He claps his hands and pulls me in for a hug. “Perfect.” He grabs a frozen yogurt bar and two bottles of water. We scan our IDs at the register and head back to the table.
Not surprisingly, Izzy is happy to talk about her role in SPU’s upcoming production of Camelot.
“What role are you going for?” I ask, confident that I know the answer.
“Guinevere.” She smiles and blushes at her own ambition.
“Of course you’ll get it,” Pink scrunchy girl says and pats her friend’s hand. “You always get the leading role. You’re so good. I can’t wait until you’re rich and famous and I can say I knew her when.”
“I can’t wait to try on the period costumes,” Izzy says.
“Wouldn’t Jack make the perfect Sir Lancelot?” Pink scrunchy girl says and they all go into dreamy-eyed mode and I swear I’ve been transported back in time to ninth grade. It’s a credit to my reserve and thanks to my dad’s genes for stifling that I don’t roll my eyes.
Dooley says, “Hey, that’s the role I’m going out for.” They take him seriously when they should know better. But then no one knows him better than I do and even if he hadn’t told me, I’d know he’d be going out for the role of Merlin. We finish and it’s getting close to time for two o’clock classes, forcing the three nameless sorority sisters to rush off.
“I’m finished with classes for the day. How about you two?” Izzy says.
I nod. Dooley grins. “What do you have in mind?”
“Come over and take a look at the sorority house. We have a bedroom that would be perfect for you.”
I can feel my heels digging in as we walk.
“I’m pretty settled where I am, Izzy. The last thing I want to do is move now.”
“You could move next semester. Keep it in mind.”
“I haven’t even made a decision on joining the sorority.”
Izzy’s face falls. “Please say you will. We have an unbelievable social calendar set for the year already, including a Christmas ball. Plus, you know we do volunteer work helping kids learn to read and we hold a book fair to benefit the program through the church every year.”
“I had no idea.” The project appeals to me. Reading and books are my thing even if I don’t have much experience with kids.
“You don’t need to move into the house. You should join, though, so you can come to all the parties.”
“Joni, babe-a-la, you’re a writer,” Dooley says. “You need some life experience to write about, don’t you? This is your chance to do some living.”
I laugh. “Maybe you have a point.” After I finish the novel I’m writing, I don’t know what’s next and there’s no way I want to be one of those one-book wonders. Who am I kidding? I’ll be lucky if I get published at all.
“Maybe? You mean, ‘Thank you for your wondrous and brilliant words of wisdom, Dooley,’ don’t you?”
“I bow to you, oh wizard Dooley. Your genius is unmatched.” I bow low and graceful, the kind of move that would make my old second grade ballet teacher proud. Bowing is the only move I was ever good at. When I straighten, I add, “Though your genius is usually centered on the topic of sex and men. Good to see you’re broadening your horizons.”
Izzy laughs and Dooley jabs me in the arm with a finger. “Touché, sistah. I like to see that sass.”
“Okay, sign me up. But I don’t have time to come and visit your house today.” Mom is going to be ecstatic when I tell her. When she made the first of her weekly away-at-college calls and I mentioned the sorority, she got way more excited about that than the news that I’m halfway finished with my novel.
Looking left, I can see the field house a couple of hundred yards off. Parting ways from Dooley and Izzy, I hurry back to the safety of my room. Safety from what?
From running into Jack Hunter.
Chapter 7
Jack
I make it to Monday at noon before I get the call. The hammer finally dropping. The secretary from Dean Lassiter’s office calls me while I slip out of my last class of the day.
“Jack,” I say.
“Hello, Mr. Hunter. Please report to Reverend Church’s office at 12:30 for a meeting with him, Dean Lassiter, and Coach—Mr. Radzewicz. You can plan to report directly to practice following the meeting.”
“Can I ask what the meeting is about?” I ask even though I’m pretty sure I know it’s the fall-out from the trustee reception.
“I can’t say. You’ll find out soon enough.”
