Dirty Curve

Today, I’m feeling fan-fucking-tastic. I woke up at a quarter to five, as usual, went for a run and did my morning workout routine. After that, I hit the town grocery store and because of my grand mood, decided to make my mom’s famous homemade chorizo for breakfast. Instead of using the leftovers to meal prep for the next few days like I normally would, I leave it all out for the boys to eat when they finally decide to open their eyes.

I’m not a miserable, downer kind of guy, more a smiley, whistle when you walk fucker most days, but there’s something about coming off a two-game shutout that takes you from a seven to a ten.

So, yeah. I’m feeling good … that is until I’ve reached the top step of the stairs leading to the library, and no messy-looking bun is in sight.

Stuffing the last bite of my breakfast burrito into my mouth, I look at my watch, and a frown builds along my forehead.

Okay, to be fair, it’s seven fifteen as of this second. Technically, I’m exactly on time when I should have been earlier, but my body felt good this morning, so I went for those two extra miles.

Either way, I’m not late, but where the hell is she?

I have class in forty-five minutes, and sure, the science building is a short stretch from here, but I don’t do late, and neither should she, especially when she’s on the job.

Now I’ll have to rush there, having no time to stop and chat with friends along the way, or give the ball babes the attention they pay Dr. Double-D-Maker good money for.

That’s just inconsiderate.

I look at the time again.

No way would she be more than a minute or two late, right? Maybe she’s here somewhere and I didn’t spot her at first glance?

I try rewinding my brain, to remember what she looks like, come up with nothing past the bun but a faded gray sweatshirt. The kind your grandma buys you from Kmart for Christmas every year, baggy and boring and itchy on the inside after one wash.

To my left are several girls, each hunkered over some papers and shit, but they don’t seem to be waiting for anyone, and to my left there’s … well, we’ll go with a group lost on their way to a rodeo, or members of the Future Farmers of America. Pretty sure there’s dry horse shit on at least a handful of their big-ass boots.

Is that snakeskin?

With a huff, I look around again.

Where is this chick?

I walk into the library, and right up to a desk that looks like it’s for people who know shit in here—as a team, we have our own study hall area, so this is foreign territory for me.

I flash a big, bright grin at the little thing sitting behind it. “I’m hoping you can help me out.”

The girl’s cheeks turn cherry red and my lips curve higher.

The teeth always get ‘em.

“I need to find a girl.”

She nods, her eyes wide.

They’re actually kind of scary, the I’ll stab you in your sleep, then hold you all night as you bleed out, scary. Maybe hide under your bed like some urban legends shit.

“She’s a tutor.”

“Okay. Sure.” She clears her throat and pulls out a little clipboard with a bunch of names signed on it. “What’s her name?”

“Don’t know.” I shrug.

“Right.” She blows out a breath and her bangs fly in the air. “Well, it looks like we only have four girls in this morning, so it shouldn’t be too hard to figure it out. What does she look like?”

When I don’t respond, her serial killer eyes lock back on mine. “You don’t know her name or what she looks like?”

“I’ve only ever had a view of the top of her head.” I lean my forearms on the counter with a smile, knowing she’s reading into my statement the dirtiest way possible. “Her head’s about to my chin, brown or blonde hair, maybe.” I shrug. “I’m not so hot with random details.”

She nods slowly, her lips pinching slightly.

I know that face, she’s getting a sour taste in her mouth. This always happens when I don’t drop a line and offer the chance for them to sink their teeth into the bait.

She’s about to pawn me off now, uninterested in helping me out since I’m uninterested in helping her out of her clothes.

The girl’s face scrunches, and she drops against the seat. “Go to the tutoring center next to the child development building. They should be able to tell you who was assigned to you, but make sure you take your student ID.”

A low laugh slips from me, and I tap the counter as I slide away. “Cute, that’s cute, girl, but thanks.”

Spinning around, I grin and head straight where she directed.

The tutoring center is two buildings over, so I shouldn’t lose much more time, but I am down to twenty minutes until my first class of the day, which stresses me the fuck out.

