11. Wyatt

Chapter 11

Wyatt

My cousin Wes uses the term "competency boner" when discussing his girlfriend. Cara is one of the best soccer players in the world, and Wes was a goner for her the second he saw her in action. Well, not only is Fern Montgomery a fantastic bartender … she's also a really fucking good teacher. Sitting in class listening to her explain how to solve equations like nothing has me more than half-hard.

It's been at least three weeks, and I try not to make eye contact with her, recite the quadratic equation, and think about my steps for taking penalty kicks, but it's hopeless. I'm hot for this teacher.

I stare at my lap until she says, "Okay, that's it for this week. Let me know if you have any questions about the exam."

Shit. The exam. I've been so busy fretting about what damage my father might cause that I've really been struggling when it comes to my studies. I'm not a terrible student, but math has never been my best subject. My family is always saying sports use a lot of math skills, and I guess they're right, but I don't see how that translates to absolute value or whatever it's called.

I hustle out of the classroom, wondering what social activity my cousins are going to rope me into this weekend. I've been a lot less grumpy about driving their asses to bars since I got the vague hope that Fern might be working as a bartender, but I think she stopped doing that now that she's got this teaching gig.

I emerge from the elevator to find Odin and Stellan sprawled on the wooden benches in the lobby of the classroom tower. "Wyatt!" Odin looks up from his phone as Stellan yells my name. "We're doing a Costco run. You're driving."

I roll my eyes at them. "Why do I always have to drive? This isn't even a drinking event."

Odin shrugs. "Your car has the most cargo space. We need like 35 gallons of cereal, plus toilet paper."

I sink onto the bench next to him. "We are four guys living in an apartment. How much toilet paper do we possibly need?"

Stellen starts counting on his fingers. "It's been months since we restocked, man."

"Yeah, and I'll be graduating in a few months. The last thing I want to do is pack toilet paper when I go to Mexico."

Odin shakes his head and stands, offering me a hand to tug me to my feet. "You act like my brothers aren't lined up to take over the lease when you graduate this spring, dude. There will be Stags in that spot for years."

I walk beside them in the cold for the few blocks back to our apartment, where we dump our backpacks and fight over who will drive to the store. A series of texts comes through from my mom, asking if I'll have dinner with her tonight instead of Sunday. I show the phone to my roommates. "I will drive, but only because you fuckers are going to unload on the curb, and I'll go on from there to hang out with my mom."

Odin rubs his palms together. "That means you guys won't be at family dinner on Sunday, which means more of Aunt Alice's chicken for me."

I punch his shoulder. "I might show up Sunday, too. Just because my parents are out scouting or whatever doesn't mean I can't come."

An hour later, my car has been stuffed to the ceiling with packaged snacks and then unloaded in a snow squall; I'm finally on my way to the soccer stadium to grab my mom. I wave at the parking attendant, who has known me since Mom got this job when I was four years old, and I pull into a spot right by the stadium offices.

I could text Mom that I'm outside, but I enjoy going into her office. As a kid, I used to run up and down these halls, sneaking into the locker room where my dad and the other guys on the team would let me score on them. Now, Dad's retired from playing and is coaching the men's team, and the city has added a women's pro team to share the facility.

I start sweating when another message comes in from Nick—another number I haven't blocked yet.

You know it's slander for you to talk about me in the papers. I see these articles coming up. Big shot kid looking for a big contract, and the reporters gotta mention some bullshit from 20 years ago? Fuck you. I'm going to sue you.

A lump forms in my throat. I don't know what slander means, really, but asking my lawyer-uncle about it would lead to more questions than I know how to answer.

How the hell could I be on the hook for some reporter looking up public information that half the world already knows? I haven't let that man's name cross my lips to a reporter. Ever. I need to figure some shit out before I can deal with any of this, so I block the number and go looking for my mom.

She steps through the door of her office just as I'm shaking away this current wave of dread. "Wyatt! Come here, you look freezing." Mom wraps her arms around me and looks surprised that I'm taller than her, as if I haven't been taller than her for ten years now. "Well, I thought I could warm you up, but I guess we'll just blast the heat in your car. Where do you want to eat?"

I shrug, and Mom suggests we try the robot sushi place, where all the food goes by on a conveyor belt. "Yeah, that sounds fun."

I drive, and Mom talks about her roster leading up to the Olympics. She always played midfield, like my dad and me, and I like hearing her assess the women's national team. We get to the restaurant, and Mom keeps talking.

