by Lila Price
Mandy sighs and walks away from the door, giving me a wary look; I step forward and swing it open, remembering at the last minute that Finn is super hot and I, at the moment, am wearing pajama pants with cats on them.
“Hey,” Finn says immediately, his eyes on mine.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
He’s gorgeous, and he’s smoldering, and I shouldn’t be thinking any of this right now.
I want to look away, like the weight of his gaze is too much for me, but I’m equally worried that if I look away, he’s going to have the chance to see the cat pants. So I hold his gaze, even though the longer I look, the more strangely wobbly I feel.
“Hi,” I finally say.
“I need to talk to you for a minute,” Finn says. It’s not a question— does he even ask questions, or simply make statements? I glance over my shoulder to see Mandy pretending to put dishes away while she watches our exchange.
“Sure,” I say, and step through the door— whatever we’re going to talk about, I’m not sure I want Mandy to hear it. I know she’s going to harp on Finn later— on his late night visit, his arrest, his being a football “barbarian,” and all the other things that make her nervous about him.
Hell, I didn’t even tell her about the towel incident, but if I did I’m pretty sure she’d go ballistic about the whole thing. Something about me wants to protect Finn from her, to keep her from having ammunition to lob at him.
We step outside and close the door, and I lead him down the stairs. We live in one of the on campus suite apartments— Wells— and because of our mother, managed to get a semi-private two person suite for the price of a four-person.
I know it’s still nothing compared to the luxury apartments the football players live in, but still, it’s nice, and homey, and there’s a fountain in the courtyard. Finn and I walk down to the fountain; he sits on its edge. The fountain seems small with Finn’s hulking body perched on it, and I wonder if he might somehow crack it in two.
I take a spot two feet away from him, trying not to focus on the warm tightness in my lower belly.
“Sorry to hear you got arrested,” I say almost instantly.
Finn shrugs. “It happens.”
“It happens?” I gasp, shocked at his indifference. “You weren’t totally freaked out having your mug shot taken and being handcuffed?”
“I’ve been arrested before. I’ll get arrested again. Where I’m from, everyone’s been arrested a few times,” he says.
“Florida?”
Finn just looks at me. “Lake City. It’s not the best area.”
“Well, I hate to tell you this—you’re not in Lake City anymore.”
He runs a hand through his hair. “I get that,” he says. “After they bailed me out, I got a real earful from everyone.” Finn sits forward a little, elbows on his thighs, and looks straight ahead.
For the first time, I can see that he’s under stress, even if he tries to hide it.
“You can do this,” I tell him. “You can pass all of your courses, play football, all of it. You just need to take it seriously.”
He nods, still looking into the distance. “I can’t fuck up anymore,” he says, as if to himself.
Somehow, my heart feels like it’s breaking.
It’s like he’s this strong, hardened guy, but beneath all of that, there’s so much more and he can’t afford to let anyone know.
He always has to be strong, always has to have his armor on and his guard up.
“We can still work together,” I offer. “Let me help you.”
Finn turns and looks at me now. “Okay,” he says, nodding seriously.
My stomach does a little twisting flip and I feel my cheeks flush, but luckily its dark enough that I don’t think he can tell.
I nod and smile. “So it’s a deal then.”
Finn stands up and stretches his magnificent arms into the air, any trace of vulnerability suddenly gone. “Deal. Let me get your number.”
Stuttering a little, I tell him my number as he plugs it into his phone.
And then a second later, my phone’s ringing. I answer it and Finn gives me a wink. “Now we both have each other’s number.”
Just the way he says it makes me shiver a little.
He puts his phone back in his pocket and I can tell he’s getting ready to leave. I find myself wishing he’d stay longer.
“So— tomorrow? Tutoring? Now that the media has died down a little they’re moving me into a campus apartment. We can go there.”
“I can’t tutor in campus apartments. It’s against the tutoring policy,” I say.
“Oh?” Finn asks.
“They’re too…I mean, there’re beds and clothes and…I think the tutoring center is just afraid something will happen.”
“Are you?” Finn asks, and I feel my face heat up, the memory of him answering the door in just his towel, his biceps so cut, his chest so broad, the V of his hips, the smooth lines of his abs.
“Of course not,” I say swiftly, which I realize is a lie the moment the words leave my mouth. No, wait, it’s not entirely a lie. I’m not afraid of something happening— I’m afraid of wanting something to happen, and it not happening.
I mean, how could I not sort of darkly, secretly want to know what it would feel like to be pressed against Finn’s body? I’ve never been with anyone like him, I’ve never been with anyone who could probably lift me with one hand, with anyone who would get in a fist fight for me and think so little of it. At least if we’re in the student center, there’s no chance of him answering the door in just a towel.
“Fine. We’ll go back to the Ansley Park house then. I can’t be photographed getting tutored.”
