Page 25 of Player Problems

“Wells said he’d take me home. He parks in the back lot,” she explains, easing my worries when she points to another set of doors that must lead outside. Convenient.

I kiss the top of her head to tease her and she rolls her eyes. “Be safe at work. Text me if you want to meet up afterwards.”

I laugh, pulling away from her. “I’ll be dead on my feet. See you tomorrow.” I wink before heading back in the direction we came from. An extra rush in each step. I may be able to get to work on time if I hurry.

My body aches as I roll over to shut my alarm off.

Not today.

There’s plenty I should be forcing myself awake to get started on, but I also know how to listen to my body. If I keep pushing this hard on so little sleep, I’ll be getting sick before I know it. My entire being is screaming for rest, and dammit, I’m caving to the sweet allure of sleep.

It’s hours later when I finally climb from bed, stretching my arms above my head. I still have time to shower and dress before my scheduled meeting with the academic advisor. A meeting I’ve been putting off and dreading, but at least I feel a bit more sure in my path forward now.

I talk myself through all the mantras I’ve repeated a million times now while trying to make this decision. It’s not the endof the line, just the beginning of a new path. I can always change paths if it ends up not working. But when I’m alone and being totally honest with myself, a spark of excitement and thrill enters my veins at the prospect of studying what I really want to learn about. Of moving away from general ed and taking more specific courses for a degree I want to actually use.

The prospect of getting it wrong? Of changing my mind? Terrifying. Not that I will ever admit to anyone outside my own head.

By the time the leather toe of my combat boot pushes open the door to the administration building, my mind is settled, my expression is flat, and there’s no trace of any anxiety left. I walk down the hallway to where the advisor offices are located, the rubber soles of my boots silent against the linoleum floors. Stopping outside the door that reads Dr. Paler, I knock softly and wait for a deep masculine voice to call out for me to come in.

An older man sits behind a large dark wooden desk. “Ms. Gray, have a seat.” He points to the seat across from him and my eyes narrow as I observe him. Wrinkles line his face in deep grooves as he frowns, removing his glasses and placing them on top of an open folder on his desk. Familiarity tugs at me as his cold blue eyes look me up and down, lingering on my chest in my tight tank top for longer than comfortable, let alone appropriate.

Clearing my throat, I raise a brow. Unamused by the meeting that hasn’t even started. “You may call me Torryn.”

“Ms. Gray,” he repeats, the disapproval heavy in his tone, his eyes flicking back to my cleavage, making my ire rise. “You’re here to declare your major. Are you prepared for that and what that choice means?” Before I have time to respond his gaze hardens. “Or are you too busy with your frivolous and unbecoming hobbies?”

Confusion over his words is the only reason I don’t immediately rise to my feet and leave the office at his words.Thirty seconds in and not only has he been blatantly checking out my tits, he’s also dismissive of everything but them.

“No answer?” He cocks his head to the side, disgust and disapproval warring with desire in his gaze. He begins flipping through the pages of the file in front of him, but it’s obvious he isn’t reading anything on them. He’s decided to hate me from the moment his lecherous eyes landed on me. It clicks. As he drones on about the integrity of the school and the importance of dignity when representing ourselves, it clicks.

A slow grin spreads across my face. Now I know why he has that look in his eyes.

He’s the man from the bar not too long ago. The old fashioned who didn’t like my use of Betty. How interesting for him to lecture me about frivolous hobbies. Tease is my job, it was just a Sunday night for him.

I lean forward, tapping the folder on his desk, clearly seeing the label with my name. “You must not have read this.”

He stops mid sentence to glare at me. “You see, Dr. Paler. I don’t have much time for these frivolities you seem to know so much about. But I also don’t see the need to defend myself to a man who spent a recent Sunday night staring at my tits almost as much as he has been in this office. My GPA and tutor success rate says enough, don’t you think?”

His face pales at the acknowledgement that I know exactly who he is and how he likes to spend his free time. Shouldn’t throw stones in a glass house and all.

“Update my major to Economics, no counseling needed.” With that, I rise from my seat before he has a chance to string together a coherent sentence and leave the office.

Pulling out my phone I send a text to Isla to tell her about the abhorrent man who is my advisor and pray she doesn’t have the same one. I stop at the administrative office and see what I can do about applying for a new one. I wasn’t going to sit in thatoffice for a moment longer, but I did actually want someone to walk me through the career options and what courses would be the most beneficial to pursue.

Fucking Dr. Dickhead.

eleven

NEWS TO ME

Sweat drips from my eyebrow and burns my eyes as I skate up next to Tate still standing by the net. Everyone else slips off the ice, heading to the showers. Tate is always the last off the ice. Every practice, warm-up, game, every single time. If he’s on the ice, he’s the last one off. It’s one of his weird quirks that makes him such a good goalie and an even better captain.

His head cocks to the side as he studies me. A heavy perusal that makes me shift uncomfortably, causing me to blurt out my thoughts in a way I hadn’t intended. “The lines are wrong.”

Slick, Levine. Real subtle.

Tate arches a brow, unfazed as he polishes a puck with his practice jersey. Why is he polishing– no, not the point right now. “Not what I thought was going to have you rattled today.”

“In the game, Zac–” I cut off, his words sinking in. “Rattled? You expected me to be rattled today?”

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