Page 200 of Well Played

“You need this class to graduate, no? It’s always interesting when someone leaves my class for the end of their academic career. They’re always so full of opinions, ready to burst with their ideas and critiques. As if you know literature, or anything about life.”

What a total dick. I clench my fists at his absolute asshole-ry. Looks like I know whose face I’ll be thinking of when I inevitably take my frustrations out on a speed bag this afternoon.

“—although your grades are good now, your actions in class could put your final grade, and graduation, in jeopardy. I’m sure you wouldn’t want that. You’re quite lucky that I’m willing to work with you on your rashness and allow you to continue to sit fresh faced in the front row, wearing your ripped jeans and cropped tops, thinking the world is your oyster.”

Did that prick just comment on her body? Is he fucking kidding? I can’t take another minute of this total bullshit. My hand shakes when I raise a fist to knock on the door. I don’t wait for an acknowledgement before I practically fling open the door.

“Mr. Rochet. What a pleasant surprise.” Dr. Watts straightens from where he hovers over CJ, who looks like she’s trying to sink into the tweed of the chair in front of his desk. “I’llhave to ask you to wait outside until I’m done with this student. You understand. Our conversation is private.” His thin lips—practically the color of raw chicken thighs—stretch into a sneer.

No, I really don’t understand. I’m vibrating with fury, ten seconds from taking his glass paperweight and bashing his cheek with it. I take a deep breath and force myself to unclench…everything. “I’m here for CJ. We have a math project meeting that we can’t miss.” I raise an eyebrow and hold out a hand that I hope doesn’t shake in her direction. “We don’t want to be late.”

She looks shell-shocked, so I wiggle my fingers at her, hoping she’ll snap out of it. She does, shooting to her feet, grabbing her backpack, and practically bolting for the door.

Watts’s voice stops us for a millisecond. “Ms. Bazzi, we aren’t done here.”

The fuck they’re not. I don’t give her a chance to respond. Instead, I grab her hand and tug her out into the hallway, then quickly out of the building. She pulls her hand out of mind—I hadn’t even realized I was still holding it—the second we hit sunlight. That’s okay, though. It makes it easier to bend over my knees to take some calming deep breaths and count backwards from ten. It takes five full counts before I feel like I can stand without heading back into the building to do something stupid.

When I glance at CJ, I take in her rosy cheeks, and the frown between her eyes. Her hands twist the right strap of her backpack, which is slung over her shoulder. She has nice hands. Petite, like the rest of her. I’m no giant—only six feet, one inch on some rosters—but she’s at least half a foot shorter.

“What was that?” CJ practically shrieks. “I need that class to graduate!”

I straighten, probably wearing a frown of my own because I don’t like her tone or her volume. I don’t need any additional negative attention and it won’t do me any favors if it gets out that I’m fighting girls now. “It looked like Watts was threatening youfrom the way he was hovering over your chair. Would you rather I have left you alone with him? With the door closed?”

She shakes her head and closes her eyes for a long moment. “Why would you interrupt him? Now he’s just going to get worse.”

Realization dawns as her words sink in. She looks angry, sure. But I notice that she’s shaking and I can practically see the pulse beating at the base of her throat. She’s scared. I take a step toward her, all of my calm disappearing. I don’t even care that I might seem menacing. “That’s not the first time that’s happened. Is it?”

“It’s not your concern,” she says, her voice low and practically vibrating. She drops her hands from her strap and crosses them over her chest.

“The fuck it’s not. He was—” I blow out a breath, the mental image of him leaning over her flashing in my head. I can’t fucking wait to hit the speed bag while I picture his face on it. “What’s his deal?”

“This is my problem. I do not need the Beast of Trinity College involved.” Her jaw sets, brown eyes flashing. “I’m serious. You don’t know me and I don’t know you. All of this will be over in a few weeks. Leave it alone.”

“And if I don’t?” I cock an eyebrow and adopt the manspread stance. You know the one: I stand with my fists on my hips and my feet slightly wider than shoulder width apart, sort of puffing out my chest.

She stares at me for a solid ten seconds before she throws up her hands and mutters, “We’re done here.” Then she twirls on her heel and takes off.

I glare after her. Finally, I shake it off and head in the opposite direction to meet up with the team before I give in to the urge to punch something.

CJ

“Mina!”I storm into my apartment, drop my backpack and struggle out of my coat, calling for my roommate. “Are you here? I have a 9-1-1 situation!” I drag my bag around the corner into the living area and flop onto a chair, then cover my eyes with my hand. A headache forms behind my eyes.

“Where else would I be?” she answers calmly from her bedroom, then joins me in the living room. “Well, this doesn’t look good.”

“I need the emergency box of Thin Mints. And Toa.”

“Wow, this is serious.” Thin Mints are about a bajillion dollars a box, so we only use them for critical situations.

I hear rustling in a cupboard. She taps me on the shoulder, then hands me a box of cookies and a glass of milk, which I immediately have to put on a side table because my hands are shaking too much to hold it. Thoughts of my future swirling down the drain suck me into a dark place. I can’t afford to repeat this class: I already have loans for most of this semester. Those payments are going to kick in with an interest rate that makes me even queasier. I don’t have a job lined up. As I spiral down into the sucking, gaping maw of anxiety, I think about how I’ll end up penniless and homeless in New York City. My stomach roils, so I bring my knees up to my chest and rock back and forth.

My life is over before it’s even begun.

“She’s been like this since I called you.” Mina tells someone—probably Toa—a short time later. “I’m not sure what to do. I haven’t seen her like this since freshman year.”

Toa leans down to rub my back and tells me quietly, “Baby girl, you’ve got to relax. Breathe. Open your eyes. It will be okay.”

I make a sound reminiscent of nails on a chalkboard but do as asked. Deep breath. Hold it. Exhale. Take another. I open my eyes and immediately catalog five things I can see: Toa, Mina, our ratty tweed couch, the box of Thin Mints on the floor, and Mina’s Trinity College hoodie on the back of the couch. Another breath. I pick out four things I can hear: my breath, the rasp of Toa’s hand on my shirt as he rubs it, street noises outside our apartment, and Mina’s finger tapping on her leg.Good. Exhale. Another breath, this time engaging my nose to separate smells: mint, Toa’s cologne, the smell of spring dirt on the soles of my shoes.

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