Chapter 4

My class is full,which isn't normal for first-year writing, considering most kids dread this required class, putting it off as long as they can.

I'll take it as a win. I'm eager to show my new bosses they made the right call by hiring me.

I've been a professor for three years, and when GSU offered me a position, I was blown away. I'm now on the tenure track and am determined to show everyone they didn't make a mistake.

"Professor Johnson," a female with long, blonde hair says, raising her hand. I believe her name is Mindy, but I'm still learning everyone's names.

"Yes?"

"Are you single?" she asks, batting her lashes at me and making the entire class laugh. On the other hand, I can't help but sigh.

"My personal life doesn't matter because even if I was, I don't date students," I state with a firm tone, turning my focus to the entire class. "I'm your professor and ally when it comes to your studies, but I am not your friend. I would very much appreciate it if all of you would refrain from asking any more personal questions."

The class mutters an acceptance of my statement, and I continue teaching the lesson at hand. With a press of the button on the remote in my hand, the screen at the front of the class changes slides, and all eyes are now where they need to be.

Not on me.

While I speak, I try to remain engaging and confident, hoping that if the students love the subject enough, they'll forget about me. Thankfully, it seems to work because no one pries into my personal life for the rest of the period.

"Have a great rest of your day," I call out to everyone when class ends.

I lean against my desk, arms folded across my chest, watching the students shuffle out of the class. But what catches my attention the most is two young men who are entering while the majority are leaving. The gasp that leaves my lips can't be stifled when one of the young men turns around, and our eyes meet. His blond brows shoot up, and he appears just as conflicted as I am.

What is Ben doing here? Please, God, tell me he isn't one of my students.

He's talking with the man he entered with and another one I recognize from class today, but I don't remember his name. While the guys talk, Ben pulls out a notebook, writes something down, and then walks in my direction.

"What are you doing, Coop?" my student hisses at Ben, but he waves him off.

"Hi, Professor Johnson, it's nice to meet you," Ben says with one hand in his pocket, his shoulder hunched a little like he's nervous, which I understand why he would be. I highly doubt he was expecting to run into me today. He holds his other hand out tentatively, and I stare at it like it's going to bite me. "I'm Ben Cooper, but everyone around here calls me Coop. If you like hockey, our team is the best, and you should definitely come to one of our games."

Carefully, I take his hand, giving it a firm handshake, ignoring the electric jolts that shoot up my arm. Between his palm and mine is a small piece of paper he tore off before coming to speak to me, and I'm careful not to drop it when I let go of his hand.

"It's nice to meet you, Mr. Cooper. I've never been a big hockey fan, but I do like to support our students. Maybe I'll attend a game one day. Are you one of my students?" I check, making sure to keep my tone even, not wanting to clue anyone into the fact that we know each other intimately.

Ben shakes his head. "Nope, I took this class my first year. I only stopped by to pick up my friend for lunch. I thought it would be rude not to introduce myself. I guess I'll see you around," he says, heading back to his friends, whispering harshly at him.

Once they leave and my classroom is empty, I open the piece of paper.

It's his phone number and below it, he wrote, Call me.

I've never been involved with a student, and even though he isn't my student, he's still a student at this university. Do I want to cross that line? I'm not sure. Yet I don't throw the note away, either. Instead, I slip it into my pocket, collect my things, and head out for lunch. I'll figure out what to do with the number later.