Chapter 4

Chapter Four

" A re you coming or not?" Sam asked, her arms folded over her chest as she leaned against the threshold of my doorway. She donned a red jersey with a large, white number five in the center, her blonde hair tied up in pigtails, and crimson and white stripes swiped under her eyes.

Oakwood's football team kicked off their season the second weekend into the semester, and everyone on campus was ready. Our dormmates were shouting, their ruckus cheers carried throughout the old house easily and there was a lingering scent of marijuana everywhere you went.

I sighed, curled on my bed with Shakespeare to keep me company while the sport fanatics dispersed in waves across campus. I was looking forward to having the house to myself.

"I don't know, I'm more of a lacrosse girl," I lied, turning my attention back to Romeo.

"Absolutely not. You're coming, you have to. It's like a rite of passage." Sam stepped into the room, slamming the door behind her. She snatched my book from the bed and tossed it haphazardly onto the desk as I stared, feeling rather dumbstruck. I couldn't recall anyone having done such a thing to me, ever. Normally they left me to my own devices, but Sam was different. It was as if Sam almost cared to look behind the mask.

I'd have to digest that later.

"Hey," I groaned. "I have homework to do."

"Yeah, so do we all. But guess what we're doing? We're going to the game, we're getting fucked up, and we're doing our homework tomorrow. Got it?"

"What if I say no?" I smirked, testing her resilience. She wasn't having any of it, her delicate fingers wrapped around my arm and tugged me from the bed.

"I have so much work to do with you. Honestly." Sam eyed my Ikea brand armoire wearily. "Do you have anything that doesn't scream Gossip Girl in there?"

I laughed with a lazy shrug. "Probably not. You know, nepo baby and all."

"You make me sick." Sam rolled her eyes. "Stay here and don't lock the door. I'll break in if I have to." Her wide, brown eyes cautioned me as she backed away and disappeared through the door.

My lip fell between my teeth as I fought another giggle. Maybe I'd let her win this time, because maybe, just maybe it would be good for me. We didn't have football at NYU but we did have other sports and honestly, I'd only been to a few baseball games with the art students. All we did was get high and watch the male players in their tight little pants. How different could a game here be?

Sam returned with a white OU shirt, the lettering and school crest stood stark in a deep, blood red. "Put this on," she instructed.

I stripped my blouse, throwing the tee shirt on as she said. What was oversized on Sam's slim figure fit rather nicely on my own.

She was in my armoire, digging through baskets of bottoms and grumbling under her breath. "Where are the jeans?"

"In the wash," I admitted sheepishly. She didn't have to know I owned literally two pairs of them. Sam cut me a glare in disappointment.

"Fine, this will have to do." She held up a black skirt—tight and short—for me to take.

"Am I permitted to wear tights?" I inquired, dropping my trousers and taking the skirt.

"Absolutely not! This is a college football game not fucking church."

"I don't go to church." I scrunched my nose at the thought.

"Neither do I, so no tights."

I stepped into the garment, pulling it up and over my hips so I could zip it, a smile teased on my mouth the whole time. It was entirely too much fun to watch her fuss over the whole thing. I was beginning to adore her.

Sam's thumb came to her lips, her teeth biting the digit as she looked over me thoughtfully. "I think we should knot the shirt in the front…"

We had to do something I supposed, it looked rather flat otherwise. So I did, knotting it for a more fitted and styled look.

"Perfect. Roll your sleeves, I'm going to grab you a pair of my Vans."

"What if we're not the same size?" I protested, fighting with the stiff cotton on my arm.

"Then you'll just have to suffer." Sam tossed a lock of golden hair over her shoulder, disappearing behind the door again.

When she finally returned—after I'd fought entirely too long with my sleeves—she had a checkered pair of Vans and faded green tackle box in hand.

"Oh god," I muttered, taking a seat at my desk.

"Yes, pray to the lord now, church girl, because I'm not certain you'll survive this." She set the tackle box beside me, dropping her shoes on my rug. "Shoes on, then we'll do make up."

"Are you going to paint my face?" I screwed it up in denial.

"Of course, I can't be the only one out there looking like a fool!"

"You won't be, I swear half the school is painted today! I saw a guy who did his whole body red and white."

"Colin? Yeah, he goes all out, doesn't he? But now, you'll be a part of the statistic, as well." She opened the tackle box which was full of makeup pallets and brushes. It took her but a moment to decide which pallet she needed and then, to my dismay, she set to work. Her fingers dipped into the crimson first and I sat as still as possible, the paint cold against my heated face.

When she finished with my fanatic make up, she started on my hair, giving me matching high pigtails which she tied with ribbons in Oakwood colors. It seemed like ages until she finally pulled back, adjusting her own ribbons.

Sam snapped her makeshift make up kit shut. "Let's hurry, we're going to be late!"

We all but ran to the stadium on the west side of campus and I quietly thanked whatever deity might exist that the Vans fit well enough. Students were piling in and the brassy sound of the marching band filled with air as much as the scent of corndogs and beer. The stadium was used for both lacrosse and football with an insane capacity, deep and rounded with rich green turf.

