9. Wyatt

Chapter 9

Wyatt

"You're Wyatt Moyer, right? From the soccer team?" A woman with bleached blond hair sits in the seat next to mine as I try to slip into the back of the recitation section the next week. I glance over at her. Any other year, I'd be into her glossy pink lips and the view of her lacy bra from the cut-off collar of the baggy sweatshirt she wears. Today, I just want to get through class without angering Fern.

I'm not in the best mood for superfans. My legs are aching from lifting weights with the team this morning. My fingers are cramped from texting my parents repeatedly that I haven't signed any contracts yet.

"Yeah," I grunt, keeping my eyes on my notebook and hoping my body language communicates that this isn't going to be a lead-up to a hookup.

She slides her chair closer to mine. "My roommates and I love soccer. We were there for your hat trick this fall. Against Maryland?"

I nod. "Yeah. Thanks for coming out." I hate this. If I'm going to play pro, I know I need to at least be nice to fans. But honestly, it's all I can manage right now trying to figure out my professional life, stay in shape, and not pop a boner over the TA for this math recitation.

As I draw nonsense notes in my notebook, I see a hand with manicured nails slide a piece of paper onto my desk. I look up again and my fan is smiling at me. "That's my number. If you ever need to catch up on notes or whatever." She lifts her brows at me seductively. My mind reels, trying to figure out what I can say to politely let her know I won't be reaching out to her for homework help or anything else.

She's probably memorized every factoid about me online, and that always weirds me out.

I'm saved by Fern clapping her hands and shouting, "Okay, everyone, let's get down to reducing equations." She smiles and shakes her head. "That's sort of funny if you understand math concepts." She's adorable, making nerd jokes. Nobody laughs, of course, because it's ass-early on a Friday, and we're all here because we suck at math.

I try to sink low in my seat and stare at her, which is expected of students and teachers. Except I'm not looking at the right things. I'm not watching the numbers and letters she writes on the board—I'm staring at that lush ass and remembering how it felt to dig my fingers into her soft skin. When she lifts her arm to write on the board, I'm staring at her silhouette, wanting to palm her tits again, maybe while she whispers into my ear about finding square roots.

Fern was the absolute perfect distraction for me from all the pressures in my life, and now … I'm distracted by my distraction.

I'm so fucked. I wonder if I'd still be this into her if she wasn't my teacher. Would I go for a brainiac gal? I've never really sought anyone out for more than casual fun. I'm not entirely sure what I'm hoping for with Fern. Just a fantasy? A fucking amazing memory to use when I jerk off in the morning? A repeat, so I can carry around the knowledge that I boned my teacher?

She tosses the dry-erase marker on the shelf with a clatter and smiles at the board. "Does anyone else have a question about the substitution method?"

She looks around expectantly. Nobody moves or talks. I glance at my watch and see we're only about halfway through the session. I don't want her to have to stand up there while a room full of assholes makes her squirm. But I wasn't paying enough attention to what she was saying to come through and ask a question of my own.

Apparently, I don't need to worry about Fern, though, because she raises one eyebrow and crosses her arms, popping one hip out in a move I'm sure is unconscious but definitely communicates that she knows absolutely everything there is to know about whatever method she just mentioned. "Not one of you wants to know about using the distributive property? Hint: this will definitely be on the exam…"

Still, nobody talks. Fern circles the room once, and I can tell she's playing with us. She knows none of us have any idea what's going on, but everyone is paying attention now, leaning in as she talks. "Could it be that none of you remember what the distributive property actually is?" Fern laughs and returns to the board. "Let's break it down."

A half-hour later, everyone files out of the room. I can still feel the buzz in the air that comes when a bunch of people are all figuring something out together. Fern really is good at teaching this shit. I shove my notebook in my bag and try to slip out the back. I know if I look at her, I will betray something with my facial expression.

So, I'm not really paying attention when I leave the building, heading toward my apartment to grab some food before my afternoon classes. I pull out my phone to order takeout and see a series of texts from him.

Can't avoid me forever, son.

