Page 9 of The Surprise Play (Nolan U Football #3)

ELIZABETH

I keep pulling out my phone and looking at Wily’s text.

I’m not sure why I haven’t responded. I should at least give him a thumbs-up to acknowledge it, right?

But… that seems lame, and I don’t know what to say to him.

And if I do respond, will he then reply back? And then I’ll get caught in some conversation with a person I don’t particularly want to see again.

Biting my lip, I glance at my computer screen. For some bizarre reason, I’m watching the semifinal football game.

Yeah, I know. I don’t even like sports, but the whole school is buzzing over this game, and I don’t want to be completely clueless when I hear them talking about it in class.

That’s what I keep telling myself, anyway.

My eyes dart to Wily. He’s standing on the sidelines, waiting for his turn at offense again. His red-and-blue uniform is smeared with mud, and the team looks absolutely exhausted.

“Nolan U is fighting hard for this win,” the commentator says.

The camera flashes along the front of the offensive line as they wait for their turn on the field. They all seem oblivious to the fact that they’re being filmed, their expressions tense and focused.

“Wily Wilson, the guard to watch. He’s having a killer game tonight.”

“He sure is, Reggie. He’s got a high chance of getting drafted for next season, and any NFL team would be lucky to have him.”

I swallow, trying to focus back on the book I’m reading. Flicking the next page, my eyes glide over the text. I’ve read it before, but it’s been a while, and I’m slowly getting back into the story. I remember liking it in high school.

Shuffling on my bed, I curl my legs up, my eyes darting back to the screen as the offensive line run onto the grass and get themselves set up.

I guess it is a big deal that the Cougars have made it this far. They only just made the playoffs last year and were out after the first game. If they win this one, they’ll be going to the finals. That’s epic.

Trying to get into the school spirit, I watch the play, not fully understanding everything they’re doing, although the quarterback just threw a sweet pass that the commentators are going gaga over.

Someone down the other end of the field catches it, and the crowd is going nuts as a swarm of players head in that direction.

My eyebrows dip as I closely watch the screen, wondering if that guy will make it to the end zone. But he gets taken down, and they have to reset.

Geez, football takes forever.

Going back to my book, I try to finish the chapter, but I keep getting distracted between the commentary… and the look on Wily’s face when he was yelling at me.

He wasn’t mad.

I mean, he was mad… but he seemed more desperate than angry. He was frustrated.

“He thinks he’s dumb,” I whisper, hating that idea.

Wily Wilson is a legend at this school. Now that he’s on my radar, I hear his name come up all the time. Everybody loves him. He’s popular, funny, kind. I haven’t heard a bad word spoken about him.

How can a guy that confident think he’s stupid?

“I should have helped him.” I pick up my phone again, unlocking the screen and rereading his text.

And I keep doing that all freaking weekend.

The Nolan U Cougars won their semifinal game, so the school was in party mode on Friday night…

and Saturday night. The common room at the end of the hall thumped with music.

Laughter and cheerfully raised voices kept me awake as I lay in bed staring at the ceiling.

I could have gone down and checked it out.

Everyone was invited. But just the thought of that sent a cold chill sweeping through me.

Parties like that are a minefield, a danger zone. Definitely not the place for me.

I can only imagine what the team got up to.

Images of beer and sinfully good-looking people dancing and sharing drunken kisses—and probably more—have been filling my brain all weekend.

Heat has been flushing through me followed by spine-shaking shudders.

Those kinds of things are so not my scene.

But Wily will no doubt have been in the thick of it, celebrating with the best of them.

And what have I been doing?

Hiding out in my room and trying to find the courage to follow through on an idea I just can’t let go.

So, come Monday, after my morning walk and coffee, I collect my stuff and head for Professor Pilscher’s office. Thankfully he’s there, so I don’t have a chance to lose my nerve when he replies, “Enter,” after my knock.

Easing the door open, I shuffle inside and force a smile. “Good morning, Professor Pilscher.”

“Ah, Elizabeth Satchwell. How are you?”

I let out a soft, surprised laugh. I can’t believe he remembers my name! I had him for one semester last year. Although, I’m grateful I left an impression, because I’m about to ask a really big favor.

“I’m good, sir.” I swallow and shuffle a little closer to his desk.

He looks up, all expectant and curious. “What can I do for you today?”

“Well, um…”

“You’re not taking any literature classes this semester, are you?”

“No, I finished up Comparative Literature just before the winter break.”

“And I’m sure you did very well.” He smiles, and I can’t help blushing.

