by Mia Luxe
If I can teach her a little focus, she’s going to unlock her full potential. There’s brilliance in her.
She approaches my desk and I can’t keep my eyes off her. A stunning creature, a perfect, lithe minx. Her body is athletic and toned, and she walks with purpose. Her classy skirt and blouse would be suited for the boardroom. She doesn’t dress like the other students. Not like the slackers in their grubby clothes from last night, and not like the pathetic simpering sorority girls that bat their lashes at me while pushing together their cleavage.
She blurs the line in my mind.
Don’t think of how bad you want to bend her over your desk and make her moan. Remember what happened to Professor Muntz? He got caught with a grad student, and when it came out that her grades shot up when she started going down, she got kicked out of her program.
Olivia is your student. Don’t think of her as anything else.
No matter how gorgeous she is.
Volcanic
Olivia Abernathy - Monday Morning
I’m the first to arrive in the huge class. There was no way I was going to risk fighting my way through the wave of students getting to their 10:00 am start times. The surge of students makes the risk of people bumping into me, spilling coffee on my paper, or any other freak accident too high. By getting to class early and beating the rush, I reduce the risk. Simple.
My heels ring out on the steps as I walk down to the lecture stage where Professor Harrison is sitting at his massive desk. The desk would dwarf a regular sized man, but he makes it look like the little desks we had in grade school. He sits with a straight, proud back, his physique clear under the fitted blue dress shirt. As I approach he flashes his arrogant smile at me, the one that makes me want to slap him in the face.
That arrogant smile that makes women melt for him. Well, not this woman. When a man is that handsome, that rich, and that cocky, you know he wraps women around his fingers. I’m not going to swoon over you like every other girl in this class.
“Good morning, Professor Harrison,” I say formally, not letting any of my emotion enter my voice.
He looks at me with his intense blue eyes as if nothing else in the room exists.
He looks at me like he can read every single thought in my mind. If he could, he would know that smug, conceited and arrogant don’t even start to describe him. I can’t let my words betray what I think of him.
“Welcome, Miss Abernathy. Put your assignment down on the corner of my desk.”
There’s never a please with him. It’s like he is giving an order, not asking me nicely to put something down.
“Certainly,” I say, placing my file folder down neatly in the corner. I smooth an indent in the front of the file folder of it that I somehow missed this morning. As I lean forward, he shocks me by grabbing my wrist. His touch makes a tingle run down my spine and I try to pull away, but his grip is iron strong as his huge hand wraps around me.
He examines me closely, making me shiver. There is anger and concern in his eyes as he cocks his head to the side, furrowing his brows.
“Did someone hit you?” His voice is hoarse. Strained. I’ve never heard it like this before.
Of course. The bruise.
My cheeks burn with embarrassment. It’s so unprofessional to show up to class like this.
“No, nothing like that. I got smacked by a volleyball last night.”
It sounds so lame when I say it.
He lets go of my hand, and his smirk replaces all hints of concern.
“I heard it was a close game - let’s hope the next one goes better. I’m looking forward to reading your paper.”
A little shock runs through me.
You’re looking forward to reading my paper? Yeah right. Why would you look forward to reading work that’s only ever worth a B?
I force a smile and walk to the front row of the class. I always like to sit at the front. My first day of class I was so nervous I sat at the back, but watching the guy in the row below mine playing some stupid game on his laptop was too distracting.
I can’t believe there are people like that. Students who come to class and play games, or don’t pay attention. Don’t they realize how important college is? Don’t they realize you have to work hard?
I wait patiently as students file into the classroom and place stacks of assignments onto mine. A little surge of satisfaction that mine was the first handed in runs through me, but it only lasts a moment. Last night’s game takes away any hint of pride I feel. It was the worst volleyball game of my life.
Because of me, my team is not going to make playoffs.
The scene from last night keeps playing back through my mind, over and over. The loud squeal of the gym floor under my feet as I dove for the ball. It felt like it was moving in slow motion, slipping right out of my fingers and thudding to the floor.
I was out of position.
I had been cheating to one side. Their player had been targeting the same spot over and over. As the ball thudded against the hardwood floor of the gym, I understood too late. I was being drawn out, slowly but surely, thinking I was one step ahead when I was two behind.
When you score a point in volleyball, you celebrate. You aren't supposed to laugh at your opponent’s mistakes.
That is exactly what the Stanford team did.
They are the top of the league this year and they know it. As I got up, my body aching, their outside hitter couldn’t help herself. She had to throw the jab in.
“This ain’t high school ball, rook.”
That first mistake felt like slow motion. The second, third and fourth mistakes were all hot fire. Play after play I tried to force plays that didn’t work. After the fourth misplay, I had to watch steaming from the sidelines. My disappointed coach pulled me out of the game. Relegated to the bench.
There is a bitterness to defeat.
That, I can handle.
The taste in my mouth after throwing the lead in an all-important game is tougher to swallow.
The words Coach Feldman said when he pulled me out halfway through the game keep echoing in my mind.