I need to get my assignments from this chick and get my ass in gear.

More forceful than intended, I yank the door open, causing it to slam closed at my back, making the dude behind the counter’s head jerk up.

“Hi. I need the name of my tutor.”

He does a double take, knocking over a stack of papers he must have just pulled from the printer.

Yeah, even dudes dig me.

I grin. “My tutor. Who is she? Where is she? She was supposed to meet me a half hour ago at the library.”

Before I’m even done talking, his fingers begin blindly flying across the keyboard.

I’d need my ID, she said. Ha!

“That can’t be right.” Looking up, the dude sits tall in his rolling chair, and I take note of the change in his expression. His face is a little tenser, a bit more focused, and a lot more tell me she’s not spending hours alone with this god of a guy.

It all becomes clear right then and there.

He shakes his head. “She never works before twelve and she would never miss an appointment.”

My left brow lifts slightly, and I grin. “She your girl?”

His white skin turns as pink as his polo, and he defends, “no!”

“But you want her to be.”

“She’s my friend, that’s all,” he swears, as if it really matters.

“I bet you’ve got your friend’s number.” I cock my head and I think he might be ready to hyperventilate. “Can you tell her to come here, now? I need—” Shit. I can’t tell him and risk my eligibility. “I need to talk to her. Quick.”

The guy speaks with a hard-fought swallow. “Sorry, Tobias, but you’ll need to come back this afternoon, and even then, it might be hard. She doesn’t work in the office, only comes in to print and grab things. I can email her and ask her to get in touch with you, but that’s all I can do.”

“Yeah.” I shake my head slowly. “That’s not gonna work for me, my man. Can you write her number down for me?”

He stumbles over his own words. “I can’t give out her personal information. Her preference is set as email. I can offer you that, but like I said, her mornings are blocked out. No tutoring. No—”

I tsk with my tongue. “Look” —I glance at his name badge, reading Jonny— “Jonny Boy, I need that number,” I tell him as I text the man who makes it all happen.

The response comes before I even look up, and when it does, I smile, lean my body against the counter and wait.

The kid stares at me, unsure, but it doesn’t take long for his phone to ring. With a weary expression, he answers, and three, two, one …

“Yes, sir. I’ll take care of it.” He squeezes his eyes shut, nodding as if the person on the other end, aka Coach Reid, can see him through the line. “Will do, thank you, sir.” After he hangs up, he abuses his poor keyboard some more, and a paper pops out. Rolling backward, he snags it and rolls right back, smacking it down in front of me.

And Tobias Cruz wins again.

I snatch it up, pointing on my way out. “Thanks, Jonny Boy.”

Outside, I send a text to my tutor.

Me: It’s Tobias. I’ve been waiting, Tutor Girl. Where you at?

I stare at my phone and then stare some more.

I scroll up, make sure it was sent, double-check the number, and then lift my phone in the air just in case.

Nothing happens.

A full minute passes and still, no text back.

What’s that about?

Did I pay my phone bill?

Yup, I did. Coach responded instantly, like he’s supposed to.

Like they all do.

With a frown, I suck it up and call the man, knowing I don’t have my assignments to turn in, so class isn’t an option.

He answers on the first ring. “You get that number, son?”

I grin, nodding at a girl who walks by in a pink jumpsuit thing. Love those. Real easy to take off.

“Cruz.”

“Yeah, sorry.” I face forward. “I got it, but I think it’s the wrong number.”

There’s some shifting before he speaks again. “Why do you say that?”

“She didn’t respond and it’s been …” I look to my screen. “Almost five minutes. Weird, right?”

“Five whole minutes, huh, kid?” He chuckles. “Why’d you need her so early, you have a test today or something?”

“Nah, no test.” I run my fingertips over my fade. “She sorta … has my work.”

“… what do you mean she has your work?” When I don’t respond, he sighs into the line. “Damn it, Tobias.”

