by Avon Gale
“And Mr. Wheeling will be disciplined appropriately, I assure you.”
“Good.” Tristan grabbed his bag and got to his feet, staring down into dark, unreadable eyes. “Are we done here, Professor?” He needed to get out of this office before the tenuous grip on his temper snapped.
“We’re done.”
Tristan stalked to the door, his heart racing. He paused on the threshold and looked over his shoulder. “You know, for all your preaching about privilege and tolerance in class, you seem pretty biased yourself. Maybe it’s time for a bit of introspection, Professor.”
He walked away without waiting for a response. Fury blazed bright in his chest. Tristan wanted to go back in there and really rip Professor Cruz a new one. Instead of doing something rash, he slammed out of the closest exit into the hot summer afternoon.
Tristan wasn’t sure what made him angrier—the plagiarism accusation or that fucker Steven cozying up to him in class and then stealing his paper. Steven must’ve known what Professor Cruz wanted to talk to Tristan about today, and he hadn’t even looked guilty when Professor Cruz asked to see Tristan in his office. That little shit.
No, Tristan did know what pissed him off more—the assumption that he, Tristan, would be the one to steal someone else’s work, based solely on appearances. Professor Cruz, a college-educated man who taught sociology and should theoretically be above stereotyping, had clearly slotted Tristan into the “dumb, blond jock” category without giving him the benefit of the doubt. It was unfair, and more than that, it was infuriating.
“Son of a bitch!” Tristan snarled, startling a short guy who’d been walking unnoticed beside him.
The guy squeaked, wide-eyed, and scrambled away.
Tristan raised his hands, palms out. “Oh, no, sorry, man. Sorry. Not you.”
The guy took off without answering, and Tristan cringed as guilt cramped his stomach. Breathing harshly, he detoured from the walking path and stopped under the shade of a tree.
“Get a grip, Holtzy,” he muttered, shaking out his limbs. He hadn’t been this enraged or disappointed since his disallowed goal lost the Venom game six of the first round of the playoffs, forcing the game seven that ended their run at the Stanley Cup Final. If he saw Steven right now, Tristan didn’t know what he’d do. Choke the little fucker, probably.
Breathe. Breathe.
Good thing Tristan was fairly certain Professor Cruz would ensure the thieving douchebag never stepped foot in his class again. That was the only upside in this situation. The rest of it was a disaster. Tristan’s ill-advised crush on his professor had thrown him off-kilter, causing him to invent a connection between them that didn’t actually exist. Why should it matter what Professor Cruz thought or assumed? The dude was a judgmental, sanctimonious prick. His opinions meant less than nothing. And if there was a bigger boner-killer than being threatened with disciplinary action—and not the fun kind—by the guy he’d been thirsting for, Tristan couldn’t imagine it.
God, he felt like such an asshole for even entertaining any of those sex fantasies in the first place. Professor Cruz had ripped Tristan’s rose-tinted glasses right off. Maybe it was for the best. Tristan didn’t need to be lusting after one of his teachers anyway. In another four weeks, he wouldn’t have to see Professor Cruz or hear his name ever again.
One thing was certain: Mr. Sociology needed to take a long, hard look at his own personal prejudices. If Tristan wanted, he could report Professor Cruz to the school board or the chair or whoever the hell was in charge of these kinds of things. He’d have to check the handbook to find out for sure, but Tristan couldn’t imagine they’d appreciate hearing one of their staff members had made such a gigantic screwup. Lucky for Professor Cruz, Tristan wasn’t inclined to be petty. But that definitely wouldn’t stop him from being pissed off.
Chapter Five
After Tristan left his office, Sebastian sat in his chair and stared moodily at his computer screen while he cursed himself for being such an asshole.
He’d completely misjudged the situation and made assumptions based on Tristan’s appearance, which was totally unprofessional—not to mention went against everything Sebastian taught as a sociologist. What the hell was wrong with him that he’d been so quick to assume Tristan was the plagiarist frat boy?