“Thank you, Donna. Of course you’re right. I’ll be right over.” I’m a believer in not killing the messenger.
“You’re very welcome, Jack. Take care of yourself.”
Running to my truck, I need to hustle to get back to BMOC House, drop off my books—I’m one of the few students who still carries around textbooks and not because I’m in love with print. It’s because the battered old books happen to be cheaper than renting the textbooks online. Jumping two and three stairs at a time when I slam through the front door of the almost empty house, I grab some clean clothes and throw them in my PSU duffel bag. I don’t bother hiding my shiner. It’s not the worst one I’ve ever had and the swelling is down thanks to the steak Majik gave me this morning to put on it.
By the time I get back to the admin building, I’m hot, sweaty, and five minutes late. I’m not too worried since they set me up for it. And because I know the real problem they’re going to come down on me for is fighting.
Stepping inside the high-ceilinged dark front hall of the building, the temperature drops at least ten degrees. I take a breath of the musty old air and take my time climbing the stairs to Rev Church’s office. The place isn’t altogether unpleasant, my times here more good than bad: receiving honors, occasionally meeting dignitaries. It was only that last visit last semester when the NCAA officials came calling that left a bad taste in my mouth.
Reaching the reception room, I stop and say hello to Donna. She stares at my black eye and winces as I get close enough for a good look.
“Looks painful.”
“Only when I cry,” I say. She shakes her head, hiding a smile.
“Go right in. They’re waiting for you.”
Pushing open the oversize thick wooden door that almost rivals anything we have in the weight room, I saunter in. The plush carpet silences my steps and yet all eyes turn to me as if Donna had blown a trumpet heralding my arrival.
Dean Lassiter stares at my shiner, examining it as if he’s expecting me to shoot daggers from it. Or maybe that’s me wishing I could.
“Have a seat, Jack.” Rev Church says, without looking directly at my eye. Coach looks like his usual self, uncaring about the addition of another meaningless bruise. Cost of doing business, as he likes to say.
I take the seat at the head of the table.
“You know why you’re here?” Lassiter says. “Tell us about how you got the black eye, Jack.”
“Seems to me you already know.”
Dean Lassiter harrumphs. “I spoke with your teammates, participants in the fight, and I know what happened.” His hands are folded on the table in front of him, still as marble.
“Then you know I did nothing wrong.” I slouch back and tap the arm of my chair, expressing my impatience with the proceedings without being outwardly rude. It’s what drives Lassiter crazy. No one else cares.
“That’s not the way I understand it. Picking a fight with teammates in public isn’t exactly doing nothing wrong.”
Keeping my breathing steady, I say, “I didn’t throw the first punch.” That’s as far as I can go to defend myself without bringing Kapallo and the bullying into it. I’ll take care of my teammates’ bullying problem in my own way.
“Even if that were true, which is questionable, and you didn’t throw the first punch, fighting in pubic, especially with a teammate in front of supporters of our athletic program, is particularly irresponsible. You have shown a remarkable lack of good judgment here.” He doesn’t mention whether
Posen and Hatchinsky are being called in too, but I’ll find out.
Of course my ball-less teammates wouldn’t own up to starting the fight, let alone the bullying. And I’d bet Kapallo is keeping it quiet as instructed. I’m sure he and his girl disappeared before Lassiter had a chance to cross-examine them.
“You’re lucky this isn’t a police matter,” Lassiter says, “but we can’t let you go without some accountability for your actions.” I slide a look toward Coach, who will be on my side on the matter of punishment, even if he doesn’t want to be. He won’t want me to sit out and risk losing a game.
Reverend Church says, “Of course we’re not going to do anything that would disrupt the team or your chance to win the Heisman, Jack, not over such a small misunderstanding.”
Lassiter glares at him. “We’ve decided on community service.”
I stay silent at the announcement while visions of picking up trash on the side of the highway run through my head. My grip on the arm of the chair loosens.
