The Assist (Smart Jocks #1)

by Rebecca Jenshak

  “Hi, excuse me.” I smile brightly and step directly into their path.

  They exchange a confused look but slow down instead of trampling over me like a bug, which they could very much do.

  All five feet and three inches of me stands taller. I make eye contact with each of them, trying to look friendly and not at all intimidated, which I’m not . . . nope, not at all, and then lock my gaze with the sleeper’s. He’s the shortest of the three, but the intensity of his navy blue eyes makes it hard for me to find my voice.

  “I’m Blair, we have statistics class together.” I wave toward the building behind them in case they don’t even know what class they just came from. Apparently, I am still bitter about the grade.

  “Wes,” he says as he shrugs his backpack up higher on one shoulder. “This is Joel and Z.”

  “Nice to meet you.” I look to each of the guys and then back to Wes again, silently communicating he is the one I want to speak to. They don’t get the memo. “Wes, can I talk to you for a minute?”

  “We’ll meet ya at the car,” Joel pipes in, and he and Z leave me alone with Wes. It’s only slightly easier to think without all three of them staring at me with rapt interest.

  “What’s up?”

  “I was wondering if you could tell me who does tutoring for the team? I noticed your test grade the other day, not that I was trying to see it or anything. Sorry, that sounds horrible. I just happened to glance down as I was walking by your desk. Honest mistake. Honestly."

  Deep breath, Blair.

  "Anyway, I didn’t do so well, and I really need an A in this class. Does the team have someone specifically, or do you guys use the tutor center?”

  His eyebrows pull together, and he shifts his weight to his left side, making me conscious that standing here talking to me is probably causing him pain.

  Join the club. This whole interaction is excruciating.

  “I’m lost. You want information on the tutor center?”

  The hot Arizona sun shines bright and sweat trickles down my back. “Just information on the tutor or tutors you’re using . . . for statistics.”

  “You think I have a tutor?”

  “I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to be rude, but it’s just you’re sleeping through class.”

  He crosses his arms over his chest in a silent challenge. The neckline of his shirt pulls down, revealing a hint of tan chest underneath. Annoyed is a good look for him.

  “You don’t have a tutor?” The question is no more than a mumble. Or maybe I just can’t hear it because my pulse is pounding in my ears. I open my mouth several times and then promptly close it when I can’t find the words to apologize. He smirks as he watches me grapple with the realization that I’ve made a very wrong, very humiliating assumption.

  Uncrossing his arms, he takes one step in the direction his friends went. “Tutor center is on the first floor of the library.” He points in the direction of the campus library, making me feel about a foot tall. “I’m sure someone there can help.”

  As I watch him walk away, admiring his gait that’s somehow sexy and confident even with the boot, I wonder—statistically speaking, of course—what are the odds that the guy sleeping at the back of the class could not only pull off an A but also manage to get that grade without help?

  I have no idea, probably because I’m failing statistics. My guess, though? Not good.

  I arrive back to the scene of the crime, aka statistics class, with a cup of coffee, a new pen to inspire better note taking, and a determination to hide from Wes and company. I slip in five minutes early so I can grab a seat and be wholly enthralled when they show up. I don’t fancy myself important enough that they’d seek me out, but my humiliation has big plans of cowering and hiding for the rest of the semester.

  As if my body is now connected to my mortification, I feel the exact moment they enter the classroom.

  Wes Reynolds, Joel Moreno, and Zeke Sweets are quite a trio. Yep, I looked them up. I'm calling it research, but in reality, I just wanted to have all the information on the guy I'd thoroughly insulted. They sit in the middle section at the very top, giving them a bird’s eye view of the entire class. If Wes’s eyes were ever open, would have been nearly impossible to be out of his line of sight. I’m not invisible, but it’s as far away as I can get.

  Zeke pulls his red headphones down and rests them around his neck as he squeezes his large frame into the seat. According to everyone I asked (more research, of course), Zeke is already rumored to be going pro after this season.

