Dirty Curve

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.

q

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.