“Get your head straight if you want to start next game.”
Those words rang in my head as I watched on the sidelines. Helplessly. My team went down point by point to lose. The feeling of watching my team fail because of my stupid mistakes made my blood boil last night, and it makes my blood boil in the classroom.
The classroom fills up as everyone hurries to take their seats. Steven sits down next to me with a little wave. He started off the year hitting on me, but when he realized I had zero interest in anything other than the lectures he gave up. We’ve studied together a few times, and now he’s more interested in my notes than anything else. I occasionally catch him checking me out, but I chalk it up to boys being boys.
To Steven’s right sit two girls who I don’t even bother to remember the names of. They are a pair of Barbies, dolled up and wearing push-up bras who like to lean forward whenever Professor Harrison looks their way. I have suspicion that the only reason they even took this class is part of a plan to seduce him.
Professor Harrison begins the lecture exactly on time. No one is ever late for his classes. Well, once a stoner-looking guy walked in five minutes after class had started. Before he could even sit down Professor Harrison took one look at him and told him to leave.
If you don’t get to my class on time, you don’t get to be in my class.
Those were the words he used. Simple, to the point, and effective. I’m pretty sure that guy dropped the course that same day.
I should be focusing on the lecture, but all I can think of is last night. Every win or loss affects whether we make it into playoffs. It’s impossible to shake off the fact that my mistakes cost my team everything.
It doesn’t matter how much you pay attention. If he asks me a question my answer is never good enough.
Professor Harrison thinks I’m not good enough. Maybe… Maybe I’m not.
&
nbsp; The sting of my last B grade in the class is fresh on my mind, but it is nothing compared to messing up so bad in the game. My breath quickens with anger.
Over and over thoughts of last night’s game torment me, my fist clenching hard.
I am pulled out of my thoughts by Professor Harrison’s curt, commanding voice.
“I asked you a direct question, Miss Abernathy. If you want to succeed, you need to pay attention. Answer the question.”
Half the classroom is staring at me. I have no recollection of what he asked me. His voice makes my teeth clench. The way he is talking down at me, laughing at me like the girls on the other team last night.
“I’m sorry, could you repeat the question?”
“Do you think that shareholders at a board meeting are going to ask twice if the CEO is dozing off?”
All my anger from last night’s game boils over, my voice raised to just below a yell.
“If you weren’t such an asshole and always tear our answers apart, people would want to answer your damn questions!”
The gasp from the students makes me realize what I said. Steven’s mouth is agape like a fish out of water.
“Oh my God,” says one of Barbies to the right, her penciled in eyebrows lifting up like they want to escape her head.
My cheeks burn bright red in flushed embarrassment. Professor Harrison’s smug look is gone. It’s replaced by steel. His intense blue eyes scrutinize me with laser focus. My anger disappears, replaced with shock and terror.
Oh my God. Did I say that out loud?
The silence drags on. He does not look shocked, or surprised, or anything. His face is perfectly emotionless. He stares, and I swear the clock stops moving.
“My office. Now. You will wait patiently there until the end of class.”
I try to form words, but nothing comes out. Professor Harrison is standing shock still and his stare pierces me. His ice-cold gaze dares me to do anything but grab my bags and slink to his office.
With all eyes staring at me, I get up, walking with my head hung low. As I walk I keep cursing myself for sitting in the front of the class. Cursing myself for making the most unprofessional, stupid outburst of my life.
Every instinct is telling me to run up the stairs and out the door. I force myself to breathe, trying to control my panic and finally I am out of the classroom and into the hallways.
Oh my God, what did I do?
Torturous Time
Olivia Abernathy - Monday Morning
My cheeks are bright red for the entire walk of shame to Professor Harrison’s office. I got called into the principal’s office once growing up. This feels a million times worse.
I pause before his office. His name is on the door, mocking me.
The one class you needed to make a good impression, and now you’ve ruined everything.
It feels wrong to walk into any Professor’s office while he is not there. It feels even more wrong to walk into Professor Harrison’s. I realize I don’t know anything about the man who irks me so. All I know is that he has a passion for business and thinks he is God’s gift to the college.
Going into his office and waiting for him is exactly what he told me to do, so I have no real choice in the matter. I open the door hesitantly, feeling like an intruder in his domain.
Great. I get to wait here for him to chew me out. Is he going to yell? God, it’s so humiliating getting sent here in front of everyone. Part of the punishment is sitting here in dread. I’m stuck waiting and worrying for the thirty minutes until class ends. It’s his fault! He made me lose my temper in front of everyone.
His office is small, with a window looking out at the college’s main courtyard. The courtyard used to be filled with students lounging or throwing Frisbees. Now the brisk November weather has emptied the space except for a few brave souls sitting on benches and sipping coffee for warmth. The glass window separating me from the outside world feels like prison bars.
What does this mean? You swore at your Professor. In front of the entire class. Shit, shit, shit. Am I going to get kicked out? Is he going to fail me? Oh God, I’ll lose my scholarship. I need the academic scholarship to be able to pay to live in dorms, for textbooks, everything.
