Hard Stick

by Paige North

  I open the bodice ripper in my hands. “’Oh, Colton, she moaned as he eased his throbbing—‘”

  He tackles me, taking the book and twisting it so he can read it. “Very educational. Buy that one. We can try that later.”

  I let him push me up against the shelves of books, and then he’s kissing my neck. My head falling back, I open an eye to see if any of the clerks are watching, but we’re alone. This could be interesting, I think, as he starts to lift my skirt, wondering just how far he will be willing to take it. “What if I did that to you right here?” he murmurs in my ear, working his hand up between my legs and rubbing my clit through the fabric of my thong.

  I let out a low, throaty moan. Apparently, he’s willing to take it very far. I check behind him, just to make absolutely sure we’re alone. As I’m about to surrender to him, my eyes scan what looks like a deserted reading nook. I blink. There is someone there, reading the newspaper in one of those large, overstuffed chairs. As if on cue, he turns and looks at me, and everything in my body goes numb.

  I do a double-take.

  Then a triple-take, because no. It can’t be.

  But it is him. It’s Professor Morgan.

  No, that’s not possible.

  But it’s plain as day, with his crazy white hair and Mr. Rogers sweater and stupid beaten briefcase, which he’s balancing on his knees, under the newspaper.

  I nudge Flynn away, pulling helplessly at the hem of my dress, but it’s too late.

  Morgan studies me, his face stone. Then he stands, folds up his newspaper and strides past us.

  Flynn runs a hand through his hair, crosses his arms. “Was that . ..”

  I nod. I swallow. I can’t even bring myself to say what I’m thinking. That it’s all over. That I just ruined everything.

  Chapter 20

  I spend the first few moments in denial that it happened. Professor Morgan, here, in Gloucester? What are the chances? I want to believe it was merely someone who looked like him, but that withering look he gave me spoke volumes, and nothing good. By the time I get across the street and into our beautiful room, I’m shaking, and one of the most amazing days of my life has suddenly become the worst.

  “What am I going to do?” I say, sitting on the edge of the bed and burying my head in my hands.

  “Relax,” Flynn says, holding the bag under my nose. “Have some more croissant.”

  I push the crumpled bag away. The last thing I want to do is eat right now. I’m not sure I’ll ever have an appetite again.

  He sits down on the bed beside me. “Look. It’s okay. He’ll forget about it by Monday.”

  Is Flynn really that ignorant? I shake my head. “No, the study, everything we’ve been working on for the past few months has been compromised, and he knows it now. He’s going to fire me.”

  Saying it out loud only makes it more terrifying. Suddenly all the implications hit me. If Professor Morgan fires me, then I don’t get my degree in psychology. If I don’t get my degree . . .

  “Come on, girl, chill.” Flynn starts to unbutton the neck of his crisp white shirt, as if he’s ready for bed, as if I should just sleep on it, and everything will be better. Or if maybe some of his mind-blowing sex will erase it. But it won’t be better, ever. “It’s like, whenever I have a shitty game, I—“

  “You’re seriously not comparing this to losing a game, are you?” I snap, cutting him off. “Do you understand how much work I’ve put into this?”

  He narrows his eyes. “And I don’t work at hockey?”

  “Not really. Maybe you did once, but not anymore. It all comes so easy to you, and you don’t even care. If you did, you could be the best player in the league. But all you do is screw around and piss your coaches off because that’s what you’ve convinced yourself your career is all about. Not hockey.”

  He stares at me for a long time. “Not true. If I—“

  “It is true. You’ve been doing everything possible not to get called up to the NHL again because you’re afraid of failing. But you’re lucky. You have people willing to give you a second chance, and a third, and a fourth, because you’re a damn good player, even with that massive chip on your shoulder. But I’m no one. There are a thousand other qualified applicants who’d kill for the chance to work on that study. For me. . . there are no second chances. I’m screwed.”

