Page 7 of Necessary Roughness
Sloane
I wasn’t sick, although seeing Knox’s handsome face up on the jumbotron brought back all the emotions and memories from Thursday night—including the nausea.
Bryson was staring at me. “Hold on a second, Sloane. Did you… did you not know who those guys were?”
I shook my head.
“Girl, don’t even,” Jayden muttered. “You’ve been coming to football games with us since our second year.”
“I don’t really pay attention to the game,” I explained. “And honestly, I’m usually kind of drunk.”
“That tracks,” Bryson said. “Last year, you and Troy spent the entire fourth quarter making out.”
“Please don’t refer to my ex by his name,” I said.
“ He Who Shall Not Be Named was usually distracting you with his stupid mouth,” Jayden said. “But I still don’t believe you had no idea you were hitting on the captain of the football team the other night!”
I couldn’t believe it either. Even as I watched the first quarter of the game, it felt like a dream. Or a cruel nightmare.
By halftime, I was too embarrassed to keep watching. I apologized to the twins and walked home.
I tried to study that night, but my mind was elsewhere. I kept thinking about the situation and how insane it was.
I’d walked right up to the captain of the football team and flirted with him.
I’d taken him—and his teammate!—upstairs.
And then I totally blew it. The feeling of regret in my stomach was like losing a winning lottery ticket.
Ugh. What a horrible start to my senior year.
I was able to put it out of my head and study the next day.
That was my real superpower: I was good at studying.
I had an innate curiosity about the world, which meant I was interested in literally any subject I came across.
A nature documentary about turtle mating habits?
Sweet. A podcast about 19th century bridge building techniques? Sign me up.
Getting a head start on my reading assignments helped me forget all about making a fool out of myself at the party.
There was a hopeful feeling in the air as I walked to my first class Monday morning. Some students trudged across campus with their shoulders slumped, but not me. I loved new beginnings. Every class this semester put me one step closer to graduation.
It felt like I was striding confidently toward my future as a teacher.
Now that classes were officially beginning, I felt a lingering sadness about Thursday night. Getting drunk and throwing up wasn’t a big deal; everyone did that in college. Except for maybe Morgan. She had a stick shoved so far up her ass there was no room for having any fun.
But I regretted missing the opportunity to try something new and fun. That was the entire point of college! Once I was a middle school teacher, I doubted I would have many opportunities to have a threesome.
Oh well. Time to put it all behind me and get to work.
My first class was Education 401: Curriculum Design and Instructional Planning. I sat right in the front row and smiled the entire time, taking two pages of notes even though the professor was mostly outlining the syllabus and the expectations for the semester.
After that was Education 430: Teaching Students with Diverse Needs. I wasn’t planning on teaching Special Ed, but the class was required for my degree, and I still enjoyed getting a different perspective on my future students.
I stopped for lunch in the main campus cafeteria, then took my sandwich outside to eat. I closed my eyes and allowed the warmth of the sun to rejuvenate me.
Even though most of my classes were for my degree this semester, I still had two General Education courses that I had to knock out.
Art History was the first one, held in a small classroom that could fit maybe twenty people.
The seats in the front row were all taken, so I snagged a chair in the third row and set out my laptop to take notes.
I was reviewing the syllabus when my fellow students began whispering. When the chatter didn’t stop, I glanced up at the doorway.
And who was standing there? Knox Freaking Maddox.
“That’s the star quarterback!” the girl behind me whispered to another student.
“So what?” the other student said.
“So… look at him! I wish we could study him this semester.”
Their comments made me feel like the biggest idiot on campus. Everyone knew Knox on sight, yet somehow I’d remained totally oblivious for the past three years.
I tried to slink down in my chair to appear invisible, but there were only two open seats, and one of them was next to me. Knox weaved through the space between desks, muttering an apology as he squeezed past another student.
I kept my eyes on my laptop. His lower half came into view, and he suddenly did a double-take. When I glanced up, he was staring down at me in shock.
So much for not being noticed.
“Welcome to Art History 202,” the professor said as he strode into the classroom. “Take your seats and we’ll begin. We have a lot to go over today.”
I could feel Knox’s eyes on me as class began, but I had no interest in glancing over at him. I was already drowning in embarrassment, my entire body cringing with the memory of what had happened the other night.
Just ignore him, I told myself. He’s the most popular guy in school. Since we didn’t hook up, he probably doesn’t care about me at all .
But as the professor launched into his lecture, Knox kept turning to stare at me. Once, when the professor’s back was turned, Knox tried to whisper to me. I kept my eyes straight ahead, focused on what actually mattered. If I ignored him, it would all go away.
“Hey,” the girl behind me tapped my shoulder. “He’s trying to get your attention.”
Finally, I looked over. Knox was smiling hopefully, then began mouthing something silently.
No. This was too much. I didn’t want to relive all the horrific embarrassment from last week—I just wanted to take notes on Art History! It felt like the walls were closing in, trapping me in a situation that I desperately wanted to forget.
Eventually, it was too much. I shoved my laptop in my bag, gave the professor an apologetic little wave, and hurried out of the classroom. “I guess she doesn’t like the Italian Impressionism Period,” was the last thing I heard the professor say to the class, which drew a few laughs.
As if things couldn’t get any worse.
It was stupid to leave on the first day, but I didn’t turn around. I would fix this later by visiting the professor’s office hours and making some excuse. Hopefully he would take pity on me and give me the notes from class.
What a bad start to the semester. I was trying to avoid drama with guys. This was, quite literally, the exact opposite of what I had hoped to accomplish by blowing off steam at the party.
“Hey, Sloane!” Knox called behind me. “Wait up!”
Oh my God. Why was he following me? I pretended like I couldn’t hear him and quickened my step.
Knox was taller than me, and his long legs caught up to me within seconds. He fell in beside me and said, “Hey! Why’d you leave class?”
“Because you were distracting me,” I said.
“Shit. Sorry. Can we talk real quick?”
“I don’t want to talk,” I replied without slowing. “I just want to forget that night ever happened.”
He kept walking with me. I glanced over at him in annoyance. Couldn’t he see how embarrassed I was?
Knox jogged ahead, then turned around and walked backwards in front of me. “Just hear me out. I’ll make it quick.”
“I don’t want a recap of that night,” I insisted. “I know I made a fool of myself. And now I’m missing the first day of class, but obviously I can’t go back now.”
“I can fix that!” He swung his backpack around, then pulled out a stapled stack of papers. “I have the notes from class.”
I stopped in my tracks. “How? You left right after I did.”
Knox smiled. The same damn smile he’d worn that night at the party, the one prominently displayed on the jumbotron at the football game.
“Professor McMillan emailed me the notes. They do that for all the student athletes in case they miss class because of practice. Everything you missed is right here.” He shook the papers in the air.
“Thanks,” I said, reaching for them.
He pulled them away, holding them out of reach. “I’ll give you the notes, in exchange for five minutes of your time.”
“Five minutes?” I said, leaning on humor to defuse the awkward interaction. “That’s barely enough time for foreplay. I’ll pass. I don’t need the notes that much.”
I tried walking around him, but he stepped sideways to block my path.
“Just five minutes,” he reiterated. “I have a proposition for you. And trust me: you’re going to want to hear it.”