I nod and softly murmur, “A+.”

“No surprises there.”

I smile at his compliment, brushing it off with a small flick of my hand before playing with my bottom lip .

“So… what is it you need from me, then?”

“Well, sir, um… last semester, you had Wily Wilson in your class.”

The man sits back with a sigh, his eyes rolling.

I bite my lips together, nerves rocketing through me as I force myself to continue. “The thing is, he told me that his final assignment is ungradable, and I was?—”

“He cheated. He used AI and obviously hadn’t read the book. I refuse to grade utter nonsense.”

“I understand that, sir. And you shouldn’t have to,” I agree. “But see, I was supposed to help him with that assignment. I’m his new tutor, and with the Christmas break and everything, I ran out of time to assist him.”

Professor Pilscher’s eyes narrow. “Do you mean you ran out of time to do the work for him?”

My eyes bulge. “No, sir. I would never do that. I’m not that kind of tutor. I believe strongly that people need to learn and produce their own work. I just didn’t have the time I wanted to be able to assist him properly, and he’d left it so late that I just… I hung him out to dry.” I wince.

The English professor’s expression is deadpan as he threads his fingers together. “That is his problem, not yours. He should have been more organized.”

“Yes, but he lost his previous tutor and was struggling to find a new one, and I could have helped him, you know? I could have made the time, but I… I didn’t. And I’m feeling kind of bad about that.”

Clearing his throat, Professor Pilscher taps his hands lightly on his desk. “So, what are you wanting from me?”

“An extension?” My face crumples, my tone going wispy as I ask the impossible .

He shakes his head. “I already gave him one, and he chose to waste it. I’m not repeating that mistake.”

“Please, sir. I’ll make sure he’s organized this time.”

He huffs and gives me a stern frown. “Why are you doing this?”

“Because…” My right shoulder rises as I scramble for the right words. “Because he wants to graduate. And he can’t do that unless he passes your class.”

“And all the courses this semester.”

“I can help him with that.”

The man’s face buckles. “I don’t even know why you want to. He doesn’t want to be here. He looks so bored in class, it’s obvious he’s not listening.”

“Because he doesn’t always understand what he’s hearing. It’s hard to concentrate when you feel completely lost.”

He clenches his jaw, and I hold my breath, studying that ticking muscle on his face. He shuffles forward, resting his forearms on his desk and grumbling, “The NFL will probably draft him anyway.”

“That’s not the point.” I take another step forward and have to wonder why I’m fighting for this football player. I must be out of my mind. “Sir, he deserves to graduate. He’s spent four years?—”

“Not doing his own work, by the looks of things.”

“He’ll do this assignment. I promise you.” Threading my fingers together, I hold them up by my chin. “Please, just give him a chance.”

The professor sighs, mumbling something about irritating jocks.

I press my lips together, squashing my smile .

He’s right. Jocks are irritating, yet I’m going to bat for this one.

Why does that feel good?

And why do I want to clap my hands and celebrate when Professor Pilscher finally says, “Fine. You have until the end of the week.”

“And the weekend?” I cross my fingers. “Please, let him have until Monday. That’s still only five days, and he’s gonna need every one of them.”

The professor snickers and gives me a hard look. “8 a.m. Friday. It better be on this desk.”

I deflate just a little. That timeframe is so tight!

But I’ll take what I can get.

With a nod, I say, “It will be, sir. Thanks for… giving him a chance.”

“Don’t make me regret it.” He points at me, then indicates the door behind me.

I bob a curtsy, because I’m weird that way, before spinning out the door with an elated smile.

Why?

Why am I so elated?

I shouldn’t be triumphant. I’ve just sentenced myself to a week of high stress while I try to tutor this giant who doesn’t think he’s smart enough to get it.

Because you’re going to prove to him that he is. And that part will feel amazing.

With a nervous titter, I tuck myself against the corridor wall and pull out my phone.

Bringing up Wily’s number, I stare at it, chewing on my lip before pressing the green Call button and instantly wondering why I didn’t just text.

What the hell is wrong with me ?

Nobody calls people anymore.

But if I hang up now, he’ll see a missed call from me, and then I’ll have to bumble my way through a text message explanation and?—

“Hello?” His deep voice fills my ear, and an involuntary shiver runs through me. It’s not one of those creepy shudders, though. It’s warm and feels almost… nice.

What the hell is happening to me?

I should not be doing this.

Hang up!

Or freaking say something!

I open my mouth to respond… and nothing comes out.