  His eyes are hard on me. “You’re wrong about me. I’m not fucking afraid of going into the NHL. I just don’t need their brand of shit. And you really think this goddamn study means anything?”

  “It’s not the study. I won’t get my degree if I don’t get the credits for working with Morgan. I won’t graduate with my psych degree, and—”

  “So you don’t fucking graduate.” He paces the room, muscles tight. “There are worse things than being without your precious college degree.”

  No, he might think that, because he has hockey. I don’t. I only have this. I start to explain that, “But Professor Morgan—“

  “Fuck Professor Morgan. Get over it. He’s not some god, he’s just another pathetic professor with a high opinion of himself who does studies on us because he probably can’t play worth a damn. That’s what that shit is, right? Those who can, do. Those who can’t, do lame studies on it.”

  I stare at him, shocked. He really thinks that way about me? That I’m just some loser who studies people like him because I can’t do anything else? He’d said something similar before, but I assumed it was because he was angry with me. But like Professor Morgan had said, when someone shows you who they are, believe them. Maybe he does think that little of me.

  “Okay, maybe he’s not so talented, like you,” I say quietly. “But at least he isn’t throwing what talents he has away and treating them like a joke because he’s scared he might fail. That’s really pathetic.”

  He recoils, his face twisting in rage. Satisfied I’ve hurled enough knives to hit him where it hurts. I storm out of the room, onto the balcony. It’s frigid and starting to snow, but I let the snowflakes melt on my skin as I stare out at the dark ocean. Minutes pass, and after a while, I know I’ve hurt him irreparably, because he doesn’t follow me. It’s a good thing he doesn’t, too, because I don’t even want to look at him.

  It’s over. My hopes of a career, my relationship with Flynn, everything seems to be in the air, like the snowflakes, and there’s no telling where any of it will land.

  Chapter 21

  We cut our weekend short, after that. Sunday morning, we were supposed to go shopping, but instead, he drives me home before breakfast. I spend the rest of the day in bed, wondering if he’ll text me to apologize.

  He doesn’t.

  Monday morning, I roll over in bed and look at my phone. No texts.

  I turn it off and bury myself deeper under my covers. Of course not. It’s over. Flynn doesn’t seem like the apologizing type.

  An hour later, Jen knocks on my door. “Shouldn’t you be getting ready?” she asks.

  Yes. I probably should’ve gotten to Professor Morgan’s office bright and early, to try to explain. But all I can seem to get myself to do on this day of reckoning is lie here like a wounded animal. After one of the iciest drives back into the city, where the only thing Flynn asked me was if I wanted the heat turned up, I came back home to a cold, depressing house.

  I did manage to do a couple things while I lay in bed, wanting to die: I emailed the registrar and asked if I could still graduate with my BA in Psychology without my work-study component. As I did, I listened to Christmas carols and tried to make myself feel better, and it worked for a while. I thought, maybe Flynn was right. Maybe I don’t need Professor Morgan’s blessing in order to graduate and move on to Case Western.

  But then I got the email:

  Unfortunately, without a work component, you can not obtain your Psychology degree. You may qualify for a general Liberal Arts degree instead.

  Screw that. I didn’t want some general degree that made it seem like I had no idea what cour
se of study I wanted to pursue. Psychology had always been my thing. My dream. So then, I emailed my advisor at Case Western and asked if I could still enroll in their Masters degree program without an actual BA in Psychology, and got his response:

  I’m sorry, but you will still have to take several prerequisite courses before you can officially be admitted into the program, one being an undergraduate work-study semester under an approved advisor. We would have to reevaluate your application once you have all the required perquisites.

  Meaning, no. I can’t attend the school until I’ve been given the go-ahead by someone like Professor Morgan. And I’d deliberately gone against him and invalidated the results of the study we’d been working on. I not only disappointed him, I ruined his work. Sure, Professor Morgan, the hardest nut in the bowl, isn’t going to turn around and say, “Why the heck not? Here are your credits!”

