Page 21 of The Assist
“This way.”
I let him take over, and I follow him past open bedrooms while I openly admire the living arrangements these guys have. I’ve counted three bedrooms already. Each one is large and set up almost in a dorm format with the same bed frame, desk, and large flat screen mounted on light yellow walls. And the bedding and décor isn’t bachelor style mismatch stuff picked up from Target. It’s all in team colors, and the roadrunner mascot makes an appearance in much of it.
“This is me.”
His room looks exactly like the others, but I still scan it from floor to ceiling, looking for clues that make it different. Make it solely his.
“This is your room?” I turn and grin. “What no balcony or bathroom?” I say sarcastically.
“Joel has the master since his dad paid for the house.”
My attention snaps to Wes, and the wheels turn as I piece together what I’ve read about the team and his last name clicks. It should have since it’s plastered all over campus. “Joel Moreno. He’s a Moreno, like, Moreno Hall and—”
“The president of Valley University? Yup.”
Wes grabs the statistics book and a pair of glasses from his desk before taking a seat on his bed.
“Chair’s yours if you want it, or you can sit up here. Big bed.” He slides his glasses on and then flips open the book, and I swear it’s like someone turns on a wind machine. The black rimmed glasses take him from hot jock to hotsmartjock, and I know this must be what it’s like for guys watching a supermodel eat a double cheeseburger. It seems all wrong, and yet, it is sooo right.
“You have specific things you want to go over? Questions? I’m not a tutor, so I don’t really know the right way to do this.”
I take a seat on the edge of the bed. My heart rate spikes just being this close to him. “Joel and Zeke seem confident enough so whatever you taught them in the past few hours seem to contradict your modesty.”
He scrubs a hand over his jaw. “Yeah, all right. How about we start with measuring variation in data sets?”
For the next thirty minutes, Wes basically recites the book as I ask questions and pour over the notes I’ve taken in class. He never looks at the book before he answers. He flips through it a few times when I mention something in reference to a chapter number, but he seems to be an encyclopedia.
His effectiveness, though . . . I mean, I have read the book on my own, but I’m not even remotely close to understanding a fraction of what he does.
Zeke walks in and then freezes. “Sorry, didn’t realize you two were still studying. Practice in ten.”
Wes takes off the glasses and sits back on the bed, resting his large frame against the wall. He clears his throat like all the talking has made him lose his voice. I suppose lecturing to a person for an hour could do that.
I gather my notes and shove everything into my back pack as I try to lift the fog that has settled over my brain. This is worse than the confused and drugged feeling I have when I leave Professor O’Sean’s class. I’m more confused than ever. Between the glasses and his general hotness, I barely registered a word he said.
When someone likes the way a person’s voice sounds, they often say they could listen to them read the phone book. Yeah, that’s basically what just happened. He read me the stat book and his smooth voice and handsome face mesmerized me, but I learned absolutely nothing.
I stand and shift toward the door. “Thank you for the, umm . . . help. See you guys on Monday.”
Wes follows me to the door with a scowl on his face. “Sure. No problem. Hope you got what you needed. I’m sorry to cut out, we have late practice tonight.”
“Practice on Friday nights, huh?”
“Every day. We have an exhibition game coming up.”
I nod and shift one foot farther as I consider asking if I can come back for more help just to see him put the glasses back on. It wouldn’t help my grade, but it’d certainly brighten the day. “Thank you again.”
I spend the rest of Friday night finishing David’s music appreciation paper and Saturday alternating between trying to figure out this stupid computer programming assignment, trying to study for statistics, and figuring out what I’m going to do when I fail the midterm and have to drop the class with an incomplete. I’m taking four classes this semester. That isn’t counting the four classes David is enrolled in but passing along to me. I’m drowning in assigned reading, research, and assignments.
As the quiet sorority house starts to buzz with excitement of girls getting ready for a Saturday night out, I finally give up any pretense of absorbing any more information.
With no other plans for the night, I find myself back at the baseball house. I shoot Gabby a text to let her know I’m back and scoping out the hot jocks. She replies with about ten smiley faces. I’m standing with Vanessa, Mario, and a freshman named Clark, who hasn’t left my side since I walked through the door unattached. He’s funny, charming, and cute, but I have one eye aimed on the door as he trails on about his first months in the Arizona heat. And if my pulse accelerates at the sight of Joel and Zeke entering the party...well, I’ll blame that on the alcohol and not the blip of hope that another player might not be far behind.
“I didn’t realize the baseball team was tight with the basketball team,” I say to Mario and Clark, trying for nonchalance. “Aren’t you guys supposed to have some sort of rivalry or something over gym time and national titles?”
Clark pipes in. “Basketball team is cool. It’s the soccer guys we don’t like.”
Mario gives Clark a glare. “We don’t have beef with any of the jocks.”
