Total pages in book: 55
Estimated words: 51959 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 260(@200wpm)___ 208(@250wpm)___ 173(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 51959 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 260(@200wpm)___ 208(@250wpm)___ 173(@300wpm)
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.