A sour tang coats my mouth, and I squint at the sun. “Sorry, Coach.”

Should have just sucked it up and did it, dumbass.

“All right.” I imagine him dropping against his chair and tossing his hat on the desk. “I’ll handle this and get a hold of your professor, but Tobias … no more last-minute shit, understood?”

I nod. “Yes, Coach.”

“Good. Now get off campus for a few hours so I can make an excuse. See you on the field.”

“I’ll be the one in white.” I grin at my own joke—everyone hates our home jerseys.

I hang up and walk off with an extra pep in my giant ass step.

I knew Coach would have my back.

He always does.

Strike one, little tutor.

Meyer

Carrying the cup back into the kitchen after refilling the humidifier for what must be the fifth time today, I take a second to lean against the laminate countertop. I close my eyes for a single deep breath, wishing for a moment of calm, but the twenty seconds of silence I’ve had in the last thirty hours is interrupted by a buzzing sound.

With a sigh, I set the pouring cup in the sink, and slide over to where my phone is plugged into the charger. There are dozens of missed calls and texts, several from Tobias, one from Bianca, and another from Garret Jones.

I read Bianca’s first and pull in a breath as I go through Tobias’s.

It’s easy to see where he went from semi-normal human to egomaniac—four minutes and three texts in.

I definitely can’t handle the heavy that comes along with him right now, not when I’m running on no sleep and a few spoonfuls of peanut butter.

I respond to B first, letting her know she can come over like she asked, and I’ll love her forever if she grabs something along the way.

Next, I pull up Garret’s message, but right as I start typing, the phone rings and I accidentally answer, freezing when a deep voice begins to speak.

Crapola!

Squeezing my eyes shut, I lift it to my ear.

“Are you trying to lose this job, Meyer? Because as you know, I can make that happen.”

I hate when he threatens my position like this, as if I didn’t get this tutoring job on my own merit, but being he pulled me into his department, he does now have complete control over my main source of income.

Keep your claws sharp but hidden.

“I only had two appointments today and both were rescheduled last night.”

“Cut the shit, Meyer, all right? You know exactly what I’m talking about. You listen good, when Tobias Cruz calls, answer. If he texts, respond. Wants an impromptu session, make it happen.”

“You act like I’m the one who canceled our first session, and I didn’t even know he tried to call until five minutes ago.” I won’t even mention the giant misstep of him being given my number. “I turned my phone off last night because Bailey’s—” I swallow. “I just had a long night.”

“This is your job. Do it or I’ll find someone else who can.”

I do my best to fight the overwhelming sensations threatening to take over, but moisture pools in my eyes anyway, and I blame it on my state of exhaustion. What I don’t allow is for my sniffles to be heard through the line. I won’t give him that.

“Do we hear each other?”

I flick my gaze to the ceiling. “Yes, Coach.”

He’s silent a moment before speaking again. “Good.”

“I’ll call him and tell him you’re ill, just this once, and you will get a hold of him tomorrow.”

I don’t know if he was waiting for a thank you, but he doesn’t get one.

“Understood, but be sure to let your protégé know that I won’t be doing anyone’s work. Ever.”

He doesn’t respond but I know he heard me.

He hangs up and I hang my head in defeat, not bothering to lift it as I read the text that comes through seconds later, a threatening warning from the man to never force him to have to call me again.

Because he wouldn’t call if he didn’t have to.

The tears I held off fall onto my bare feet, soaking back into my skin as if to remind me it’s no one else’s job to catch them.

Bailey wheezes from the living room, a cry from the pain her barky little cough causes her inflamed airway following.

My sick baby girl.

I push off the counter, quickly splash my face with some cold water and dry it on my shirt as I walk into the living room.

I ease myself onto the bed beside where she lies and lift her into my arms, rocking her as she cries into my ear. She’s barely able to keep her eyes open, she’s so restless. Poor thing can’t stop coughing long enough to truly sleep.

I hug her to me and take a deep breath.

School and work can wait.

She’s all that matters.

Exhaustion be damned.