Page 3 of B is for Baby Me (Classes in Kink #1)

Chapter two

Panic-Stricken

JR

I stick my head between my knees, trying not to faint—or worse, puke. It’s bad enough that I bolted from the lecture hall like a pack of wolves was chasing me. In the middle of the class period. During an exam . Nobody leaves in the middle of a test, not if you’re Professor Fletcher’s student. I’ve been warned not to get on his bad side. I need this class to graduate. Is there any hope of passing it now? Did I just ruin my GPA? Oh god, will this affect my scholarship?

“Mr. Bennett.” An angry voice echoes down the hallway.

Shit . The professor is heading straight for me, and he’s pissed . Yeah, the guy always looks salty, but this is different. This time he’s glaring at me . I’ve faced linebackers who were less menacing. The dude’s got A-game intimidation, and his drop- dead gorgeous looks just add to the shock value. That midnight-black hair styled just right... Those piercing, ice-blue eyes framed by sexy Clark Kent glasses... The dark hint of stubble against his olive skin…

Time slows to a crawl while I stare at Dr. Fletcher up-close for the first time. He’s about six feet tall—the perfect height, unlike my own overgrown six-foot-five. Not breakable, not bulky, juuust right . His body has an almost lethal poise—lean and sleek, like a predatory cat. It radiates power. Authority. A level of confidence that some might call arrogance. As if the guy hasn’t earned the right to his ego. He’s not even forty years old (I found out my teacher’s age, so what?) and already the head of the Biology department at a world-class institution. Plus, he’s a renowned geneticist with loads of peer-reviewed publications to his name. Yeah, that PhD is hot AF. Not gonna lie, I have such a hard-on for smart guys. The man may be cocky, but god knows he can back it up. In fact, he can back me up... against a wall. I’d let my sexy professor get as cocky as he wanted with me.

Blinking, I yank myself from my fantasy as Real-Life Fletcher stops an inch from me. He clenches his square jaw, his full lips set in a grim line, the nostrils of his straight-edged nose flaring. “Mr. Bennett. My office. Now.”

Shit . I’m in so much trouble. How could I do something so stupid? Everyone knows that Professor Fletcher barely tolerates undergrads. As I follow the furious man down the hallway, I imagine all the ways he could punish me. Will he reprimand me in front of the dean? Make an example of me to the class? What if he tells Coach Becker? Will I get suspended from the next game?

By the time we reach his office on the fourth floor, my heart is pounding and my chest feels tight. How’d we even get here? I don’t remember climbing any stairs. How many minutes did I space out? Did anyone see my walk of shame? Is it hot in here? Because I can’t breathe and I’m really starting to sweat. I swipe my hand across my forehead, rubbing it against my jeans. What floor are we on again?

Fletcher scowls at me from behind his desk. His back is like a steel rod, his body wound tight as a coiled spring. The energy radiating from him could power my entire apartment. The guy’s just sitting there, not saying anything, glowering . How long has he been staring at me? Did he ask me a question while I was spaced out? Spacing out has gotta be a bad sign. Did I get a concussion in the last game?

“I have two questions for you, Mr. Bennett. One: Are you an idiot? Because only a moron would leave my class during an exam. There’s no excuse for such behavior. You’ll get a zero. Two: Why do they call you JR? Is it supposed to be short for Junior? Because that’s stupid—they each have two syllables. Your name is George. One syllable. Simplify. “ The professor narrows his eyes at me.

Should I ask him to repeat the questions? He’s speaking so fast, it’s hard to understand him, especially with this weird ringing in my ears. Has that high-pitched sound always been there? That can’t be good. Should I tell Coach about it? Am I getting a tumor? What if it’s brain cancer? I sway on my feet, a wave of dizziness washing over me.

“Mr. Bennett, quit your panic attack this instant.” Fletcher slaps his hand against the desk. “Sit down, for god’s sake. You will not pass out in my office, do you hear me?”

I crumple into a hard wooden chair, fighting to get air into my lungs. My stomach gives a sickening lurch as I battle the dizzy spell. Oh god, please don’t faint. Please don’t puke.

“Well, what do you have to say for yourself?” he asks. “Entertain me with your pitiful excuses. I dare you.”

I struggle to push words past my clenched windpipe, but all I can manage are a few wheezes and gasps. This is gonna be bad. A public apology probably won’t be enough to satisfy him—not unless it involves some major ass-kissing. What if the professor forces me to get on my knees and beg... and why did that thought make my dick twitch?

His crystal-blue eyes drill into me from behind his glasses. “If you can’t answer my questions, then at least assure me this will not happen again. I can overlook one failed exam from an undergrad, but I won’t permit it from my graduate students. I’ll expect your application on my desk by the end of the month. Do you understand me, Mr. Bennett?”

Understand him? What application? Do I have to apply to take Molecular Biology over again? But then I can’t graduate in May. What about the NFL draft this spring? My whole plan—my entire future—shot to hell in one afternoon. How am I gonna break the news to my dad?

“I’ll need letters of recommendation from each of your science professors, as well as one from Dean Owens.” He folds his arms across his chest, tapping an impatient finger against an elbow. “You must also submit a list of preliminary thesis ideas, and I expect you to impress me. Are you capable of doing that, Mr. Bennett?”

“I’m sorry, sir. I’ll try harder, I swear.” How can I convince him to let me retake the test? Could I claim temporary insanity? What if I plead for mercy?

“You’d better try harder. Now, about your application.” Professor Fletcher stands up from his leather chair and marches around his stark black desk, stopping in front of me with a steely-eyed glare.

My stomach sinks at his stony expression. “If you’ll give me a second chance, sir, I won’t fail again. If you’d let me try just one more time...”

“Are we still discussing today’s exam?” He leans his head back with a groan. “I thought we’d moved on. Keep up, Mr. Bennett. If I were you, I’d be less concerned with one low score than this anxiety disorder you seem to have. Surely you’ve failed one test in your life.”

My chin quivers as I shake my head. God, please don’t cry—anything but that. I clench my jaw, squeezing my eyes shut against the threat of tears. How humiliating, and in front of the most brilliant, handsome man I’ve ever met. The guy must think I’m a total bonehead—either that or the biggest baby ever. If only the Earth would crack open and swallow me whole. Is that too much to ask?

“I see. Well, neither have I—but that’s beside the point. My master’s program is rigorous. You must devise coping mechanisms if you hope to succeed. Deep breathing exercises, talk therapy, tai chi... Include a list of stress management strategies along with your application. I won’t tolerate mental breakdowns from my graduate students, are we clear?” His voice demands obedience.

Shit . I’ve ruined everything. I can hear the other Big Ten teams now: ‘JR’ George Bennett Jr.—the Golden Gladiators’ star player and NFL-hopeful—has finally cracked under pressure. All my hard work has been for nothing. I’ve let everyone down. A tear leaks from the corner of my eye. As it rolls down my cheek, I’m flooded with shame.

“Oh, for god’s sake. Fine ,“ Fletcher snaps. “I’ll make an exception this once. You may retake the exam, but in the future—“

I grab my grumpy professor around the waist, wrapping him in a tight and grateful hug.