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I’ve seen the looks people give me when I say that communications is my minor. They think it’s an intentional, desperate move to be around the varsity athletes at Wittmore. It’s well known that it’s a common degree for athletes–a backup plan if their sports career doesn’t take off. But it was my mother that suggested it. She thought it would give my business degree a boost when I look for a job after graduation. The fact that my classes are filled with hot athletes? Originally, that had just been a bonus.

After years of hook-up apps and trying to meet men at parties, I had an all organic opportunity to meet the guys that I was interested in. For once, I wasn’t just a jersey chaser. I was a classmate. A peer.

Hopefully, I was girlfriend material.

Until everything with Brent and CJ blew up, and if I’d hoped that Brent was just throwing around idle threats about having me blacklisted, I can sense the shift already.

Things had been tense and awkward for a few weeks–ever since that night at Brent and CJ’s house. The football players that I’d been talking to all semester, the same guys I’d been texting and hanging out with at parties, suddenly grew cold. Even the ones that I’d been intimate with, like Rocky and Austin, stopped acknowledging me.

I’m more embarrassed by how hurt I feel, than the actual fact Brent carried through with his promise.

Opening my computer, I try to orient myself to the professor’s lesson. Behind me, Rocky, all two-hundred-and-twenty-five pounds of him, taps his foot to the beat of whateversong is playing on his headphones. At least he’s not singing this time. His voice isnotgood. Not that anyone would ever tell him that.

Turns out that the special privilege everyone thinks student athletes get on campus is real. They’re loud and entitled. Showing up when they feel like it and when they do, barely paying attention. I’m sure it’s not every player, but this class? With these particular guys? It’s obvious they’re used to being the center of attention and the professor has been told to cut them slack. He never skips a beat when Darius, the six-foot-seven starting basketball player, leaves the room, grabs a snack from the shop on the first floor of the building, and returns, loudly eating a bag of chips. Or when the entire defensive line naps in the back row.

It’s surreal watching people get away with so much just because of their status.

They have power that I don’t understand, but I’m unrelentingly attracted to.

No.

The word echoes in my head.

Not anymore.

I’ve sworn them off. No more athletes. No more trouble. No more jersey chasing.

“Hey.”

The whispered voice comes from the seat next to mine and I look over at Eric, the only other non-athlete in the class. Really, he’s the only person in here that doesn’t look at me like I’m a piece of trash stuck to the bottom of their shoe. He tilts his laptop in my direction so I can see his notes.

I smile gratefully. “Thanks.”

“No problem.”

Eric’s a normal guy and the only friendly face in the group. Quickly, I take down the notes and manage to ignorethe distractions in the room. The class moves swiftly–which happens when I’m interested in a topic. Even with all the hostility around me, I get into the lecture, taking notes until the professor wraps up, and I quickly start to pack my things.

“One last thing before you go,” the professor says from the front of the room. “If you looked at your syllabus, you’ll know there’s an end of semester project that will count as your final grade. You’ll do them in pairs and I’ll be assigning you randomly to a partner.”

My stomach sinks. Projects in this class suck for two reasons. One, these guys don’t want to do any of the heavy lifting on classwork. Two, none of them will even acknowledge me. So how the hell is that going to work?

Anxiety crawls up my spine as he starts calling the pairs: Rodriguez and Smith. Davenport and Lane. Beckwith and Lassiter.

I look over at Eric with my eyebrow raised. Well, that’s convenient.

“Looks like we’re partners,” he says, as our professor continues to rattle out names.

“Sorry.” I feel the need to apologize. “I’m sure you’d rather work with someone else.”

“Why would you say that?” he asks, tucking his laptop into his backpack.

I make a face. Eric, like the rest of the guys on campus, is a Wittmore football fanboy. He loves being in this class with the players, always stopping them to talk about the game. There’s an expression of innocence on his face–like he maybe actually doesn’t know about my reputation. I slide my laptop in my bag and zip it up. “Don’t worry. I’ll do my part.”

“I’m not worried about it,” he says with an easy shrug, while pulling out his phone. “It’ll be fun. Can I get your number?”

“Sure.”

Quickly, we exchange and set up a time to text about specifics later. I’ve put on my coat and have my bag over my shoulder when I hear him say, “Congrats on the game, man. You guys killed it.”