“Right. Sure,” I say in response, perhaps a little too quickly. We’ll be alone there, sure, but at least we’ll be in a kitchen rather than a bedroom. It’s not crazy, anyhow— Mandy has tutored football players in that house, too. None of them want to be photographed looking like they give a damn about their academic record. And it’s got to be better than that time I tutored in the baseball locker room. Words cannot describe the way a college baseball team locker room smells.
“Ok. Great. You’ve got my schedule – what works for me?”
I shake my head at him. “I’m not your secretary.”
“Fine,” he says. “I’ll call you to set something up.”
“Good. And this time, don’t be in the shower.”
“You sure about that last one?” Finn asks, his eyes sparkling.
“Yes,” I say, but my stupid voice betrays the fact that I’m not so sure about it. It warbles and shakes and I feel myself smiling despite the fact that I’m trying to look stern. Tutor mode, Kenley. Tutor Mode.
Chapter 4
The next morning, I check my email, and see I’ve got one from Dr. Reams. I’ve been dreading this— I knew he’d have some sort of comment on the whole tutoring-client-got-arrested-during-a-tutoring-session thing. I open it and read.
Miss Sullivan,
As is most of the city, I’m aware of what occurred during your tutoring session with Finn Thorne yesterday. In the future, please keep in mind that a diner is not an appropriate place for a tutoring session, particularly with a VIP.
And the fact that your student was arrested during this tutoring session is unprecedented. I expect more from you, a great deal more, to be frank.
Given your position in the math department and your mother’s position at the university, you need to be extra careful moving forward. We’re all depending on you: the department, the team, and the school itself.
As you know, I accept only the best and brightest students into my summer program, and I would like nothing more than to see you among them. Seeing this Finn project through to a successful completion would go a long way towards proving to me that you are ready for the next step.
Don’t let us down.
Sincerely,
Dr. J. Reams
Some people call Dr. Reams a douchebag.
I type a response back as quickly as possible, in as few words as possible— you never want to give Dr. Reams any excuse to read between the lines.
Yes, the whole thing yesterday was unfortunate. Yes, I understand it’s serious. No, I won’t screw up and fail the school and team and leave the country on the brink of civil war.
I’m going to just tutor Finn Thorne in math, and he’ll pass his class, and that will be that.
As I go through the rest of my day, in fact, I’m psyching myself up for my next conversation with Finn, telling myself how professional I’m going to be with him from now on.
This is my future, my life, and I can’t let some cocky football player interfere with my performance.
The next time we speak, I’ll set the tone.
No more jokes, no more late night talks by the fountain, no more getting weak in the knees when he looks into my eyes.
Just tutoring.
Just doing my job….
But every time I get a text or a call, I find my heart starting to race, and then the sag of disappointment when it’s inevitably not Finn Thorne contacting me.
The next day, it’s more of the same.
And the next.
Before I know it, I’ve started to contemplate calling him instead. I have his phone number, and it’s my job to tutor the guy. He needs me…he needs my help. Not to mention my own reputation is on the line.
And I find myself getting resentful and hurt that he’s not calling, that he’s perhaps forgotten about me so quickly.
Could he have requested someone else?
Whatever. If he doesn’t care about his grades, then why should I?
That’s what I tell myself.
And I almost believe it.
Finn still hasn’t called me when my sister invites me to go with her to Football House, a slightly-off-campus alumni house.
Football House, unlike the Ansley Park place, isn’t anyone’s second or third home. It’s purely a fun house for the football team. I’ve been there once or twice before, always playing the role of sober sister to friends who want to get frisky with players.
Even though house parties aren’t usually my thing, I have to admit, going to Football House is still pretty amazing. It’s an event, basically— an event you have to be invited to, since there’s always some overzealous freshman checking names at the gate. Mandy is always on it— being class president and social committee chair our sophomore year means she more or less knows everyone.
“Bradley’s never been to one of these before. I can’t decide if he’s going to love it or hate it,” Mandy says nervously as we walk up. We’re both in heels, mini-dresses, and makeup that would give our Women’s-Studies-minor-mother a heart attack. I’m not saying that I dressed up (and used my gift certificate for a blow out at Drybar) because of the fact that I might run into Finn, but I’m not saying I didn’t, either.
I don’t know why I care— the guy saw me wearing cat pants, after all. Some part of me wants to sort of…convince him that I’m not all cat pants and calculus? Not that it matters to someone like Finn Thorne. Not that anything matters to him. If it did, he would have called me to set up his tutoring session.
“Mm,” I answer, nodding. I have to at least pretend I care about this issue.
“If he hates it, we might take off. So just keep that in mind, okay? Don’t drink so much you can’t get home on your own.”
“Mm-hmm,” I answer again.
Football House is an enormous, 1900’s-era home on a hill. There’s a large stone gate surrounding it; behind that, the house has a massive wrap-around deck and honest-to-god turrets with windows that pour gold light out onto the manicured gardens.
The team is celebrating a win tonight, which means an effigy of a bobcat— the opposing team’s mascot— is currently being beat up in the front garden by already-drunk bros.
