by Lily Cahill
Her eyes slide from mine and she goes back to searching her desk, though I can’t miss the hint of color rising in her cheeks. “That’s inappropriate. I’m your teacher.”
“How old are you?”
“Old enough to know better.”
The corner of my mouth turns up into a grin. I lean my hands on her desk and level a gaze her way. “But young enough to do it anyway?”
I expect amusement in her eyes when she looks at me. Instead, I see only fury. “Why is it so hard for your kind to take no for an answer?”
All the humming excitement of being near her winks out. “My kind?”
“Football players.”
I straighten up. I’m a big guy. It takes a lot to phase me. But the revulsion in Lilah’s eyes sends me reeling. And it makes me back up a step. After everything that happened last year, I should know better. Better than my former “teammates,” anyway.
The reality of just how far-reaching and terrible the scandal was—still is—hits me like a defensive lineman on game day. No, not a scandal. That makes it sound smaller than it was. It wasn’t a scandal, it was a horrific crime.
Last year during Christmas break, four of my fellow Mustangs raped a girl. It’s still hard for me to believe that—those guys were my friends, my mentors—but I know it’s true because one of the fuckers filmed it with his phone. A few days later, his jealous girlfriend found it when she was snooping and posted it online.
It didn’t take long to go viral. These criminal motherfuckers carried a passed-out girl into the Mustangs locker room, took off her clothes, and then did what they wanted to her. The very idea of it still makes me sick. I never would have believed that someone I knew could do something like that. But it happened, and it’s been fucking with my life ever since. And God, the poor girl. It filled me with shame to think of what happened to her.
To make matters worse, Coach Moe Foster—formerly beloved, legendary, local hero MoFo—went on national television to defend these guys. The quote the media used to skewer him was, “These young men are under a great deal of stress and pressure, and sometimes they act out in inappropriate ways.” Social media had a field day with that one. #MSUstressrape is probably still trending.
For those of us on the team, it continues to be a goddamn nightmare. The four rapists were all seniors, all key members of the team, and they were all suspended right before the BCS National Championship game. We lost, of course, and it wasn’t long before MoFo was dismissed amid a firestorm of criticism. So now we’re scrambling to put together a squad under this new guy, Coach Prescott. So much for our championship hopes.
A lot of the sportscasters say it’d be a shock if we win a single game. And that’s nothing to the fans and locals. On one side, there are asshats saying we should bring back MoFo even though he condoned rape; on the other side are the dickwads saying we should get rid of football entirely. All this talk, all this bullshit, all these outsiders who think they know my team.
I’m tired of it.
Lilah is staring at me, every accusation plain to see in her eyes. “I see,” I say, my voice cold with sarcasm. “So because I play football, I’m automatically a rapist.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“But that’s what you meant.” I take another step back from her desk.
She tosses her head, elegantly rude. “I don’t know. All the rapists I know are football players, so I guess I’m suspicious of you all.”
I don’t know what I would have said to her, but at that moment the door opens and a couple of new students walk in. Lilah promptly leaves me hovering in front of her desk, feeling like a fool.
For approximately the billionth time, I curse Jeremy Hudson and his fucking cronies, the assholes who ruined a young woman’s life as well as the reputation of my team. Here is yet another way in which their actions have tainted my life: The Mustangs logo on my T-shirt is enough to make a woman afraid of me.
I stalk toward the back of the class and choose the seat farthest away from Lilah. Goddammit. I’ve really been looking forward to this class. My high school didn’t have much of an art program, and since I came to MSU I’ve been busy with establishing myself on the team. But now it’s my senior year, and if I don’t learn now, I never will. This year feels like my last chance … for a lot of things.
When I sit down, I feel something in my pocket jab into my leg. It’s my latest project—a tiny figurine I’ve been whittling out of a chunk of cottonwood. I like to keep my hands busy. I carry a chunk of wood and a small chiseling knife pretty much everywhere.
