Page 8 of Detention with Daddies

My leg jiggles me in my chair.

And it stops the moment the clock hits one. Because our professor walks in.

It’s Nick from the center. The one who walked me up to see Dr. Rivers. Who asked me about my project. Whoflirtedwith me.

Fuck.

Our eyes meet, and I’m gobsmacked. My heart rocketing against my ribs as sweat gathers at the nape of my neck.

His step hitches and smoothes out before he reaches the desk just a few feet from me. Turning his back to the room to set down his bag, he pulls free a stack of papers. Does he need the second to regroup?

I do. And I’m not in front of a class of sixteen presumably observant adults.

Did he know I was one of his students when we met yesterday?

It makes me breathe in slowly at the implications. No, certainly not.

He doesn’t seem like the kind of person who would play at that kind of thing. That pretext.

His gaze is all confidence again when he turns around, and I try hard not to lose myself in those brilliant blue eyes.

Holding the stack of papers in his hands, he surveys us all and gives us a small, lazy smile. “Welcome to Physiological Exercise I. We’re not here to turn you into personal trainers. You’re here to understand the machine—the body, the brain, the blood.”

I smile at that small description. It’s exactly how I think of this subject. It’s why I love to study it so much.

“I’m Nick Salazar. You can call me Nick unless you plan to email me at 2 a.m. with bad grammar. Then, I’m Professor Salazar.”

There’s a round of tittering laughter, and my smile grows wider. I can tell he clocks it because he gives me one in return.

God, am I in trouble.

He hands out the papers, the syllabus for the course. It’s neat and organized, and I’m surprised by the detailed list of daily lessons scheduled on pages three through five.

Professor Salazar props himself on the edge of the desk, leaning with his legs crossed in front of him.

“Physiological Exercise I is the first half of the two-course exploration of how the body responds to exercise. This semester, we will dive into the body’s acute and chronic responses to exercise.” He pushes off the desk again, and it’s hard not to notice how much larger than life he seems at the front of the classroom, or how tight his ass is in those dark slacks. “Think cardiovascular adaptation, pulmonary thresholds, neuromuscular response, hormonal regulation, and recovery metrics.”

Pacing the front of the room, he looks over his students again, too comfortable being up front and center. Professor Salazar is far too confident, letting the pause simmer without a trace of insecurity.

Those forearms are on display too, sleeves rolled up to show them off, and I never really got the appeal before, but they’re muscled and strong. It matches the way his light knit sweater hugs his broad shoulders over his button-up.

It’s not how he’d dressed yesterday, but this is just as nice as his Henley was. Maybe even more so.

I might have a thing for teachers. Or is it justthisparticular teacher?

Then again, I remember my reaction to Dr. Wright in his office.

I sigh big enough that my breasts strain against my shirt, drawing his attention back to me. My innocent face falls into place, a small smile curling my lips as I twirl my pen between my fingers.

Right. Now is not the time to think about these things.

Salazar is back in front of the desk, arms crossed, showing off the strong veins in his forearms like he knows they caused the downward turn of my thoughts. “You’ll learn how to read a VO2 max like it’s a confession. You’ll understand what cortisol and catecholamines are really doing post-exertion. And you’ll stop relying on guesswork when you’re training people with bodies that don’t fit textbook norms.”

I lift my brow at this, and he meets my gaze with a little smug smile. Does he know what my project is, or is there something more at play with that comment? Can I trust him with the full scope of my thesis now that I know he’s my professor? Can I dampen my initial attraction to him for the very same reason?

“We’ll also hit the lab. Hard. If you don’t like needles or sweat, you may want to transfer to Psych 101.” There’s some soft laughter around the room. He doesn’t sound mean when he says it. But he also doesn’t sound like he’s going to babysit us.

Honestly, if anyone is expecting that from a professor at this point in their education, they’re in serious trouble.

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