  Wes wears a glare that would frighten small children . . . or grown ass women because I slink down in my seat as I continue to watch him. I have a hard time looking anywhere else, glare be damned. He’s unbelievably gorgeous. Hell, they all are. Even Joel, who hasn’t looked up from his phone, is strikingly handsome with his black hair and bronzed skin.

  When Wes glances around the class and his blue stare lands on me, I become very interested in my notes from the last class, reading over them with a fervor I should have tried before the last test.

  When we’re dismissed, I hang back, waiting for the last row to leave before making my way up the stairs, but when the auditorium is nearly cleared out and the three musketeers haven’t made any move to leave, I’m left with no other choice but to suck it up and hope they don’t notice me.

  Joel nudges him as I approach. Nothing gets past that guy. It’s as if he’s Wes’s eyes and ears. As Wes’s dark blue eyes land on me, I plaster on a big smile and decide to be the bigger person. “Hello.”

  Wes stands, awkwardly making his way to the aisle and holding on to the back of the chair for support. A flash of pain crosses his handsome features as he meets me on the stairs.

  “Ball Buster Girl.”

  “I’m sorry about the other day. I just assumed . . .”

  “That I was a dumb jock who couldn’t possibly get a passing grade without the help of a tutor or tutorsss?” He emphasizes the plural version with a hiss as he trails me out of the auditorium. As we come to the door, he steps close and pushes the handle, swinging it open and holding it with one large hand. A gentleman. Interesting.

  “To be fair you haven’t made much of an effort to look like someone who is trying to get a good grade.”

  We stop on the sidewalk, and I’m aware of Joel and Zeke hanging back and giving us space. Wes adjusts his hat, lifting it so I get a glimpse of the dirty blonde hair matted down like he’d slept in the damn hat. Right, he had . . . just now.

  “I could ace that class even if I never showed up.”

  “That’s an awfully bold statement for the first month of class.”

  He shrugs. “Any luck finding a tutor?”

  “Not yet, but I’m sure I’ll have no problem finding someone who passed statistics with their eyes open.”

  His lips part, and his straight, white teeth peek out. “Good luck with that.”

  I shove my ear buds in and put on my favorite podcast and head toward the library. By the time I get to the tutor center located on the first floor of the campus library (already knew this without the help of Wes, thank you very much), I’ve turned my humiliation into focused anger.

  Okay, so I jumped to conclusions too quickly, but if he can get an A with his eyes closed, surely, I can manage with a whole lot of determination and a tiny bit of help.

  I'm still bristling at the way his indigo eyes laughed at me. He could have politely set me straight instead of acting as if I’d personally attacked his intelligence. Okay, maybe I had, but I mean, how was I supposed to know that the guy sleeping at the back of the class somehow magically aced the first test without help, which I’m still not entirely convinced he did.

  A text from Gabby momentarily pulls me from my foul mood.

  Gabs: Still coming down next Wednesday?

  Me: Of course I am! It’s your twenty-first so we’re going out!

  She doesn’t text back, which tells me she isn’t exactly on board with my plan to celebrate
her twenty-first but knows me well enough to know I’m not going to take no for an answer.

  I tuck my phone away as I walk to the tutor center’s front desk.

  “Hey, Blair, what are you doing here?” Molly, a sophomore sorority sister, asks from behind the sign in area.

  “I have a question for you.” I lean against the counter and pull out my ear buds.

  “Shoot.” Molly places both elbows onto the counter.

  “What can you tell me about tutors for the athletic teams on campus?”

  She scrunches her nose and tilts her head to the side. “Are you interested in being a tutor?”

  “No, no. Nothing like that. I just wondered if you could tell me who tutors the athletes. Do they have their own private tutors, or do they come here for help?”

  “I’m not aware of any tutoring services specific to the teams on campus. I suppose they could have personal tutors, but I’ve never heard of it. Why?”

  “So, they come here?”