I think this is going to be a pretty easy meal with her until Mom grabs two plates of California rolls and holds them out of my reach. "I talked to Brian." I groan and she slides me one of the plates. "Why are you postponing a contract offer? And he said you turned down an endorsement opportunity?"

I take a bite of the sushi, but it all tastes like sand in my mouth. I can't tell her I'm waiting to sign a contract until I figure out if Nick can really sue me. Suppose signing something so publicly will set him off bringing up lies about her and Dad. "I've got some complications at the moment. But I'm handling it."

"That's what Brian said you said. I just don't know why you'd sit on something like that, honey. It's not like our family lacks lawyers who can help. Whatever it is. Uncle Tim is a huge donor to your school. I'm sure whatever is going on, he could?—"

I snap at my mom. "I said I'm handling it." Her head jerks back, her expression pained. I sigh. "I also need to figure out what I want and what my career is going to look like. I want to begin my professional career as I plan to continue. Brian is always talking about building a brand. Maybe I'm not a cereal flake ambassador. Maybe I'm more of a deodorant icon."

Mom grins and shakes her head. My Dad and his brother Ty did a spot for Old Spice a few years ago, talking about Stag Swagger. "As long as you have a plan, Wyatt. But please know Dad and I are here for you. You can tell us anything." A silence hangs between us, and I wonder if she's thinking what I'm thinking—that I spent a ton of time in therapy telling first the psychologist and then Mom and Dad all the things that happened to me when Nick had visitation.

I've always walked around feeling like a stain on this family. The Stag family is full of massive success—professional athletes, incredible artists, and writers … I know they don't mean to make me feel like the dark-haired stepchild, but that's precisely what I am.

I drive Mom home after dinner, endure extra-long hugs from her in the driveway, and head to my place to get caught up on my schoolwork while the apartment is empty. Except it's no use. I can't concentrate on my history paper, and no matter what I try, I can't figure out how to solve the practice problems Fern gave us to prepare for the exam on Monday.

I slam my notebook closed, and a piece of paper flutters out—the syllabus. I look at it as I go to shove it back in the folder and see an online forum for the recitation class. Chances are pretty slim that Fern or anyone would be on there at eight on a Friday night, but I log in mainly to satisfy my curiosity.

Sure enough, I'm the only student in the room; everyone else's name is grayed out … except a bright green dot next to Instructor.

Fern.

Hey. I type in the chat window quickly, realizing I should elaborate. I'm stuck on the problem about filling the bags of sugar.

I stare at the screen for a few breaths. I'm about to slam my laptop shut and watch reality television instead when I see some floating dots appear in the chat window. Oh shit, Fern is typing back. I try not to imagine her in comfortable clothes at home, maybe not wearing a bra, perhaps those fantastic tits shaking a bit as she types furiously to help me.

Where are you stuck?

My lips part, thinking about her naked even as she's trying to help me with math. Why is this hot for me? I'm seriously fucked in the head. She's trying to help me with my math homework; it is her job. Fern seems perfectly capable of forgetting our night together, treating me just like any other student. Which is what I am. A student who is stuck on a math problem about weighing bags of sugar: I got the heaviest possible bag, but I don't know how the equation can find the lightest possible bag of sugar.

Fern asks me a few questions, which initially frustrates me because wouldn't it be easier if she just told me what I'm missing… but finally, I see what to do on my own. I actually feel the tension leave my shoulders as I type a formula into the chat box, and then when Fern types, perfect! You got it! I feel like I just scored a fucking goal in the last instant of a game.

Thanks so much, Fern.

I bite my lip. I mean Ms. Montgomery. Thank you for helping me on a Friday night.

My pleasure. Does she really mean that? Oh, god, I can't think about pleasuring Fern.

I stare at the screen, unsure if I'm expected to respond if she's still sitting there. My heart thunders in my chest, but I type, You're really good at explaining this stuff. I mean it.

Thanks, Wyatt. I appreciate that. Good luck on Monday's exam. Have a good weekend.

Again, I should close the computer. I should walk away. But her instructor dot stays green. She's still sitting there on her end. It's not like I can type anything I'm really thinking, especially not on an official university server. But damn, do I want to know what she's wearing, what she's doing after this, why she'd be monitoring the online support forum on a Friday.

By the time her green dot turns gray, I'm fully hard, aching in my jeans, remembering how she looked spread open on my bed, how she tasted when she was so nervous about being sweaty. I close my computer and move to my bed, wishing I could still smell and feel her there as I unzip my jeans, take myself in my hand, and relieve myself to the memory of Fern Montgomery's O-face.