by Nana Malone
“Dr. Brooks,” Becker started. “I don’t think—”
Her advisor interrupted. “You would be under no obligation if you didn't feel the student was a good fit for you, you would be free to arrange financial compensation that you feel is appropriate, and you would be able to meet in a space that worked well for both of you.” Dr. Brooks emphasized the freedoms Becker could enjoy under the second scenario.
Becker's brain clicked. If she did this, it would look good on her application. If it got her closer to her goal, she could play study-buddy for a couple of jocks. And a few extra dollars in her wallet wouldn't hurt. She wasn't thrilled about the idea, but she could work with it.
“I understand. You put my name and a way to contact me on a list, and I just have to wait for them to reach out to me?”
“That's the gist,” Dr. Brooks confirmed with a nod, grabbing a short pad off her desk to jot down Becker's name, her cell phone, and email.
“Thank you,” Becker said, rising from the chair with her eye on the clock. “I have to go grab lunch before my next class.”
“Right. Good luck and thanks for agreeing to the program,” Dr. Brooks said. “Would you mind sending the next student in, if he's here?”
Becker nodded and headed out into the hallway, glancing around, but there was no one waiting. She walked toward a coffee cart at the end of the hall that would be crowded with students in a few moments when classes were dismissed. She shifted into line behind a guy so tall, with shoulders so wide, she was pretty sure he'd block out her view of the sun if they were outside. He shifted from one foot to the other, his impatience evident. Under his breath, he hummed a familiar Prince song and she had to smile. Prince was her favorite. Probably because it had been her mother's favorite.
She ran through the tutoring plan in her head. Maybe this wouldn't be so bad. And Dr. Brooks was right. It was an opportunity to shine in front of the people making the decisions about the Blake Fellowship.
Sure, she would be sacrificing a large portion of her time to tutoring, but it would also be a great excuse to get out of family functions. The less she saw of her father, the better.
He'd been less than enthusiastic about her determination to become a writer. She knew that he could reach out to contacts he had and pull strings that could open doors for her in the publishing world, but he'd dug his heels in and refused. If she wanted him to help with her career it would be a job he chose at his record label. He'd poured his blood, sweat, and tears into it, and if she wanted to become a writer, she would have to build herself the way he had, without help, because he wouldn't help her.
Her heart was set on the Blake Fellowship, and luckily, while it was technically an unpaid internship, the small stipend would help cover her expenses. But New York was an expensive city to live in, and Becker still had several years to go before she hit thirty and could access her trust fund.
The fund had been set up at her mother's insistence while Becker was still a teenager, but her father didn't want her blowing through it while she was young, and he didn't want any future husband of hers to get his hands on it, either. So his lawyers had wrapped the money up with lots of red tape, and even a stipulation requiring she get a prenuptial agreement if she ever married. Failure to do so would require forfeiture of the entire trust fund.
Her mother had promised Becker she would work on her father and persuade him to loosen some of the restrictions, but she had been killed in a car accident only a year or two after everything had been established. When her mom died, her father's slightly controlling overprotectiveness had kicked into high gear, stifling her and widening the distance between them.
What Becker strove for now was space and freedom, both of which the Blake Fellowship would ensure her. But without her father's financial support, she'd need to find another way to pay for her extra expenses while she was enrolled in the program—assuming she got in.
She'd considered getting a part-time job while she was out there, but she would have a difficult time securing something from across the country, and who knew how long it might take her to find something once she got there. But if she could save some money now, she could stash that in a savings account for when she needed it. She was already doing what she could to stretch her monthly allowance, but padding the line items she sent to her father with tampons and pads would only go so far. Adding payment for tutoring could grow her safety net that much faster.
The guy in front of her finally had his organic smoothie and chicken salad wrap from the petite, stocky woman manning the sandwich cart. He turned abruptly and bumped right into her, sending her ungracefully to the floor.
“Oh, shit. I'm so sorry. Are you okay?”
“Uh. Yeah.” Ow, that hurt. Sprawled on her ass, Becker took the proffered hand and started at the instant electric shock that sparked between them.
“Should have been looking where I was going.”
“Yeah, you shou—” The words fell off of Becker's tongue when her gaze traveled the expanse of muscle that was his arm to his chest, then to that face. Holy hell. Sandy-brown hair in an artful disarray on his head, like he ran his hands through it a lot. The most intense blue eyes she'd ever seen met hers. Pile on the square jaw, intense cheekbones, and a set of surprisingly full lips, and she'd essentially collided with a male model. Recognition spiked.
Oh, God.
It was him. Gage. The guy from the party.
“Uh, I’m fine.”
He frowned, and his voice went low, gravelly. “You're sure?”
She gave him a brusque nod. Stop mooning.
His piercing gaze met hers for a long moment, and Becker held her breath as warmth spread through her. Was it possible to melt from a look? It had to be. He squinted. Oh, hell. He recognized her.