We make our way inside, arms linked, and grab drinks at the bar— the open bar, with a bartender and everything. Mandy spots her boyfriend Bradley and we migrate toward him.
He, a handful of other rowers in their ever-present crew jackets, and a few tennis players are gathered in the memorabilia room, a designer-decorated space with huge televisions and dozens of framed photographs of Harton football greats.
“Hey! I wondered when you’d get here. You look gorgeous,” Bradley tells my sister, kissing her cheeks.
He smiles, teeth bright white and flawlessly straight. He and the other rowers are every bit as muscled, chiseled, and hard as the football players milling around the room, yet they still look like athletes drawn by a different artist.
Where the football players are rowdy, these guys are enthusiastic. Where the football players are arrogant, the rowers are proud. The largest difference between them is that every one of these rowers will one day look at home in an expensive suit, whereas the football players will always look most at home in a jersey.
“Kenley! I haven’t seen you in ages,” Bradley says, hugging me. I hug him back— Bradley is nice, but he’s sort of phony in some way I can’t quite put my finger on.
Almost too nice.
I’ve never told Mandy that I find him to be kind of a bore — he makes my sister happy though, so what do I know? They’ve been unofficially dating for a month now; when Bradley and Mandy stand side by side, they look like an advertisement for the Hamptons or Cape Cod.
“I’ve been trying to convince her to come out to watch you guys,” Mandy says, scolding me a bit.
“I don’t wake up at five o’clock for anyone,” I answer, shaking my head at the both of them.
Looking around the room at the other revelers, I slowly withdraw from their conversation, without them seeming to notice. I can’t help it—I want to see if Finn is here.
It’s become a bit of a nagging obsession now, and I tell myself that this is not a problem. Everything’s still completely under control. I’m not dealing with anything more problematic than a minor case of lust for an objectively hot guy that I just so happen to be tutoring.
Am I still tutoring him, though? It’s hard to tell.
After scouting around a bit, I haven’t yet seen Finn, and decide my chances will be better at the bar, where he’s bound to end up eventually.
I wind up sitting at the bar, making small talk with the bartender while I nurse a cranberry juice and watch as football players and their beautiful guests talk, order drinks, make loud and boisterous toasts.
It’s getting to the point where I’m considering just leaving. Obviously he’s not around and this whole thing was a total waste of time—
And then I see him. Finn is here after all.
Out of the corner of my eye, I catch a glimpse and my heart is racing because it’s him, and I feel happy and excited and furious all at once.
I turn and look straight at him now.
He’s not far away, exactly, but there’s no way he’ll see me— he’s in the middle of a dozen beautiful girls. They’re all long legs and highlighted hair and gorgeous contouring highlighter on their already perfect cheekbones.
I look good tonight, but I don’t think I’ve ever looked that good. They’re fawning over him, smiling and laughing, and the glimpses I catch of Finn between their spin-class-toned bodies make it clear that he’s lapping up their affection.
My stomach sinks and I’m surprised at the feeling of rejection that courses through me.
You forgot who you were dealing with, Kenley.
Finn made you feel like you were special, but you weren’t
. He was buttering up his dorky tutor, and nothing more. And then, of course, he forgot about you, because look at him!
He’s a golden god and he’s surrounded by women that look like they stepped out of a “Girls of Harton University” calendar.
I know I should leave now, but I can’t quite force myself to do it. Instead, I turn back to the bartender. “Can I have a beer?” I ask, ignoring the surprised look on his face at my sudden demand for alcohol.
“Sure,” he says doubtfully and slides me a beer. I sip at it, pretending to be having fun, as I keep glancing back at Finn over and over again.
The drink is gone before I know it, and I order another one.
The buzz helps a little, and I feel pleasantly numb and a lot less destroyed by watching Finn with his hands all over other girls’ hips, touching their lower backs, whispering in their ears and making them laugh.
Then I order another drink, and feel even better—even more numb—like I’m simply watching an interesting movie now.
Then I get yet another drink, because the last one went so quick.
Which is a really terrible idea, because I’m a lightweight. By the time I realize I’ve overdone it, the liquor has set in big-time.
I somehow end up on the couch, focusing on not looking drunk with every fiber of my being.
Where the hell is Mandy? I remember she told me that she and Bradley might leave, but I have no idea if they actually have. I text her, but there’s no response, and my message was a garbled mess anyway— damn drunk fingers.
There’s a golf player sitting next to me, short and wiry, talking about…something. Something related to golf. Pars? Or clubs? I have no idea.
“Hey, I need to…uh…go to the restroom,” I say, grimacing at how slurred my speech is.
“Ok, I’ll wait here,” the guy says, smiling broadly. “I’ll get you another drink while you’re gone.”
“I’m good, thanks,” I say, shaking my head.
“Hey, it’s early! Just one more— I don’t want to drink alone,” he says, the rises just as I do. I smile weakly, then hobble on shaky feet toward the bathroom.