Dean Lassiter continues, “You’ll volunteer to be a math tutor. I spoke to Professor Greenleaf, and he gave me his selection for your tutoring assignment for the semester.” He hands me an envelope. “The name and contact information are in the envelope. You are to tutor this student for a minimum of two hours a week for the entire semester right through to final exams. Do a good job and don’t miss your sessions or we’ll know about it. The student will report to the professor on your progress. Neither the student nor the professor knows that this is community service. As far as anyone else who is not in this room is concerned, you are simply volunteering to be a math tutor out of the kindness of your heart. And because you’re brilliant.”
“I can handle that.” I mentally shift my schedule around to accommodate the loss of two fucking hours a week. It’s going to cut into my ability to earn extra money, which sucks.
“As long as it doesn’t interfere with games, practice, and conditioning,” Coach says, “I’m okay with it. Maybe you can tutor some of your teammates while you’re at it.” They both laugh.
Me? I’m too busy controlling my heart rate that threatens to boil over, not at the slap-on-the-wrist community service, because I will handle that. It’s the idea that I’m being punished at all. I stop a couple of bullies from beating up a nice guy and I take the blame.
Karma. The look on Joni’s innocent face when I almost kissed her haunts me. I smile and settle down.
Dean Lassiter glares at me as I’m dismissed. I wonder again how he figures I started the fight. Did Posen and Hatchinsky really feed me to the sharks or could it be Lassiter reinterpreting what he heard? I’ve had the feeling he has it in for me for a while and I don’t know why, but I sense it’s personal.
“Your first session has been set up for tomorrow night at the Math Department’s conference room. Make sure you’re there.”
Though I’d like to, I don’t slam the door on my way out. On my way to practice, I contemplate the new list of things I need to worry about, things I need to do. Deal with the two bullies Posen and Hatchinsky. The last thing we need on our team is the rot of bullies spreading. Deal with the tutoring assignment. And lastly, figure out whether I’m going to give up sleep, studying, or what there is left of my social life to accommodate the tutoring, because the one thing I can’t fucking give up is my moneymaking projects.
When I get to practice, the first thing on my mind to deal with is Hatch and Posen, so I throw my duffel at my locker and track them down in the lineman section of the locker room, closest to the team dining room.
Fist bumping a few guys on my way, nodding to everyone who greets me—which is everyone who sees me—I spot them and don’t need to work at glaring. It comes out pretty naturally, reflecting how I feel about these two dipshits, in spite of knowing them and relying on them for the past three years as teammates. Disappointed and angry. Maybe like a parent would feel when their kid messes up. Or like Grandpa used to feel when I messed up.
Hatch sees me first and freezes, then pokes Posen in the ribs. He looks up and they both stand, looking like overgrown beefy, unshaven kids with their hands caught in the cookie jar. Posen has two black eyes and his nose looks like a bulb. They stare, silent, and I hope they’re looking at my black eye.
“I just came from a little conference with Dean Lassiter,” I say. They both pale in spite of Posen being a Black dude. Good.
“We couldn’t warn you, man, they told us—”
“Shut the fuck up,” I say, lowering my voice and crowding them against their lockers. I’m aware of eyes on us, so I pull them aside toward the empty showers.
“Do you know what my problem is with you two?”
“I didn’t give you the shiner,” Hatch says.
“You’re a fuckwit, Hatchinsky, if you think that’s what this is about.”
“What—?”
“Shut your fucking mouth and keep it that way,” I shout-whisper, anger seething, enough to make them scared. I hear Tristan in the background talking loudly and gathering attention his way and I want to kiss him for having my back. He knows the whole story. Except the part about taking Joni home.
Satisfied that we have some privacy and that Hatch and Posen are now properly in a mood to listen and not talk, I continue.
“I don’t know what you assholes were thinking when you decided to pick on Kapallo—”
“He was with my girl—or my old girl—”
“I told you not to speak.” I stare at Hatch as he turns red. “I don’t care if he was playing tonsil hockey with your grandmother, he’s smaller than you. By a lot. And we were at a fucking trustee reception, you fuckheads.”