  “We don’t get a lot of athletes in here despite the assumption they need it. I mean, no more than any other group."

  Great, I really am a profiling bitch.

  Molly rattles on, "There’s a few guys from the football team that come in regularly. Baseball team, softball team, wrestlers . . . yeah, I guess as far as I know the ones that need help come here.”

  “What about the men’s basketball team? Do any of them come in for tutoring?”

  She brings her thumb to her mouth and bites on the pad of it while she considers my question carefully. “Not that I can think of.”

  Damn.

  “Do you guys have anyone for statistics?”

  She grimaces. “Must be rough if you need help.”

  I nod. “D on the first test.”

  “Ouch,” she says as she flips through papers hanging on a clipboard. “We have Sally and Tom in today, they both tutor math. I think they mostly do algebra and calculus, but I could put you in the schedule and you could meet with one of them and give it a try. Interested?”

  “Sure. Why not? Got anything now? I’m done with classes for the day, and I don’t want to come back to campus this afternoon if I can help it.”

  “Looks like Tom is free after his current session. You can hang over there.” She nods to a section of chairs and couches pushed to one side of the room. “He should be done in ten minutes or so.”

  I stop short of the waiting area, spying the men’s basketball schedule on the wall with a picture of the team decked out in their uniforms. The guys stand stoic and unsmiling, and my eyes drift first to Wes. He stands in the back row, wearing jersey twelve. His legs are hidden by the guy standing in front of him, which makes it impossible for me to see if he’s wearing the boot. My research didn’t pull up any information on his injury, so I don’t know if it’s recent, what he did, or even if he’ll be out for the season. I’m suddenly very curious about Wes Reynolds.

  In truth, I’ve paid very little attention to any of the jocks since arriving at Valley. Freshman year, I’d barely looked at anyone who wasn’t in a fraternity. Greek life became a home away from home, and there was something exciting about finding a guy who had the same sort of passion for his fraternity brothers as I had for my sisters. And, of course, fraternity guys love nothing more than they love freshman pledges.

  By the end of sophomore year, the guys at socials and parties started to blend together and Vanessa and I’d stopped choosing our weekend activities based on frat parties. We plan on moving out of the sorority into an off-campus apartment next year. I’ll always treasure my years at the sorority, but I’m ready to have my own space.

  David had been the quintessential frat guy, and I'd fallen for his charm and good looks before I'd realized what a monster he is beneath the shiny facade. Too little too late. It isn’t as if I think all frat guys are douchebags based on one bad experience, but it’s like getting food poisoning at a restaurant. Even if it was the cook’s fault, your brain associates the restaurant itself with a horrible experience and you aren’t likely to go back anytime soon.

  When Tom finally waves me over, I’m so hopeful I could burst. But my optimism only lasts a few minutes. I’m not an idiot. Far from it. I get the basic principles of business statistics. I’ve read the book and memorized definitions. It’s the real-world application that is just out of reach. Math word problems were the devil in sixth grade, and they haven’t gotten any easier no matter how much I study.

  Molly catches me on my way out. “Any luck?”

  “No.” I exhale a deep breath. “There has to be someone on campus who tutors statistics.”

  "Did anyone at the house have O’Sean last year?”

  "I asked around. Nothing.”

  “I’ll see if anyone here knows anything,” she offers. “Someone has to have something on him. Old quizzes or tests. I’ve heard he’s old-school and still does everything on paper."

  Of course. Why hadn’t it occurred to me sooner? Wes must have gotten his hands on tests from someone who’d taken statistics last year. O'Sean seems exactly like the type of professor to re-use the same material every year. That has to be the answer. Wes isn't sleeping through class and magically learning by osmosis. He already has the answers.

  4

  Wes

  “Rise and shine,” Joel says as he nudges me. I’m not asleep. I wish I were. My eyes are closed, hat pulled down, but there’s no sleep to be had.

  “She’s coming back for more.” The tone in his voice is almost inspired.