When we finally managed to get past the entrance, a wave of surprised washed over me—the stadium was full . Red and white figures shaking pom poms and screaming at the top of their lungs filled the stands, and many more stood on the edge, dancing, waiting impatiently for the game to start .

Only a small portion of the crowd at the end donned green—the color of the visiting school.

Sam's fingers wound around my wrist as she tugged me forward to her group. The noise, the smells, the bodies pressing on me from all sides had my head swirling with second hand excitement. I only tolerated lacrosse games for Walt, but even their energy wasn't as high as this.

Sam's friends were all sophomores and juniors, art students from middle class families across the country. They were kind, most of them half naked and painted like the guy Sam had called Colin, and I was grateful after the introductions when the majority of them started fawning over the quarterback instead of playing twenty questions with me. I stood on the throngs of the animated discussion, watching the band on the sidelines with their trumpets blaring and drums thumping.

"I need a beer!" Sam hollered over the music, which every one of her friends echoed in agreement.

"I'm buying!" The red and white painted guy, Colin, said. He'd even done his hair to match.

"Are you coming?" Sam asked as the party filed toward the concessions.

"I'll hold our spot, will you get me one?"

"Are you sure?" Her eyes softened ever so slightly, as if she could see the apprehension etched in my face.

"Yes, of course!"

"Okay, we'll be back quick."

"Sam! Come on!" One of the guys hollered, several yards ahead now. Sam spun on her heels, bounding to catch up to them as I leaned against the metal railing, its paint chipped and faded, soaking in the ever so collegiate experience. The cheerleaders were dancing, hyping the crowd in a way that told me the game would be starting soon .

Clouds covered the blinding sun, casting the stadium in a cool shade.

"Behaving yourself?" a familiar, husky voice said from behind.

Butterflies burst to life in my stomach at the same moment my spine bristled with annoyance. How could this man illicit such opposite reactions at once?

"Dr. Wilder," I greeted, crossing my arms over my chest.

He feigned a sigh of relief, broad shoulders dropping. "I'm so glad to see you're unarmed today. Are there no pockets in that scrap of fabric you call an outfit, or have you finally taken my advice and decided to stay out of your phone?"

"Excuse me?" I breathed, lost for words. Was he really commenting on my skirt? The hem was short, but honestly I was wearing a normal tee shirt for Christ's sake. Sure, the words struck a chord, but none more than the bit about my phone.

He chuckled.

"Honestly, Professor. You must live in some delusion." My cheeks were on fire.

He scoffed. "I will say, the pigtails are a nice touch, though I prefer your hair down." He leaned against the railing beside me, pulling a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and I noticed for the first time that he wore a loose linen shirt with sleeves rolled to his elbows, exposing masses of black ink. His trousers, khaki and linen, moved easily in the light breeze.

"What I do with my body is none of your business," I retorted, weak as it was, my voice barley audible over the trombones behind us.

He arched a brow, taking a drag of his cigarette. "Is that so?"

"Yes. It is." I scowled up at him at the same moment the sun broke through the clouds and he was illuminated in buttery light, those gray eyes bright as morning mist and laughing .

"How can something so vicious, so asinine, be equally as timid?"

"If you think I'm being timid, you're sorely mistaken." I snatched his smoke from his fingers, taking a long hit myself and tossing it on the ground where I tamped the cherry with my shoe. "It wouldn't be the first time you've been mistaken, however."

He stared, shocked amusement lining his features and as he opened his mouth to reply, Sam came barreling through the crowd with two beers in hand. Her smile faded as she approached.

"Dr. Wilder! I didn't know you were a football kind of guy." She handed me the drink, her lip between her teeth.

I took it gratefully, downing the cold, penny flavored liquid in desperation. Something had to steady me and my nerves most certainly weren't handling the job well sober.

"Oh you know, school spirit and all. Is that beer?"

"Um, yes, sir it is." She forced a smile, offering him her cup. "Would you like some?"

"No." He shook his head. "I didn't realize you all were old enough to drink."

Sam blanked, her eyes darting to me for rescue. Her friends stood on the edge of the conversation, uneasy. It was clear professors didn't often mingle down here with the student body.

"Have you spilled your coffee on many students, Professor?" I asked, taking another sip of my beer.

"No, you know you're the only student I've had any issue with during my tenure." He assessed me carefully.

"I was just curious, since the others seem to be weary." I nodded in their direction.

"Perhaps they realize how damning it looks to be drinking at a school function while underaged? Something that doesn't seem to be bothering you. "

I shrugged. I'd done worse.

The crowd erupted into cheers as the football team ran out on the field, band blaring and cheerleaders tumbling.

"I must be getting to my seat, I'll see the two of you on Monday—sober I hope." He ducked through the crowd, slipping between students who scrambled for a closer look at the team, their pom poms rustled and voices shrieked raw.

And I couldn't focus on anything else for the rest of the game but the figure in the stands with glinting glasses and dark hair.