  So as the rest of the weekend turned into Sunday night, I kept thinking of my mom and dad, and everything they’d done to get me here. I’m screwed, and the only person I have to blame is myself.

  Thus, now, I can happily die in my bed.

  I roll out of bed and onto the floor with a thump. Then I crawl to the closet, find whatever sweats are nearby, and throw them on. Swiping my hair into a ponytail, I don’t even bother to look into the mirror. What does it matter?

  My stomach rumbles as I walk to the professor’s office, and that’s when I realize I haven’t had anything to eat since that croissant on Friday night. I think of Flynn, how much we laughed, how I’d gradually been chipping away at that rough exterior of his.

  Now, the wall is back up. He had a game Sunday night, but I couldn’t bring myself to watch it. He hasn’t called or texted. As much as I keep telling myself it’s better this way, I can’t help but feel hollow, like a piece of me is missing, whenever I think of him.

  When I stop at Morgan’s office, I take a deep breath and knock. Professor Morgan calls me in, and when I open the door, I realize I’m clutching my folders in a sweaty death-grip in front of me. He doesn’t look up from his work. “You have all the files that I gave you, Shaw?”

  “Yes.” I set the files on the desk next to his elbow, my notebooks full of research, then place the thumb drive on the top. “I’m very sorry.”

  He puts down his pen and looks at the files. “And these are all of them?”

  I nod. “If I can—“

  He holds out a hand. “No. You’ve done enough. Please.”

  I nod and turn around, then step outside, feeling tears sliding down my cheeks. I guess I have to be satisfied with a Liberal Arts degree, as long as I don’t find a way to screw that up, too. I still have three weeks of school and final exams to deal with. And then I’ll need to go home to my parents and tell them why I’m not pursuing my Psy-D at Case Western.

  All for what?

  All for Flynn Taylor, who doesn’t even respect me or the work I was doing. Who thought I was nothing but a big joke.

  But I guess the joke is really on me.

  Chapter 22

  A week passes with no word from Flynn. I’ve been keeping my head down, studying so that I can do really well in my remaining classes, and I guess it’s been paying off, because I have a 4.0 for the semester. Not that it’ll do anything to get me my Psych degree. No, for that I need my work study, which I’ll never be able to get, now. One Wednesday before finals, I’m sitting cross-legged on my bed, studying for my Human Evolution final, when Jen comes in. She takes one look at me and gasps.

  I sniffle. “I didn’t think I looked that bad.”

  “Have you showered at all this . . . month?”

  I glare at her. “I did . . . yesterday.” I think. Or maybe it was the day before. The days are all bleeding together.

  She gestures to the drawn blinds, which I haven’t found a reason to open. “Do you even eat, or have you just been hanging out in your hermit hole all this time?”

  Then she opens them. I wince at the light streaming through the blinds.

  She shakes her head. “Or did you get bitten by a vampire?”

  I shrug. I’ve felt so sick to my stomach most of the week, thinking of telling my parents how I blew my chance at attending Case Western next semester over one of those city guys my dad warned me about. So I’ve been practicing avoidance. I used to call my parents once every couple of days, but I’ve been avoiding my mom’s texts and phone calls since I got back from Gloucester.

  I toss the textbook off my lap and sink down against the pillow. Really, I’m just biding my time until I can graduate and get back home. I even started looking at open entry-level jobs around my house, thinking I could soften the blow when I finally called my parents if they knew I was at least gainfully employed. But there isn’t much for a girl just out of college with no work experience near Afton, Ohio. Well, unless I want to wear a paper hat and apron.

  “You know the game is on, don’t you?” Jen asks me. “It started at seven. I was going to go but Pat got a better offer.”