I can picture my biological father, Nick, in my mind, glassy eyes looking dead inside. His muscles bulge like he's still hitting the gym for hours a day despite getting himself declared physically disabled and incapable of working — or paying a single cent of child support to my mother.

I hate that I reached out to him, that I brought this on. My hands shake as I scroll through the messages. The first time I reached out was to let him know I was changing my name. I had to file a notice in the newspaper. He was going to see it anyway. I figured we'd clear the air and move on, maybe get a beer sometime.

He immediately began demanding I send him money to make up for years of him being denied the right to be my father or something. I realized pretty quickly that I hadn't been catastrophizing any of those memories. This guy is a real piece of shit.

Saw your name on a potential roster for the Olympics, kid. Be a shame if someone leaked dirt on your mother. Did I hear that she was accused of sexual misconduct?

I school my face to remain expressionless. The thought of my mother assaulting anyone is ludicrous, especially when she's been so active in trying to change soccer governance and fight for pay equity in the sport.

I lean against a wall for stability, trying to calm down amidst the crowd of students as they are leaving classes, parting around me like I'm a rock in a riverbed.

You better start taking my calls, kid. Or I'll start making calls to other people.

A ball of hot nausea bounces through my stomach. I'm surprised to feel wetness on my cheeks when I press my knuckles against my face. For a minute, I worry it's blood from my father ripping open old wounds. But apparently, I'm just crying.

I wipe my face on my sleeve, attempting to block out the world, when I hear a soft voice call my name.

"Wyatt? Are you okay?"

I open my eyes to see Fern standing before me, her brow furrowed with concern. I try to force a smile, but it feels more like a grimace. "Yeah, I'm fine. Just needed some air."

She takes a step closer, her hand hesitantly reaching out to touch my arm. "You don't look fine. What happened?"

I shake my head, not wanting to burden her with my problems. "It's nothing. Just some family stuff."

Fern's gaze is steady, her voice gentle but firm. She bites her plump lip, and I shudder. "Wyatt, I can see that you're upset. You can talk to me."

"Can I?" I take a deep breath, weighing the options. Something about Fern's presence, the warmth in her eyes, makes me want to trust her.

"I heard from my father," I say, my voice tight. "He's not ... he's not a good man. He said some things and made some threats. It just brought up a lot of bad memories."

Fern's hand tightens on my arm, her touch grounding me. "I'm so sorry, Wyatt. Do you want me to call anybody for you?"

I shake my head, swallowing past the lump in my throat. "I'm fine. Seriously. He's just a blowhard. I'm going to head home." She looks skeptical. "My roommates are there."

Fern's voice is still soft, so it is different from her tone in class. "I know we don't know each other that well, but I'm here for you. If you ever need to talk or just need someone to listen."

Her words wrap around me, soothing the raw edges of my pain. I manage a small smile. "Thank you, Fern. That means a lot."

She returns the smile, her hand sliding down to gently squeeze mine. "Anytime."

We stand there for a moment, the silence between us comfortable and understanding. "I really messed up a few months ago and reached out to him."

She winces. "I went through a phase like that. Expecting my dad to be a real adult. Like TV dads."

I nod. "I figured … I hadn't talked to him in over ten years. Maybe I was misremembering all the things that happened before Mom left him. It was dumb of me to think we'd just reconnect like friends or something. All I did was remind him that Mom has money now."

Her eyes are warm and understanding. "I'm sorry, Wyatt. That must have really hurt. And now he's … being cruel?"

I nod and don't say anything else because what is there to say? Finally, I take a deep breath and straighten my shoulders. "So, yeah, I'm going home now. Thanks, teach." I add that last part as a reminder to myself that she's offering this support as part of some duty from the university. I'm pretty sure they all have to look out for students' well-being. But she looks a little stricken when I say it.

Fern nods, regardless. "Okay. My offer stands. Whenever you need it."

"I'll remember," I promise. "And Fern ... thanks again. For being here."

She smiles, warm and genuine. She gives a wave and crosses the street toward a crowded bus stop. I look away and wander home, trying to forget.