “Why?”

  “No reason.” He returned my screen to its place and leaned back in his seat.

  I tried my best to ignore the fact that he was eyeing my every move, that his smile was even more alluring up close. I pulled up all three of his course syllabi—making sure that no major components were due during the next few weeks.

  “Okay,” I said, handing his schedule back to him. “Next week, you need to make sure you’ve bought all the required books and read the first of three essays for the Creative Writing Appreciation course. The other two courses can’t be addressed until you have the books. Do you have any questions for me?”

  “Several.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “When did you transfer to Pitt?” He looked genuinely confused. “There’s no way you’ve been here since your freshman year.”

  “I was referring to questions about your courses. Those are the only questions I’m obligated to answer, Mr. Connors.”

  “I see, Miss Taylor.” He smiled as if he wasn’t fazed by my rudeness at all. “So, the only thing I need to do between today and next Tuesday is buy the course books
?”

  “Yes.”

  “And we’re meeting here at the exact same time?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can I have your phone number?”

  “Never.”

  He laughed and stood to his feet. “Okay, Charlotte. I’ll see you on Tuesday.”

  “See you on Tuesday.”

  HOURS LATER, I RUSHED down Forbes Avenue as my skirt fluttered against the wind. Thanks to the freshman who’d taken it upon herself to “accidentally” ring the fire alarm in our dorm, I’d spent the last two hours filling out paperwork with an angry fire chief, and I was now five minutes late for my date.

  A hot Californian guy from my Humanities class, Peter Davidson was everything that most guys at this university weren’t: Kind, thoughtful, compassionate, and capable of having long and thought-provoking conversations.

  I stopped in front of Kiva Han and smoothed my hair before walking inside. I looked around for Peter and spotted him waiting in a corner booth.

  “Sorry I’m late,” I said, sitting down. “Freshman dorm drama.”

  “No worries.” He slid a cup of coffee toward me. “You look pretty today.”

  “Thank you. Were we still going to the art gallery tonight?”

  “No, actually,” he said, pulling out two silver tickets from his wallet. “I got us last minute tickets to tonight’s football bonfire.”

  “The bonfire was yesterday.”

  “This is the unofficial one that’s hosted by the team, off campus.”

  “Is that even legal?”

  "No." He laughed. "It'll probably get shut down like all their other parties, but I figured we can go to my place afterward since it’s right down the street.”

  “Okay. So, we can go to the art gallery this weekend, then?”

  “Um. Well, I guess it depends on how tonight goes.”

  “Are you planning to grade me on how loudly I cheer for the team?” I smiled. “If that’s the case, you can go ahead and give me an ‘F’ because that’s not happening.”

  “No.” He laughed. “It’s regarding something else happening.”