“What about you?” Posen says. “You threw a punch—”
“In fucking self-defense. From one of my own fucking teammates.” I glare and let that sink in.
“I’m sorry, man. I didn’t realize it was you.”
“Yet you were ready to punch at anyone. And it wasn’t even your girl at stake. Why is that, Posen?”
“He was watching my back—”
“Let’s hear it from his mouth.” I wait. Posen is tight-lipped, staring me down, but I wait him out even though we need to get on the field in a minute.
“I don’t know, man,” he finally says, looking away. “My ma is sick …”
My stomach churns. Fucking A.
“How bad?” I say.
“Real bad. It’s got me out of my mind.”
“Sorry. But meanwhile how do you think she’d feel if she knew you were pushing around a guy half your size?”
He shakes his head.
“Tell you what. You can make up for this shit storm if you do something for me.”
They both look like eager cocker spaniels, ready to lick my feet, but this isn’t about me.
“You’ll buy a gift certificate for the most expensive restaurant on Lake Winnie—$300—and write a nice note and hand deliver it to Kapallo so he can take his girl out.” I stab my finger into Hatch’s chest. “Got that? She’s his girl now. You don’t own her. Find someone else.”
He nods and looks down, like he’s about to cry. I know he’s hurting over losing a girl, but I have no idea how he feels, how it would feel to have a girl that means that much. My only experience with loss was Grandpa. Losing the old man was bad enough. Fucking painful. Still is. I guess that’s what it’s like for Hatch and I put a hand on his shoulder.
“I know a couple of girls. I can give you some numbers.”
“I bet,” he smiles.
“What are you going to do to us if we don’t buy them a night out?” Posen says. Hatchinsky looks at him like he’s a dope, because he is, and elbows him.
“I’ll beat the shit out of you,” I say, low and mean. “I’ll hit you in places no one’s gonna see. But you’ll be peeing blood for a month.”
He gulps, not because of my words, but the way I say them, like a vicious animal, like the gutter trash I am underneath the St. Paul U veneer. They know I’m tough, but they
have no idea how tough. I don’t relish demonstrating it for them, but I will if pushed. I’ll do a lot of things to survive and these people have no idea.
“Fine. Just wondering. Point made.”
“Pick on people your own size, fellas. You never know what kind of friends your little victims might have.” I pat Posen’s shoulder and walk away, but I hear him mutter under his breath.
“Fuck. That dude is scary sometimes.”
“S’what makes him the best QB in college football,” Hatch says, more admiring than scared. Thank fuck.
When I get to the house after practice I’m tired and hungry, but the thing pressing on me most, my moneymaking project, needs to get done. I have a deadline. So I go in the back door and up the back staircase to my room, pausing to motion to Majik to keep it quiet with a finger over my lips in the universal shush gesture. She lifts one brow and continues doing what she’s doing: making Majik food that smells so good I want to lift the pot off the stove and gulp it down.
Instead, I scramble to my room without advertising my presence and lock my door behind me. Usually I avoid dramatic measures because they only get more attention. But I can’t take a chance. I need to work on the project right now. No time to dash to the library or the coffee shop.
Tossing my bag into the closet, I take out my laptop and power it up. It should only take another thirty minutes of work. But before I get started, I get Posen’s home address from my contacts and arrange to have some roses sent to his mom from the team with a get-well message. I’ll have Hatch take up a collection to pay for it.
When I finish and hit send, before I have a chance to stow the laptop and unlock my door, the thunder of feet on the stairs and voices approaching signals that dinner is over. My doorknob rattles and then fists bang on the door.
“Hey, what the fuck, Jack. You missed dinner!” George yells from the other side.
“No kidding. Hang onto your shit.” I fling open the door and meet the gazes of half the house in the hallway. George and Tristan push past me into my room.
Big Man on Campus: an Enemies to Lovers College Romance (Big Men on Campus Book 1) Page 10