“Don't I know you?” he asked with a frown.
“Nope. Not at all.”
“You're sure?” He took her hand and helped her to stand.
She nodded and stood there like a deaf-mute, watching as he walked away. Given his height, he had to be a basketball player. And given his sure stride, he was a scorer. She'd spent enough time around alpha males to know this one scored on and off the field, or the court, or whatever. You've already seen him score. She flushed.
“Did you want something, hun?” The woman behind the cart asked, interrupting her reverie.
With a flush, Becker realized she was holding up the line. One of the waiting girls giggled. “Don't worry about it. You're not the first one at this school to stare at Gage Coulter.”
Becker held back a groan. Was that the overgrown oaf's full name? No doubt he was used to girls staring at him. And he was likely an overindulged asshole, she reminded herself. Just like whomever you'll end up tutoring.
With a sigh, Becker stepped forward and made her selection, paying for it quickly. She had the freedom to say 'no' to anyone she didn't gel with. If they wanted her, they'd have to work. She wasn't going to indulge lazy. Of course, she couldn't be too picky, or she would wind up tutoring no one, and she'd have to go back to the drawing board as far as how to make some extra cash for New York. All she had to do was keep her eyes on the prize, and hope she didn't end up tutoring anyone as hot as Gage Coulter.
Gage fought the urge to look back at the girl. He knew her from somewhere. The last thing on earth he needed right now was to get distracted. Life was complicated enough. Between practices, his classwork, and his family drama, he was stretched thin. If something didn't give soon, he was going to snap. Oh, and he couldn't forget the pressure. Always the fucking pressure to live up to his legacy.
He struggled to walk and eat at the same time. He was starving after his morning practice, and was running late to his advisory session with Dr. Brooks. But there was no way he was going to finish the sandwich before he made it to her office, unless he wanted to end up wearing half of it.
The door was closed when he arrived, and he hesitated a minute before knocking. He took another bite of his sandwich, and opened th
e door to her mumbled request that he enter. He had to smile when he saw her shoving the remnants of her lunch aside.
“I'll let you eat, if you let me eat,” Gage offered, with his mouth still half full.
“Agreed,” Dr. Brooks said with a smile, pulling her plate back out and taking another bite. She turned back to her computer while Gage sat down and folded back more of the paper that enclosed his wrap.
“Mr. Coulter,” she said, after taking a few sips of iced tea to clear her mouth. “You are in—well, there's a notification on your account when it comes to your academics. I see here you're on an athletic scholarship.” She turned to look at him.
Gage sat as far back in the chair as he could, his long legs still bent at a cartoonish angle, as if he were sitting in a kid's chair. “I'm on the basketball team,” he confirmed, before taking another bite of his wrap.
“You might be on the basketball team,” Dr. Brooks corrected. “At the moment, your grades are…well, your grades on the whole are fine. Decent, even, but your English grade is more than a little troubling. Given your academic performance before you started at Billings, it's surprising. I've been emailing back and forth with your coach, and if you continue to perform this way, you may find yourself on the bench from a failure to meet the conditions of your scholarship.”
Fuck. He'd expected as much, but he sure as shit didn't want to hear it out loud. Since arriving on campus in August, he'd been struggling. Gage swallowed hard, and almost choked on the mouthful. He gulped at his smoothie until he was sure he was breathing properly.
“Can you give it to me straight? How bad is it?” What if he burned out before he ever got a chance to even play? The only Coulter who couldn't keep his shit together. Even Fox had his shit together now. Hell, his brother was about to propose. Time to get your ass in gear, Gage.
“You’re currently failing English outright. The notes in the system from your professor show the grade calculates to a forty-five. Your other classes, thankfully, are keeping your GPA above the C average necessary for student athletes, but there's a second stipulation here at Billings that all student athletes must be at least passing all of their classes, regardless of GPA, in order to play,” Dr. Brooks explained in a detached voice, as though she were reading from a prepared script. “Now, there's plenty of time left in this semester for you to bring that English grade up to a passing level…but I don't see that happening if you don't change your approach to the class.”
His head spun. Failing. Legitimately failing. And it was only weeks into the term. “What…what about my other classes?” Gage asked.
“You have two high As, a high B, and one low B,” Dr. Brooks laid out. “But those aren't your problem,” she insisted. “English is your problem. It's also a class that you have to pass as a prerequisite for a number of other classes you need to take, to fulfill the requirements of the graduation tracks for whichever major you choose.”
Gage was floundering. He'd had straight As in high school, and absorbing the reality of anything less was sickening, much less a forty-fucking-five in such an important class. At least the other classes were okay. He needed to raise those fucking Bs. Particularly history. He liked history, and was likely to retain what he'd heard and taken notes on in class, even though he had the same fundamental problem he had with English. He couldn't finish the damn reading.
“Can I talk to my professor? See if there are extra-credit assignments, or maybe some of my absences can be excused? I know I miss my English class a lot because of practice, and I'm not getting the reading done. And there are quizzes I miss,” Gage mumbled desperately. “I'll do anything.”