  I shake my head. Not that I would watch it, anyway. Though the Argonaut’s schedule is still tattooed in my brain, I do everything possible to avoid watching. I even stay out of the living room. I can’t afford to have a moment of weakness and turn him on, which will only result in more moments of weakness, involving me sobbing in front of the television set, or even worse, texting him.

  It’s over. He hasn’t texted me since. And as much as I miss him, he doesn’t care. It wouldn’t have worked out, anyway.

  That doesn’t make me want him any less, though. “We broke up, kind of.” If we were even together, which I’m still doubting. He’d called me his girlfriend, but that was to avoid having to explain the meaning of fuck-buddy. We’d gone away on a trip together, but that was only to avoid prying eyes. He never really got the work I was doing, so maybe, even after everything we’ve been through, that’s all it boiled down to. Sex.

  Jen winces. “I’m so sorry. I’m going to make us some ramen noodles,” she says. “And Frosty is on television. We’re totally watching. Come downstairs.”

  I put the book aside and follow her downstairs. She flips on the television set and it’s already tuned to the local sports station. I get a quick glimpse of two bodies slamming against the boards in the hockey game before she switches the channel. Was that Flynn?

  “Wait, turn that back.”

  She clasps the remote to her heart for an instant, clearly debating whether she should. Then she does. It’s just in time to see him deliver a slap shot from the line that sails right under the goalie’s armpit and into the net. The light goes off and the crowd erupts as he does a cool, almost unaffected loop around the ice and into the arms of his teammates, who congratulate him. A banner with the words TAYLOR – 9 – 12th Goal of the Season displays underneath his hot, sweaty, gorgeous face.

  If being away from me is having an effect on him, you wouldn’t know it.

  It’s definitely affecting me, though.

  I close my eyes, thinking of his body against mine, the way his tongue had made wicked circles on my skin, and when I realize that it’ll never happen again, the full agony overtakes me. “Turn it off,” I murmur.

  She quickly does as she’s told, flipping to CBS, where Frosty is already cavorting through the streets with children at his heels. Despite the happy mood that show always used to put me in, I feel sick.

  That night, I don’t watch Frosty. I don’t eat ramen noodles. I go right back to bed, and sleep for twelve hours. When I wake up, Jen has stuck a post-it to my door. I see it as I’m getting my stuff together to take a shower so I can get over to my last Sociology class before finals. It says, Professor Morgan called, wants you to meet him in his office at 10.

  I stare at it. Professor Morgan? I haven’t heard a word from him since I left his office. I stalk across the hallway and knock on the door to her bedroom. “What’s this?” I ask when she answers.

  “Oh. He called on the landline.”

  “We have a landline
?” I ask, confused.

  “Yeah, weird huh?” She shrugs. “I didn’t know, either, but I found the phone in a cabinet when it started to ring! Nearly scared the bejeezus out of me. Anyway, you must’ve put that number down somewhere because that was the one he called.”

  I guess I did, though that seems like a million years ago. “Did he say what he wanted?”

  She shakes her head. “Why? Is there something wrong?”

  I suddenly realize that in all my misery, and because Jen isn’t around much, I’d neglected to tell her how I’d been removed from the study. But at the moment, I don’t want to go into it. All I can do is stare at the tiny square of paper in my death-grip. He’s probably just missing some files, or something. “Did he sound . . . angry? Or . . .”

  She narrows her eyes at me. “He sounded like he had a stick up his butt. Does he always?” She laughs. “Really, Savannah. If you want to know what he wants, then make it a point to be at his office at ten. Simple as that.”

  I nod. She’s right. Although, it would be nice to know if I should come armed. Because the professor scared me when he was on my side, but he’s a heck of a lot scarier now.

  I shower and get ready. Then I throw on my hoodie, which is not nearly enough for this frigid almost-winter weather. The day is drearily gray, and there’s a thin coating of snow on the ground, so I slip my way through slushy puddles. When I knock on the door to the professor’s office, I brace myself for the disappointment he’s sure to heap upon me.