I work a little, letting the wood settle my mind as the class fills in over the next few minutes. It looks like there are about a dozen of us, mostly artsy-looking freshmen and sophomores. I think I’m the only person in this room who has never worn skinny jeans. I know what my dad and uncles—hard-working country boys—would say about these kids.
Probably the same thing they would say about me, if they knew I was taking this class.
Lilah glances up at the clock, which is just striking the hour. I lay the figurine on the desk and tuck my chisel in my pocket, wanting to give her my full attention. She may have decided I’m scum, but that doesn’t mean I need to act like it.
“Welcome, everyone, to Introduction to Art. In this class, we’ll be studying techniques of various mediums, as well as the foundations of artistic theory. Now, some of you may have been expecting Professor Carlson, but he asked me to fill in this summer. My name is Lilah Stone. I am a local artist here in Granite.” She glances down, as if embarrassed. “Some of you may know me as last year’s recipient of the Pitkin Prize.”
An impressed murmur rustles around the room. This Pitkin thing must be a big deal.
“I’d like to get to know you all a bit before we get started,” she continues. Just in case I wasn’t already hot for her—despite her assumptions about me—she pulls a pair of black-rimmed reading glasses out of her bag to study her class list.
I curse myself for being a sex-obsessed monster, especially after what she just called all football players, but I’ve always had a thing for girls in glasses. Some irrepressible, insane part of me can’t stop imagining Lilah beneath me, those glasses askew as she moans.
Lock that down, Lotto, I scold myself. This woman has made her lack of interest clear.
“Why don’t we go around, and you all can tell us a little about what brings you to this class,” she says. She glances at me, then away, and turns to a girl sitting on the other side of the room. “Would you start?”
I try to get a hold of myself as each of the students introduces themselves. I’ve been attracted to girls before, and plenty of them have been attracted to me. I definitely don’t need to be lusting after my teacher, one who clearly has some strong thoughts about the Mustangs. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised—people have been judging us and doubting us ever since the scandal broke.
Not, I reminded myself, that we don’t deserve it. I didn’t have anything to do with what happened, but we all carry a share of the guilt. It happened at our school, on our team. We’re all responsible for creating this culture. When Jeremy and his dick friends made jokes about “no means yes, yes means anal,” I should have called them out on how fucked up that is. But I didn’t. And neither did anyone else. So we’re all responsible for what happened to that girl. For the rest of my life, I’ll carry the knowledge that I should have stood up for women, and I didn’t.
So I get why this woman hates me. But if I don’t take this class now, I probably never will.
Fuck.
The door swings open in the middle of some freshman’s monologue about how creativity is under-appreciated in higher education.
“Whoa, I’m late?” Reggie Davis, a teammate, comes blustering into class. His words are muffled around the last bite of a breakfast burrito, and he tosses the foil wrapper toward the trash can as the door slams shut behind him. The entire class just stares. “You guys didn’t wait for me?”
G
reat. What is Reggie doing here? If there was ever a stereotypical dumb jock, Reggie is it. He is also one of my fellow Mustangs—a fun-loving, larger-than-life center.
Naturally, he notices me right away. “‘Sup, Lotto,” he says with a grin. He drops his bag onto the table where I sit and doesn’t even attempt to lower his voice as he says, “Sweet, man, you’re in this class? I figured, you know, art. How hard can it be?”
CHAPTER THREE
Lilah
TWO? TWO FUCKING FOOTBALL PLAYERS in my very first class? The universe has a shitty sense of humor.
I have zero chill when it comes to football players. The scandal that broke last year was just the icing on a lifetime of irritation at the way football is treated in this town. I’ve been out at a bar when a group of football players show up, and you’d think the president was in town from the way people act. I couldn’t care less about the games, but I keep track of the team schedule because it’s impossible to get anything done in town while the Mustangs are playing. I just can’t believe how much time and attention people waste on a stupid game.