He couldn’t deny that he was glad Tristan wasn’t a plagiarist, but it didn’t change the fact that he was disappointed in himself for his own behavior.
“So, because I look like an empty-headed jock and he’s some hipster nerd, he had more credibility than me?”
Groaning quietly, Sebastian stood up and shoved his things back in his messenger bag. He knew he was going to have to apologize to Tristan. Some sociology professor he was. They should revoke his PhD and send him back to undergrad.
Maybe it was the lingering effects of the Catholic upbringing, but Sebastian had a strong desire to confess his stupidity to someone so he could feel better about what he’d done.
Preferably over alcohol, but it was way too early in the day for that.
As he made his way to the Math Department, he kept a wary eye out for Tristan, and wasn’t sure if he was relieved or disappointed not to run into him. Remembering that flash of hurt in Tristan’s bright-blue eyes made him wince, and he was in a bad mood when he knocked on R.J.’s office and waited for his friend’s gruff, “Come in,” before shoving the door open.
“Hey, Seb,” R.J. said, but his friendly smile dimmed somewhat as he took in Seb’s stormy expression. “You need help hiding a body or what? You look pissed as hell.”
“I’m an idiot,” Sebastian said bluntly. “I did something exceedingly stupid, and I can’t believe myself.”
“Um.” R.J. gestured to the chair in front of his desk. “Have a seat and tell me about it.”
Sebastian gave him the short version, telling him about the plagiarized paper and how he’d immediately assumed Tristan was the plagiarist instead of the original author. He’d just mentioned Tristan’s name when R.J. held up a hand to stop him.
“Wait—wait. You said Tristan Holt...you don’t mean the hockey player, do you?”
“His paper was about hockey, yeah,” said Sebastian, momentarily confused. “Does he play for GSU? I didn’t know the school even had a hockey team.” Sebastian scowled. “Then again, apparently I don’t know much of anything, today.”
“Dude.” R.J.’s eyes went wide. He was apparently ignoring Sebastian’s momentary lapse into dramatics. “Tristan Holt doesn’t play hockey for the college. He plays hockey for the Venom.”
“The...what?”
R.J. snorted, typed something on his computer and then gestured for Sebastian to come around his desk. “Look.”
Sebastian walked around and peered over R.J.’s shoulder. There, on the screen, were images of Tristan in green-and-gold hockey gear. He took in Tristan’s broad shoulders, looking even more so in the pads, and then glanced at R.J. before finding his eyes drawn once more to the screen.
“The Atlanta Venom is an NHL team,” R.J. explained. “Your student is a professional athlete.”
That would explain Tristan’s papers—the very insightful paper about hockey, and, Sebastian realized, the first assignment about finding oneself suddenly jumping from one economic class to another. A glance at the Wikipedia page R.J. pulled up showed that Tristan’s entry-level contract had been nearly two million dollars. Even spread out over a couple of years, that was a hell of a lot of money—especially for a twenty-three-year-old. And that was before a recent contract extension.
R.J. was still extolling Tristan’s virtues as a defenseman—apparently he was a hockey fan—which was not helping Sebastian feel better about his fuckup. Nor did it help when R.J. said, “That’s impressive he’s got this great career and he’s getting his degree at the same time. Takes a lot of dedication.”
Sebastian crossed his arms and
shot R.J. the same sharp stare he gave his students. “You’re not helping.”
R.J. shrugged. “I don’t think there’s really anything I can say that will. You fucked up and you know it. Did you apologize?”
“Of course,” Sebastian snapped, perhaps a little too hastily. At R.J.’s disbelieving look, he scowled harder and raked a hand through his hair. “I—All right, no, not really. But I was going to. He left before I had the chance.”
R.J. tilted his head to look up at Sebastian, who moved away when he realized he was looming over his friend and practically crowding him. “Well, you should probably do that.”
“Yes,” Sebastian said, testily. “I know.” He went back and grabbed his bag from the chair, shouldering it. “Meanwhile, I have to do something about the student who actually plagiarized.”
