Page 23 of Off the Rim
"Are you?"
He winces, and I laugh. I've taken to stopping by his office now and again when I have an extra moment between classes, helping him make copies and staple syllabi. He's tragically unorganized for a professor.
"Mind if I join you?"
"’Course not."
Greg is silent for a long while, tucking into a sandwich and fruit salad. He's down to his last few grapes when he speaks again. "I can't help but notice you're not eating with the rest of the team." He eyes me. "They seem to be having a fun time being rowdy in the dining hall."
I shrug, because it's no big deal. I didn't come here to make friends. I came here with a purpose, and that's to set myself up for a better future. Whether or not my teammates want to share a meal or a laugh with me, invite me to parties, or talk to me at all outside of basketball practice, makes no difference to me. Good riddance.
"You know, a lot of the connections you make in college can follow you throughout your life. Especially the kind of connections you make at a place like this. Most of the people here are on the fast track to run the world."
"I appreciate the advice, but I don't think they want to be connected to the likes of me, and to be honest, it's mutual."
"I'm just saying, it wouldn't hurt you to open up a little. Maybe try smiling? Or if that's too far, you could simply go for not looking like you'd rather chug toilet bowl cleaner than be here." I snort, because he could be right. Maybe. A little. I can't help that I have resting bitch face. It'd probably look unnatural if I smiled. "Can I, uh, ask a personal question?"
Is he about to ask me about dating? He has dropped one too many hints about the different Pride groups and dating apps that are popular around here. And I'm not about to have a conversation with my stepdad about whether I've used said apps to arrange a quick blowjob now and then. That's a little too much sharing for me.
"Is there something going on between you and the James boy? Ashton?"
Heat burns my ears, betraying my nonchalance towards his line of questioning. I'd honestly rather talk about blind hookups.
"There's nothing happening. We have some history, and now we have to be teammates. That's all."
Greg makes a face. He knows the basics about what happened in high school, and the aftermath. "It's really none of my business. I just don't want to see you get caught up in his brand of trouble again. That family…" He shakes his head and huffs in frustration. "They've been known to cut corners and betray people to get ahead, including friends and even family. Not that you need to be reminded of that, after what both you and your father went through with those people." He pauses. "I'm not saying Ashton is necessarily like his father, but?—”
"Oh, he is. I have no doubts or hopeful notions otherwise. And I'm not interested in a friendship or anything else with that backstabber, or any of his pompous, ass-kissing buddies, either."
Understanding my scathing tone for what it is, Greg nods and lets the conversation go. Instead, he diverts us back to talking about school. We talk about how well I did on my final exams for the summer semester, and he gives me insider knowledge about my professors for the upcoming semester. I barely hear a word of his rundown on which professors are the hardest and how to get on their good sides. My thoughts are once again stuck on Ashton and the way he makes my blood boil.
CHAPTER 16
ASHTON
"I'm not interested in friendship or anything else with that backstabber…"
Hearing Marcus talk about me like I'm lower than gum on the bottom of his shoe shouldn't bother me as much as it does. I know he's still angry with me, and he has every right to be. But I can't help it, hearing the hatred in his tone has my lunch sitting in my stomach like a lead weight. I suppose that's what I get for eavesdropping, but I was walking past and heard Marcus laugh. Once I noticed him, I couldn't help but marvel in the way he seemed so relaxed around Professor Harding. That must be his stepdad. I heard the rumors that Marcus only got in here because he had a family member on the faculty. Then the esteemed professor decided to put my name in his mouth and shit talk my family, where anyone could hear.
I'd intended to walk over to the Dean's office and check in, but I'm not in the mood now. I'm too pissed to plaster on a fake smile and schmooze so when he meets my dad for golf this weekend, he'll tell him how great I'm settling in. Not only that, but I don't want to have to explain why I haven't come by the administration offices to get a new room assignment. It wasn'thard to find out that Marcus is staying on the bottom floor of the athletic dorms, which are the cheapest housing available at CVU and only available to athletes. By their second year, most of the athletes move up to a higher floor, with bigger rooms and private bathrooms, or into frat houses. But Marcus has kept his same room since he moved in, according to the intel I got from the resident assistant who helped me move into my temporary room. I'm on the top floor, of course, but it was originally supposed to be a temporary placement while the Alpha Omega Psi house was being renovated over the summer. The rest of my fraternity brothers moved back this week, and I know there's a luxury room waiting for me, with a private chef, cleaners, and a never-ending supply of premium booze. Funny thing, though—I seem to be very comfortable where I am.
Or I was. Now I'm wondering if there's any point in even trying with Marcus? Why can't he just get over it already? We're supposed to be adults, aren't we? Clearly things worked out for him. And if my assumptions are correct, Marcus is probably the student that benefitted from my family's donation. To my knowledge, none of the other players, including the incoming freshmen, are on scholarship. Does he even know that it's my presence here paying his tuition?
I scoff, hating the sound of my own internal monologue. How quickly I returned to my spoiled, entitled roots.
The door to the Alpha Omega Psi house opens before I reach the first step. A younger student, likely a pledge, stands in the entryway wearing an extremely short French maid costume, complete with fishnet stockings and a feather duster in the front pocket of the frilly apron. His nametag says, "Bernice."
"Sir," the pledge says, and curtsies awkwardly.
Following him inside the house, I notice the dress is so short it's barely covering his ass, his cheeks peeking out the bottom with every step he takes. I shake my head and don't say a word. After three years of frat life, I'm no longer surprised by the antics. I am a little surprised Bernice seems to know who I am, but maybe I shouldn't be. After all, there was a time when I expected people to know who I was, before I moved across the country to somewhere that nobody gave a shit and learned just how very un-special I am.
"Can I get you anything, sir?"
"A scotch, please."
Bernice doesn't flinch at me requesting straight liquor in the early afternoon. "Would you like ice?"
"No, thank you. And, uh, make it a double?"