That settles it. No matter how embarrassing it is, I need to apologize profusely to that arrogant man. Anything to stay in his class.
I’m not going to stand for half an hour, so I sit down in the small chair in front of his desk. It is nerve-wracking having my back to the door, knowing he might barge in at any second. I scan the room, searching for something to keep my mind occupied. I want to think of anything other than the fact that I cussed out Professor Harrison in front of the class.
His desk is a light-colored wood. There’s nothing on it except for a closed MacBook Pro. I get the weirdest urge to open the laptop and see what he has on it. He has a large, comfortable looking office chair that dwarfs my dinky little seat. Behind the chair is a set of drawers, with two pictures on it.
I lean in closer to get a better look. The first picture is of a younger Professor Harrison standing in front of a fancy looking Italian restaurant. He has a big smile as he stands next to who I assume must be a younger brother. Professor Harrison took most of the good looks and the height in the family, but the cocky smirk on the younger man’s face is unmistakably part of the Harrison family gene pool.
The second picture makes my heart beat a little quicker. It is undeniably Professor Harrison, but maybe ten years younger in his early twenties. He is standing in front of a swimming pool with his arms up in victory, the winner of a competitive race. From where I sit in class I could always see that his tailored shirts fit his muscular form perfectly, but I never knew just how mouth-watering a body he had. If Professor Harrison still has the body he did ten years ago, then he has a lot to be arrogant about.
Holy shit look at those abs. They’re fucking chiseled.
Before I can stop myself, my gaze slips downward. His Speedo clings to his huge bulge, and I can feel my cheeks flush as I look back up, forcing my eyes away from his cock.
Too late. I just imagined his dick. Holy fuck, it must be huge. Don’t think about it, don’t think about it!
The water dripping off of him gives his muscular physique a sheen and a little shiver runs through me.
That’s the guy who I pissed off? He looks like he could hold me down with one hand. I really, really hope he doesn’t yell at me.
Most people don’t intimidate me. If you are a pushover, you lose confidence on the court. Volleyball has taught me to fear no one, even those bigger, stronger, or faster than me. But the fact that I publicly called Professor Harrison an asshole makes the seconds tick by in agony. I have no idea what he is going to say to me.
A chilling thought runs through my head.
If he kicks me out of the course, my life is ruined. There will be a black mark on my transcript. There won’t be a decent MBA course in the country that takes me in.
I sit still as a statue in the chair, trying to control my racing mind.
The click of the door is like a gunshot in the silent agony of the office. I shoot up in my chair, feeling my heart pounding in my chest.
He’s here.
The Test
Olivia Abernathy - Monday Morning
I have to crane my neck backward to see Professor Harrison walk in. I stand as he enters, turning to face him.
As he looms over me in the small office, I fully appreciate how big he is. As a volleyball player, I am not used to guys towering over me.
He stands well over six feet tall with broad swimmer’s shoulders. His chiseled jaw and tousled hair only add to his aura of arrogance.
For the first time in my life, I wish he had that insufferable smirk on his face. Anything but the stone cold blank stare he is giving me.
“Sit.”
He is not asking. The word is a command, and before I can even process it I have already sat back down in the chair. My body responds to his command
instinctively.
He covers the distance from the door to his desk in a few long strides. As he passes I smell his light cologne. There is a slight hint of woody scent that triggers a memory of walking through the forest after a spring rain.
Even seated he is an imposing specimen.
“You have put me in a very difficult situation, Miss Abernathy.”
His voice is different than when he teaches. In front of the class, it is slightly higher pitched, louder, and more precise. The words in class seem cut from ice, perfected for slicing through a large auditorium to reach everyone in the audience.
Here, in private, it is low and deep. The timber of his voice is made for private conversations, not public speaking. I can see the hints of stubble framing his jawline. I can’t help it. I compare him to the picture to his left with a quick glance. He looks just as strong as the day he won the race.
I fucking hate this man, but I can’t deny he has an effect on me. God, he’s hot. Please don’t yell, please don’t yell.
I want to say something, anything, but my mouth feels dry. He is in complete control of the situation, completely comfortable in his office chair as I try not to tremor. My fate is in his hands.
“Oh, now you don’t have anything to say. Before you couldn’t keep that mouth of yours shut, could you? I was expecting an apology.”
Oh God, what an idiot I am. I call him an asshole in class and I can’t even form an apology?
“I’m sorry, Professor Harrison. I don’t know why I said those things, I didn’t mean them.”
I look down at the wooden desk in shame, unable to meet his intense gaze. My cheeks are hot and I wriggle in the small chair.
“But you did say them. You do realize that calling your Professor an asshole is enough to be thrown out of class, don’t you?
He puts a hint of stress on the word asshole, making me relive the experience of losing my temper all over again. He is throwing my words back at me. My embarrassment turns to deeper shame. I stare at the desk, wishing this moment could be over.