R.J. gave him a sympathetic look that was completely and utterly contrived. “You’re sure you got the right one this time, Cruz? You need me to google any more student athletes for you?”
“Oh, shut up,” Sebastian muttered, but despite his surly tone, he knew that R.J. wouldn’t take it personally. It was obvious that Sebastian was only upset with himself. “You want to meet later for a drink?”
“I promised to run a study group tonight,” R.J. said, clearly regretful. “Rain check?”
“Sure,” said Sebastian, and promised that yes, he would apologize to Tristan and no, he wasn’t going to ask him for hockey tickets.
After leaving R.J.’s office, Sebastian headed home and changed his clothes to go for a run. He was training for a half marathon, and technically he should do a seven-mile run today. Lucky for him, that wasn’t a problem—he was in the mood to run at least ten. Of course, the heat and humidity of the Georgia summer day was enough to make him reconsider the longer distance. But every time he thought about what had happened with Tristan, he forced himself to keep going until he was covered in sweat and his muscles burned from exertion.
Once home, he showered, fixed himself a light supper and drank practically a half gallon of water. He felt better than he would have if he’d gone out for a drink, and he was glad that R.J. had that study group after all.
Once he was finished with the dishes, he sat down and pulled out his notes for the next class meeting. He’d already made it clear that he never deviated from the syllabus, but this time, he was going to make an exception. As he jotted down a few reminders and reviewed the class roster, mind cleared from the exercise and determined to make up for his mistake, Sebastian started putting together a plan.
* * *
“I know the syllabus says we’re supposed to discuss the systems of power that are put in place to keep people stagnant in their circumstances, but there’s something else I want to address.” Sebastian faced his class, his eyes touching briefly on Tristan’s.
“Our last assignment was about perceptions, and how those perceptions can affect our behaviors—both positively and negatively.” Sebastian leaned back against the desk, his posture far more casual than normal. “In my case, it was the latter. I made an egregious assumption based on appearance, and it was both unprofessional and shortsighted of me.” He gave a slight nod to Tristan. “Even those of us who study these sorts of things for a living aren’t immune. That’s how powerful these biases are.”
Sebastian then asked the students if they wanted to talk about the experiences they’d written about in their last assignments. At first it was a bit like pulling teeth, but after a while, they had some actual dialogue about the ideas and concepts they’d been discussing. It wasn’t precisely lively, but it was more interactive—and more engaging—than classes had been thus far.
After class, Sebastian waited for Tristan to walk past his desk and stopped him with a quiet, “If you wouldn’t mind staying behind for a few minutes, Mr. Holt, I’d appreciate it.”
Tristan was wearing those sweatpants that were so distracting, and his hair—which had been damp when he’d shown up for class today—had dried into soft spikes. He shifted his backpack and nodded, waiting quietly while the other students filed out of the room.
A few of them actually told him to have a nice weekend, which was a change. Sebastian acknowledged them with a nod, trying not to focus entirely on the young man waiting next to him. Tristan smelled like soap and faintly like fabric softener, as if those distracting sweatpants had been taken directly from the laundry that morning and pulled on over freshly showered skin—
“Professor Cruz?”
Sebastian cleared his throat, realizing with a slight twinge of embarrassment that they were alone. “Yes, Mr. Holt. I owe you an apology for my assumption that you’d plagiarized your paper. You’re right, it was entirely my fault for assuming that you were the plagiarist because of the way you looked.”
Tristan smiled a bit. “Yeah, well. I’m used to people making assumptions about me.”
Sebastian nodded. “I’m sure you are, but it doesn’t excuse my behavior. Your assignments have all been very insightful, and I meant all of the comments that I’ve left for you. I’m not sure what you’re planning on doing for your final paper, but I’m looking forward to reading it.”
“I’m...thinking about a couple of things.” Tristan raked a hand through his hair. “I haven’t narrowed it down yet, though.”
“Well, if there’s anything you’d like to discuss with me, please feel free to do so. Also, just to reassure you, Steven Wheeling has been removed from this class and assigned a failing grade for the summer term. He was made to understand that stealing a classmate’s paper is entirely unacceptable.” Sebastian wanted to add something else, but he didn’t know what.