And that was before four players raped a girl who had gotten too drunk at a party. The video, which has been watched millions of times, spurred a media firestorm about rape culture in sports. That would all be enough to ruffle my feminist feathers, but my fury actually comes from a deeper place.
In the video—which I wish, passionately, I had never seen—a girl is clearly visible, her naked body laying sprawled on a bench, her head dangling at an awkward angle. She’s clearly insensate, and her body is marked with red spots where they’ve pinched and bit and spanked her. She is utterly exposed, utterly powerless, utterly alone.
The girl is Natalie, my best friend since childhood.
They were punished, at least. All four of them are in jail, and Coach MoFo is gone. The team was stripped of their past Pac-12 Championship wins, and they suffered a humiliating loss on national television at the BCS National Championship game. Half of the incoming freshman withdrew their letters of intent. The team has been gutted, and some have said the program is unsalvageable.
Good. None of that is enough. Because after months of being subjected to media scrutiny, being called a slut and a victim, months of knowing that the entire nation had seen her naked and vulnerable, Natalie killed herself.
And I’m nowhere near over it.
“Sit down,” I snap, before I get a hold of myself. I have already made a mistake by sniping at the first football player—Riley, he’d said—and I don’t want to repeat it. The things I said to Riley were way out of line. He could easily report me to the head of the department for my behavior. I didn’t necessarily want this job, but I also don’t want to get fired after my first day.
“You got it, sweetheart,” the second football player says. “Tell me something … are we going to be painting any nudes?”
A titter of uncomfortable laughter whisks around the room.
Beside Reggie, Riley shifts in his seat. “Reggie, stop being an asshole. Sit the fuck down,” he rumbles.
Reggie shrugs and drags a chair over to Riley’s table the collapses into it. Riley shoots me a look of chagrin, but doesn’t hesitate to make room for Reggie. Typical. Football players stick together, even when one of them is clearly a jerk.
That makes Riley a jerk too. Even if he is the hottest jerk I’ve ever seen.
I take a calming breath and turn to the rest of the class. “Now that we know each other, let’s get started,” I say, pointedly ignoring Riley and Reggie even though I didn’t give them a chance to share why they’re in the class. I’m pretty sure Reggie answered for both of them. I force a smile and say, “The first thing we are going to talk about is the different types of paint.”
Soon, I lose myself in the joy of discussing the different uses of oil paints, watercolors, and acrylics. It gives me a small thrill to see that several students are taking notes. I honestly can’t wait to tell Gamma about that. Despite my misgivings, I’m finding my first teaching experience surprisingly comfortable. As long as I keep my eyes off the hulking football players sitting in the back of the room.
I can’t ignore them completely, though. Oddly, Riley is one of the people taking notes, and I can feel the focus of his attention like a spotlight. Something about him gives me the impression that he approaches everything with the same intensity he’s now directing toward me. It makes unwelcome licks of awareness tickle my skin.
Some of that is discomfort having two reminders of Natalie’s rape right here in the room with me.
Some of that is shame. As much as I hate to admit it, I’ve pre-judged him by the actions of his fellows, and that’s not right.
And most disconcerting of all, some of that is arousal. Because having this big, sexy man focused completely on me is making my libido go haywire.
“So now we’ve talked about the different types of paint and their purposes, but there’s really no way to understand how each one works until we try it. I want you to get a taste of each before we focus on them individually. Let’s start with the acrylics. I’ve got some primary colors set up in the back of the room, along with some paper plates and brushes. Go ahead and get a few squirts of each color and meet back at your easels.”
It is so weird to watch the entire class obey me. I can see why Marty likes teaching. It’s good for the ego.
My inflated sense of power is suddenly punctured when a scuffle breaks out at the back of the room.
“What the fuck, man?” Reggie says loudly. “I was just fucking around.”
