7. Wyatt

Chapter 7

Wyatt

"Mom, I have to go. I'm late for class." She always calls at the worst times. I lean against the wall and close my eyes, knowing my mother means well but also wishing she'd butt out just a little. Most parents aren't intimately familiar with the process of getting signed to a professional sports team. Lucky me, both my mom and my stepdad coach professional sports teams.

I am lucky. I have amazing parents. I mutter this to myself as Mom keeps on offering pointers.

"You really should touch base with Brian. I can have Dad talk to him if you want. We'd love you to stay here in Pittsburgh. Imagine if you could play for your dad? Wouldn't that be so fun?" My stepdad, Hawk Moyer, is the only real father I've ever known. He embodies that role so completely it's hard for me to remember that I have a biological father…and I never use that word in reference to Nick.

I pinch the bridge of my nose. "Like I told you, Brian is talking to teams in Mexico. I'm really focused on finishing my degree right now, Mom. And I'm going to be late for the math class I should have taken four years ago."

She hums. "Okay, honey. I just love you so much, and I'm so proud of you." Her voice catches. "You've overcome so much."

"I love you, too, Mom." I see the last group of students walk into the classroom I'm supposed to join. The teacher, presumably, comes to the door to close it. "Gotta go, bye."

I hang up on my mom and jog to the door just as it's closing, and in my haste, I bump into the teacher's desk, sending a pile of papers fluttering to the ground. I worry I hurt her or something because she stiffens and doesn't move to pick anything up. I tug my hat lower on my head and crouch. I really wanted to get here early to remind the professor they're not supposed to say my name during roll call.

For one thing, I hate when other students in class identify me as "that soccer player." They don't know anything about me except that I'm good at sports. I wish there were a way to just … be a professional athlete and not talk to fans. All the press conferences and fan fests just remind me of being in custody court. My parents are always talking to reporters. I should be used to the recognition, but it all makes my skin crawl.

I gather the last of the papers and look up to hand them to the professor. Except it's not a professor. It's Fern. From the other night.

Her eyes are wide, and she stands frozen in the middle of the classroom. I look around and see ALGEbrA 1 RECITATION written on the board … along with Fern's name. Shit.

"Are you my professor?"

The question seems to snap her out of her shock, and she snatches the pile of papers from my hand. She strides over to her seat and clears her throat. I take this as my cue to pour myself into a desk. I was hoping to hide in the back, but she has all the chairs arranged in a circle so everyone can see everyone else. Great.

"I'm Fern and I'm the TA for this recitation," she says in a thin voice so unlike her confident bartender voice or even the voice she used in my bedroom. I cannot let myself think about her in the bedroom, especially if she really is my teacher. I tug on my hat again. I need to face the fact that she is in charge of my grade for this course.

I fucked my professor.

Fern takes a deep breath and holds up a piece of paper. "I passed the syllabus around, so you should each take one of those and look it over. I know it's weird that the semester started on a Thursday, and you're having recitation before you even meet Dr. Yoon. They will lecture on Mondays and Wednesdays. And of course, we meet on Fridays." She laughs a little nervously, and some of the other students join in, but most don't, and Fern's cheeks turn a little pink.

I've heard her make better jokes. "Anyway, today we're just going to review the schedule, and if there's time, I can preview the topics for next week's lectures."

She summarizes the syllabus, and students around me highlight the dates for the exams, which Fern will help administer but not be grading. "Oh, speaking of grades," she pulls out a folder. "Recitation is one credit, and that's entirely based on attendance. Everyone gets two absences, no questions asked, but after that …" She points to the syllabus, where I can see that there's a basic rubric for how many points off we get for being late or absent. "So, I guess I should take roll." Fern starts reading out names, and the students around me grunt or wave in response.

My heart starts racing. Students look around, eyeing each other up and looking for recognition as the names are read. It's only a matter of minutes until they recognize me from billboards and last year's college soccer video game. I need to head this shit off at the pass. I blurt, "I'm Wyatt. I'm here."

I can tell by Fern's face that they have me on the roster under my legal name toward the beginning of the alphabet. "Wyatt," I repeat as everyone stares. "I'm probably the only one on the roster." I gesture at Fern's list, and she nods, moving her pencil. She continues on through the roster as people murmur.

It's already too late. People recognize me. I hear someone ask their friend if they heard I got a shoe deal. I wish. Except, not really, because that would be a lot of fucking publicity. I just need to buy myself some time to get signed. I can focus on endorsements and all that superstar crap later. I just need to seal my first deal and get myself established, hopefully far away from American soil, where nobody knows anything about me from before I got good at soccer.

By the time my heart slows, and I can concentrate, the students around me are packing up and filing out. I kill time reading a book until the room clears out, and it's just me and Fern.

"Wyatt, may I speak to you?" Fern's voice is oddly formal, and I nod, staying in my seat until everyone leaves. I'm definitely not having any sort of conversation in front of other undergrads. Fern seems to expect our convo to start immediately, and she sighs and shifts over to a seat next to me.

She smells great, floral and fresh. Her outfit is damn fine, too. I liked her in jeans and a tight tank top, but this look suits her a lot. She looks professional and confident. Or I assume she looked confident until she saw me and realized she fucked one of her students. I grin at that. Damn right, she did.

"Wyatt." Her tone is angry now. "Why did you lie to me?"