“Okay, good,” said Tristan. “Thanks, Professor Cruz.”
He liked the way that sounded, Sebastian realized, in a way that was as inappropriate as his erroneous assumption of plagiarism had been...only in a completely different way. “You’re welcome. I appreciate the opportunity to apologize, and thank you for accepting it.” He paused. “I also think it’s wonderful what you’re doing, pursuing your education in addition to playing a professional sport. That must take an incredible amount of dedication.”
If anything, Tristan looked embarrassed by Sebastian’s entirely genuine praise. His fair skin pinkened slightly, and it gave Sebastian even more inappropriate thoughts about what else he could do to make Tristan flush like that.
“Some days it’s more work than others.” Tristan gave Sebastian a nice smile, teeth slightly crooked in a way that was somehow just as attractive as the rest of him. “Have a good weekend, Professor.”
“You too, Mr. Holt,” said Sebastian, and didn’t even pretend not to stare at Tristan’s ass on his way out.
Chapter Six
Tristan wished he hated Sebastian Cruz. No one who knew the circumstances would blame him if he did. After the plagiarism accusation, Tristan’s hatred would’ve been entirely justified. And being threatened with academic consequences for an act he hadn’t committed should have been enough to snuff out any lingering lust Tristan might’ve felt for someone so completely, incredibly off-limits.
Except it hadn’t. Tristan didn’t hate Professor Cruz. At all. In fact, Tristan wanted him more than ever. The sexual fantasies had only gotten more graphic, more arousing, in the days since that damned class last week, and the apology afterward.
Tristan knew how much it had cost Professor Cruz to admit to his fault and confess to his personal biases. The man didn’t exactly lack in pride, and it seemed to Tristan he was probably used to being on the defensive—as a gay man, as a person of color. None of that excused Professor Cruz’s behavior—and maybe forgiving him made Tristan a soft touch—but it wasn’t in his nature to hold a grudge. Tristan respected someone who owned up to their mistakes. It took courage and a level of self-awareness that a lot of people lacked.
Also...there was the small matter of Professor Cruz’s thorough, and unsubtle, appraisal
of Tristan’s body.
He’d caught the quick once-over Professor Cruz had given him at the end of class, and he’d felt that same stare burning into his ass as he walked out of the lecture hall.
It wasn’t a stretch to assume Professor Cruz might be as attracted to Tristan as Tristan was to him. Imagining how the man’s intensity would carry over into sex made Tristan want to pant. It didn’t take much more than that—and Professor Cruz’s apology—to reignite the burgeoning flare of lust Tristan had been trying so hard to stifle.
Sebastian Cruz wasn’t a classically handsome man. He was too sharp-featured, too forbidding. Yet somehow that severity fascinated Tristan. He appreciated the bold, striking lines of Professor Cruz’s face. They made him interesting. And the way Professor Cruz scowled and generally seemed annoyed by the universe at large made Tristan’s balls feel heavy and his stomach warm with want. What that said about Tristan’s psyche, he didn’t know. He’d always been attracted to authoritative men. He liked bossy tops, and judging by what he’d seen of Professor Cruz, Tristan couldn’t picture him being anything but demanding in bed. Of course, it didn’t hurt that Professor Cruz had the sort of body Tristan’s wet dreams were made of.
So if Tristan left class on Tuesday and jerked off to the fantasy of being fucked hard over the desk in Professor Cruz’s office, well, no one else had to know. And if he did it again on Wednesday morning before going to meet Ryu, that was between him and his right hand.
Ryu had returned from Sweden over the weekend and seemed more than ready to get back to their usual routine. They followed a similar exercise regimen and often worked out with the same trainer, so it made sense to do it together. Tristan knew they made an unlikely pair. Him, the son of simple Midwestern farmers; Ryu, raised in Los Angeles and born to a world-renowned surgeon and a former gold-medal-winning Olympian. But Tristan was closer to Ryu than anyone else on the team.