Page 171 of The Off-Limits Play

I huffed and softly lied, “I can’t find a tutor that I like.”

Over the past few weeks, she arranged for me to meet up with three different tutors. One of them didn’t really have time—he just wanted to meet his favorite Cougar (eye roll)—the other was a fruitcake who wanted me to start each session with a thirty-minute meditation (what the actual fuck?), and the last chick I met with was so hot we ended up doing it in the back of my truck. I figure there’s no way I’ll learn anything if she’s sitting their distracting me with her luscious tits and a mouth that can suck like a vacuum cleaner.

I couldn’t tell my adviser any of this, so she muttered something about me being difficult before looking back through her list and finding another name. “I’m pretty sure she’ll be away for Christmas, but why don’t you at least get in touch with her and see if you can meet up before school goes back in the new year.”

“But I have a game.”

“The quarterfinal is on December 31, correct?”

I nodded.

“And I assume you’re returning to Nolan U right after the game? Classes resume a week a week later, so try to connect with her in that time.” She held out the slip of paper to me, and I was forced to take it.

Shit.

I have to call her because both Coach and my adviser are right about me graduating. I mean, I think. Football is the only future I want, so why even bother?

“Come on, man. You gotta graduate,” I mutter, slumping onto the end of my bed. Pulling out that slip of paper, I stare at the name.

Elizabeth Satchwell

She’s a sophomore and has been tutoring students since her freshman year. Damn. She must be a smarty.

Let’s just hope she’s not a hottie or I’m screwed.

Sucking in a breath, I punch her number into my phone and tap the green button. It rings five times before she answers.

“Hello?” Her voice is soft and uncertain.

“Uh, hey. Merry Christmas. Ho, ho, ho.” I laugh.

She doesn’t say anything, and I frown down at the carpet.

After an awkward beat, she asks, “Who is this?”

“Oh, the name’s Wily Wilson. We go to school together.”

“I’m really sorry, but I don’t know a Wily Wilson.”

“We haven’t met yet.”

“How’d you get my number?” Her voice sharpens, deepening with suspicion.

“Michelle Bigsby gave it to me. She’s an academic adviser at Nolan U.”

“I know Ms. Bigsby.”

“Well, she gave me your name, so…”

“Wily Wilson,” she repeats, then puts me on speakerphone while she obviously looks something up. “Oh, Wily Wilson. You’re the senior. The football player. She emailed me about you.”

“Yeah.” I smile, starting to relax. This might just fucking work. “So, when do you want to meet?”

She’s slow to respond, and my fingers curl as she makes me sweat it out. Is she about to give me some lame-ass excuse for why she can’t work with me? Shit! I have an assignment due soon, and I really need someone who’s going to get me through it.

“Well, that depends on your schedule… and mine. What days are you free?”

“Well, we’re in playoffs now, so only a few games to go and then my practice time will get a little lighter. I can fit in with you as best I can, just as long as it doesn’t get in the way of football.”

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