Page 199 of Well Played

Easy. Right. Because…easy my ass.

"Tell me, class," Professor Watts begins, "who can pinpoint the moment in Vladimir Nabokov'sLolitawhere Humbert's obsession with Dolores Haze transcends mere lust and veers into the realm of artistic obsession?"

Otterbach, an underclassman center—and Quinn Patrick’s replacement next year—snorts predictably from a couple of seats to my left. “He said lust,” he whisper-coughs, then laughs like we’re thirteen and watching porn instead of sitting in a brightly lit lecture hall at one of the strongest liberal arts colleges in the country.

I want to throat punch him, especially when Professor Watts raises an eyebrow and stares directly at our little section of the lecture hall as if he wants to call on one of us. I hold my breath, hands paused above the laptop keyboard until my dickhead of a professor drops his beady eyes to a row closer to his podium at the front of the room.

I exhale slowly but don’t relax, not even when Patrick, our captain, grumbles, “You’ve got a lot to learn, rookie: this isn’t your fancy boarding school. Watts eats freshmen like you for breakfast.”

Patrick’s right. There are fewer than fifty of us in this crappy class, so there’s really no room to hide. If Watts decides he wants to single you out, you’re screwed. When Otterbach makes some whiney, high-pitched reply, my hands actually clench reflexively into fists, and it’s not just because he’s an entitled prick who keeps boasting that he’s going to smash Trinity’s goals per game record, or because he posted some lame-ass video of me making pizza to Trinity’s social media app right after our first playoff bracket win.

Oh, wait. I already punched him for that.

I glance sideways and grin at the spectacular bruise around his right eye. It’s like a demon rainbow slashed across his face and spying it gives me a sense of deep satisfaction. It may be my best work off the ice to date.

I reluctantly drag my attention back to class just as Watts takes off his round glasses and polishes them with a cloth he keeps in his tweed jacket especially for the purpose. “"No volunteers for the discussion? Remarkable. Need I remind you all that this will be on the final?" he remarks dryly, his tone practically dripping with disdain. “How about you, Ms. Bazzi? You always bring animpassionedpoint of view.”

Suddenly, I’m all ears, my idiot teammate forgotten as I sit up a little straighter at her name. I swear my phone—with the unanswered DM from last night—feels like it’s burning a hole through my pocket.Camille Joy Bazzi. AKA, CJ to her friends, according to her profile. I vaguely remember her from some elective freshman year because she wore a lot more black: black clothes, black make-up, black fishnets held up with big safety pins, all practically proclaiming her stage management major to the world. It was a good look for her. Fierce. Determined. Intimidating.

She seems to have ditched all of that now for a more natural look, with shoulder length brown hair framing a face with big,lightish brown eyes, which wince like she’d rather be getting a root canal than answering his question. Her eyes dart left, then right. She’s looking for an exit.

There isn’t one.

Meanwhile, Professor Cocksucker is enjoying her discomfort more by the second. He stops rubbing his glasses and stares directly at her, puffing his chest slightly to take in more air when she won’t meet his eyes. It’s a predatory reaction, meant to provide fuel for a strike. I see it all the time: someone flying up the ice, focused on the puck, and some D-man on the chase sees a split-second opportunity to steal it or body check the bastard. Hell, I have a theory that watching for the predatory gleam is one of the reasons I’m great at reading threats in the crease. Opponents don’t half-ass coming at me when I’m in goal. They’ve got to believe they can score. And that split second when they go from determined to believing they’ve located a hole…yeah. That’s the same look Watts wears right now.

But it’s not my goal to defend.

The silence stretches uncomfortably. Students begin to twitch. Otterbach opens his fucking mouth because he can’t actually help himself but I ignore him. I’m too focused on the front of the room.

“Ms. Bazzi? Nothing to say? How shocking. Based on your last paper, I would have thought you had plenty to say on the topic of lust and art.”

A few classmates laugh at his cruel remark. Maybe they’re relieved that Watts’s sights aren’t focused on them. Or maybe they’re cruel motherfuckers.