Dr. Brooks tilted her head. “I’m not a huge sports fan, but I do pay attention to the emails the school sends around, and like I said, I've been going back and forth with your coach. This isn't high school. Nor can your family name pull you out of this mess. You have to speak with your professor about the days you'll miss class. Find ways not to miss your quizzes. It's not my job to tell you what to do with your time, or to scold you for slacking off. I am here as support. My job is to advise you on course selection, and what you need to do in order to graduate. Right now, you're not doing enough. I don't care if you've been skipping classes because you're hung over from partying, or you want to sleep in. But I have to tell you that if you continue behaving this way, you will not be playing basketball when the season officially gets underway. You will not be given special treatment due to your 'student athlete' status. You will be expected to maintain your grades and work things out with your professors on your own, while you attend practices and travel for games.”
Gage stared at her, shaking his head. He didn't want special treatment. He just wanted a way to make this work. He didn't like her attitude, but he understood it. He'd chosen Billings because of academics as well as athletics. They didn't give student athletes special treatment, but it was the administration's general policy to help where they could.
Dr. Brooks's current attitude told him that she had a problem with his name, and not just his athlete status. And there wasn't much he could do about either. He'd have to figure something out, because this woman wouldn't be helping him. “I guess I'll see what I can do.” There wasn't really any other choice.
She pursed her lips. “Now, I don't expect you to be able to recover from this, academically speaking, on your own. You're not the first student, forget student athlete, who's found adjusting to college life and balancing academics difficult. And heaven knows you won’t likely be able to crawl out of this mess alone.” Gage ground his teeth together. He needed to keep his cool.
“I have a list of tutors here.” She held up a piece of paper. “I strongly advise you pick one for English. Your coach agrees with me. There's the tutoring center on campus as well, but they're not as flexible in hours of availability and consistency. Working with a single tutor is preferable in your situation, as you have a lot of ground to make up. Go ahead and talk to your professor about extra credit, and if he's amenable, see if he can give you some advice on where you should start with your tutor, what your big problem areas are, that sort of thing.”
Dr. Brooks held out the list for him to take. Gage grasped it with numb fingers.
“I think it would be helpful for you if we meet up again in a few weeks.”
“Uh, yeah,” Gage said, distracted, as he glanced over the names on the list in his hand. First thing he'd do was get a new damn advisor. He didn't need to be coddled. But he did need someone fair and unbiased. Next, he was going to call a freaking tutor. The humiliation burned, but it was nothing compared to how he'd feel if he had to tell his father he was flunking out. Especially his father. With everything else the family was going through, he wasn't going to add that. No fucking way. “Thank you.”
“Get your grades straightened out, and then we'll have a better starting point.”
Gage rose from the chair as Dr. Brooks spoke, but little of what she said made it through the fog that had settled over him. He had one way out. Failure was not an option.
Three
“Hey, how'd it go with Dragon Lady?” Avery handed Becker her latte as they walked out of the student center. Grabbing coffee after their history class had become an early habit for them. “And we never got to finish our conversation after the party Saturday.”
Becker flushed. Yeah, that ill-advised party. The last two days, Becker had been trying to avoid what everyone called athlete village. The dorm situated smack-dab in the center of campus next to the University Center was the most prime-location housing. And of course, it was crammed chock-full of athletes.
Not that she wanted to live there. Becker loved her place. And even though she was sometimes lonely, she actually quite liked having a single. It allowed her lots of time for studying. Yeah, okay, she needed a life. Still, it would have been nice to not have to schlep her entire day's worth of books and essentials around with her, morning ‘til night.
“Yeah, well as we were running out of that party
, that guy stopped you. And well, he was cute. So I let you do your thing.”
Avery shook her head, and then took a long sip of her mocha. “Do not deflect. Something happened up in that room, and I want to know what it was. We can talk about my boy shenanigans after. Come on Becker, inquiring minds want to know.”
Becker sighed. “Fine, if you really want to know how well it went with my advisor…” she teased Avery.
Avery shoved her playfully. “You are impossible. I do want to know how that went. And I want to hear about the Blake Fellowship, and what she thinks your chances are. But first, I would hear about boys.”
Becker flushed. “Do we have to talk about this?”
“Yes. We need to talk about it. I'm a bad friend because I didn't even get to decompress with you about your first party. And I had that crazy astronomy exam. So now I have time, and you have time, and you can tell me all about it.”
“There's not much to tell. I went to go pee. I found an empty room, used the bathroom, and as I was about to leave, this couple came in. I really didn't have much choice, except to hide.”
Avery laughed. “Oh, my God. This would only happen to you.”
“Tell me about it. If I opened the door any wider, the room would've been flooded with more light. If I tried to close the door even tighter, they would've heard that and found me. And then I really would be the school's laughing stock.”