  I don’t have to look up to know who he’s talking about, but I do anyway. She’s the most entertaining thing about this class. Open my eyes and lift the hat, turn it backward so my view isn’t the least bit blocked.

  Today she’s wearing little pink shorts that show off tan legs, yellow tennis shoes that don’t match but somehow work, and a bracelet with a little charm around her left ankle. It’s too small to make out, but I stare anyway. Her brown hair is pulled up in a high ponytail, and she has a megawatt smile plastered on her face. A big bow on top of her head is all she’d need to look like head cheerleader of my high school fantasies.

  “Wes, hey, can I talk to you for a second?”

  “What’s up?”

  I’m hella impressed by the balls on this chick. She’s put her foot in her mouth, not once, but twice, and damn near insulted the entire student athlete population, but she keeps coming back. She has determination and grit. I admire that about her.

  I also am not in the least bit offended by her assumption that I’m a dumb jock. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t surprised she came right out and asked who my tutor was, but I know exactly what it looks like. I’ve fed into the stereotype for years, doing nothing to make it seem otherwise. Well, nothing but get straight A’s.

  “I have sort of a favor.”

  “What’s up?” I stand to walk with her out of the class.

  “The tutor center was a bust. I know you said . . .” She looks like she’s choosing her words carefully. “Do you have old study notes or tests from previous semesters?”

  “Still convinced I’m not capable of passing on my own, huh?”

  “I’m sorry, really, no offense. I just want in on whatever study materials you’re using. I can’t afford to fail another test. What’s your secret?”

  The secret? I’m fucking smart. Photographic memory smart and statistics is my whole world, but I can’t resist messing with her.

  “You know, saying no offense doesn’t make whatever you’re saying less offensive. It just makes you feel better about saying something offensive.”

  Joel snickers behind me. I just can’t resist fucking with her. She’s making it too easy.

  “Sorry. I’m really so sorry. What about the other guys on the team? Anyone have any awesome math tutors who aren’t available to us non-jock students? I can pay.”

  “Couldn’t say for sure, but I don’t think so. Most the guys hold their own academically.” I lean in catching a whiff of
her hair. It smells good—like sugar cookies or candy canes or something sugary sweet that I want to sink my teeth into. “Shocking, I know.”

  Her shoulders slump in defeat, and I can tell she’s finally accepted that I have no answers for her. At this point, I almost wish I knew of someone to send her to. I don’t exactly travel in circles that clue me in on secret study sessions and underground tutor societies.

  “Thanks anyway.” She gives a little wave with the hand clutched around the strap of her backpack.

  Joel catches up to me, and we watch as she crosses the campus toward the library. “Dude. That chick . . .”

  “I know,” I say, and we continue to stare after her completely awe stricken.

  “Quit gawking after the poor girl and let’s go. I’m hungry.” Z’s voice pulls at me just as Blair disappears from sight.

  When I turn, Z’s grinning like he heard the entire exchange, despite the fact he has his headphones on. Sometimes I wonder if he even has music playing or if he just uses them as a deterrent. I don’t have the heart to break it to him that he’s intimidating as fuck and probably doesn’t need another reason for people not to engage.

  Back at the house we sit around the television watching ESPN and devouring the chicken pasta shit that Joel’s mom dropped off earlier. She has taken it upon herself to keep us fed and our pantry stocked. Several times a week we come home to find casseroles in our fridge, index cards with cooking instructions taped to the top of the tin foil.

  “Why do girls insist on using eight emojis for every text?” Joel asks without looking up from his phone. His fingers tap at top speed on the damn thing.

  “I dunno,” Nathan says from the floor. He’s alternating sets of push-ups and sit-ups. That’s Nathan for you. One minute, he’s cramming nicotine and alcohol in his system, and the next, he’s doing bonus workouts. I guess it evens itself out. “It’s up there with using text slang when it isn’t any shorter. Using the number two in place of the word to saves what? Like a half second?”