Riley is standing in front of him, clearly furious. “Just keep your mouth shut, okay?”
“What? What did I say?”
Riley glances at me and lowers his voice, but I can still hear him say, “You know you can’t say shit like that, bro. Haven’t you learned anything from the gender sensitivity classes?”
“Dude, it would be insensitive not to state the fact that—”
Riley shoves Reggie before he has the chance to state his fact. Before I can even move, Reggie stumbles back, knocking over a huge bottle of red paint. But he doesn’t back down—in seconds, he’s facing off with Riley like two warring gorillas.
The rest of the students cower back from them, and I don’t blame them. Reggie is muscular and large, but Riley makes him look like a lightweight. His aggressive stance makes me suddenly very aware of the size of his hands, the strength of his arms. Some weak, female part of me pulses at the blatant display of masculine power.
But the rest of me isn’t having any of this shit.
“Get out. Both of you.”
Riley turns to me, his aggression replaced by shock. “What?”
“I don’t tolerate fighting in my class. Both of you, get out.”
CHAPTER FOUR
Riley
LILAH ALL BUT SLAMMED THE door behind me as I stumble behind Reggie into the hall.
“You fucking asshole,” I start. “I can’t believe you just got me kicked out of class.”
“Whatever, dude,” Reggie says. “I can’t believe you’re being such a dick about a couple of jokes.”
“A couple of—dude, what makes you think I want to hear your running commentary on which of the chicks in that class you would fuck?”
Reggie scoffs. “What? Don’t tell me you weren’t thinking about the same thing,” he says with a shrug. “What else am I supposed to do? Listen to some boring-ass lecture about paint? I don’t need that shit.”
I grip my head in my hands and pace the hallway. Dammit. I’ve been looking forward to this class for months, and somehow I manage to fuck everything up on the first day. “I seriously can’t believe you can be such an idiot. You’re on academic probation, Reg.”
“So what else is new?”
“Don’t you care about getting an education?”
Reggie smirks. “I’m here to play football. Class is just to pass the time between practices.”
“Dude. That’s ridiculous.” I’ve known Reggie f
or years, and I know there’s no real malice in him. But he can be so dense. “So fine, whatever, you don’t care about your education. But you still can’t say shit like you were saying. Didn’t you learn anything from all these consent and sensitivity classes we’ve been taking?”
“I could be the most sensitive guy on earth and still notice the titties on that professor. Hot damn.”
I shake my head, embarrassed at how much his reaction echoes my own. “What if somebody heard you? Did you think of that? After all this shit in the media, don’t you think it might make the team look bad if someone knew you were talking that way?”
For the first time, Reggie looks worried. “Nobody heard, Lotto. I wasn’t talking that loud.”
Reggie only had one speaking volume. And it sure as shit wasn’t quiet. I force myself to take a breath and stare at my teammate.
“I heard. And I say that’s bullshit. I don’t want to hear you talking that way about Lilah.”
Reggie raises his eyebrows. “Sorry, dude. My bad. I didn’t know you had a thing for her.”
“I don’t—that’s not—it’s not about that. She’s a human being, you know? She deserves to be treated as more than a sex object.”
“All right, Riley, calm down.” Reggie’s use of my real name is my first clue that he’s taking me seriously. “I won’t talk about her again.”
He’s taking me seriously, but still not really getting it. “It’s not about her. You shouldn’t be saying that shit about any girl.”
Reggie’s usual goofy attitude returns. “If I ever stop pointing out gorgeous titties, you’ll know something is wrong with me.”
I can only shake my head again. Sometimes Reggie is impossible. “What are we going to do about this?”
“About what?” He frowns like he honestly doesn’t know what’s wrong.
“We got kicked out of class.”
“Eh, whatever. I usually ditch most of the semester anyway. Hey, man, college is for fun and girls and football,” Reggie argues when I shoot him an incredulous look. “You ought to relax more, Lotto. Get your dick wet.”