“Will you give me a minute? I have anxiety, I’m not stupid.” C.J. bites back, clearly pulling herself together and fiddling with her laptop for another thirty seconds. Is she trying to run out the clock for the last five minutes of class? She pokes a key hard—she must be scrolling through her notes—and clears herthroat. “First, let me come right out and say that you’re wrong to think he transcends lust and moves to artistic obsession. He’s a abusive pedophile who repeatedly rapes a young girl, which is a tragedy, not some sort of artistic journey. And he doesn’t just rape her: he wants to own her spirit. To strip her of it and infuse his writing with it. She’s not his muse, she’s his property. She’s something he intends to use up and then replace with some othernymphet. Second, I reject the idea that moral depravity can be elevated to art. Humbert is a predator, pure and simple. And by the way, just saying that wordnymphetmakes me want to throw up.”

I smile. I can’t help it. Because…holy shit. Watts looks like he just got bitch slapped.

“Dayum, girl!” Otterbach says in the quiet that follows her little speech. The entire class laughs at his outburst, and even I chuckle under my breath. The class breaks out into little bits of speech here and there, punctuated by the sounds of people putting their laptops away because class is over, even if Professor Douche hasn’t said so.

Watts knows he’s lost control and he doesn’t look pleased. “Alright, class. That’s enough. I hope you’re all prepared for Thursday’s continued discussion and that it’s more enlightening and accurate than today’s.” His eyes drop back to CJ. “Miss Bazzi, I’d like to see you in my office. Immediately.”

She freezes as she meets his eyes, probably noticing the color high on his cheeks and the way his nostrils flare. Something about the way he’s looking at her gives me a bad feeling in my gut.

I pull my eyes away from the front of the room as Patrick pokes my shoulder and frowns, “Dude, you coming or what? Weights aren’t going to lift themselves.”

“Yeah. I’ll catch up. Got something I need to take care of.” I shove my laptop into my backpack, ignoring his side-eye until Ihave to move by him to get to the aisle. “Seriously, Give me ten minutes. Maybe fifteen.”

Patrick frowns. “You sure? You never mess with your schedule.”

He’s right. I don’t think I’ve deviated from my daily schedule since freshman year. I like structure: everything in its place, every activity in a slot. Some of the guys are slacking off because it’s the off season for them, or they’re graduating in a month and hanging up their skates except for fun. I don’t have that luxury and neither does Patrick: I’ve signed with the New York Blaze, headed to their affiliate team the Bridgeport Dragons, and have to prove myself in front of the net with a new team. Patrick’s going to the Hartford Harbingers, so he gets it. Our days of protein smoothies, weights, and conditioning are still ahead of us.

“Yeah. Be there shortly.” I nod and he heads out without a backward glance. That’s great, because I have to high tail it to catch up with Professor Prick and CJ and I don’t want Patrick asking any questions about why I’m in such a hurry when I’m not sure myself. CJ’s nothing to me. Okay, sure, I might have noticed her once or twice freshman year, before the puck bunnies and my dad practically forced me to give up all hope that I could like a girl and have a relationship. And sure, her text might have made my night in a way nothing outside of hockey has in a while. But just because CJ Bazzi told me I had a nice ass doesn’t mean that I should be following her around like a creeper, even if I don’t like how Watts looked at her. Those are the actions of either a jealous asshole or a paranoid one. I’m neither.

I’ve almost talked myself out of this fool’s errand when I reach Dr. Watts’s office door. It’s nearly completely shut, which is odd. What makes it odder is that the window next to his door has the blinds closed. I know for a fact that most professors leavethose blinds open when they meet with students, or they leave the door propped open. Goosebumps break out on my arms. What the fuck is going on?

I lean toward the crack in the door, trying to hear the conversation. I’m relieved when I hear Watts’s dry voice. “Ms. Bazzi, you have an attitude problem and it’sinfectingthe rest of the class. There are consequences to statements like your outburst today. Nabokov is a genius and you are clearly not understanding the material. The rest of the class seemed to enjoy your perspective, but I assure you I did not.”

She must say something, but it’s too hard for me to hear. It doesn’t matter, though, because he cuts her off.

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