Dirty Curve

“Sounds good, Coach.” I nod.

“Listen, every session she has with you, she makes three times what she does with any other student.” He pins me with a pointed expression. “Don’t ever tell her you’re aware of this but know it’s something she can’t refuse.”

My brows pull in slightly, but Coach dismisses me as he answers his phone, so I head back to the locker room to finish getting dressed, thinking about what he’s just said.

So, Tutor Girl gets paid the big bucks to help me out?

It’s no wonder she didn’t do my work. She knows I have to call eventually, and when I do, she’ll be making a grip off our time together.

Grabbing my phone off the shelf, I plant my ass on the bench and send her a text.

Me: Hola, Tutor Girl. I require your services. Tonight. A good two hours of it.

I grin at my choice of words and consider adding a money sign, but Coach said not to tell her I know, so I’ll be a good boy and just wait for her to respond.

And then I wait a little bit more.

I pull up TikTok, scroll through a couple videos I was tagged in from last night’s game, and then go back to the message thread. I can see she’s read it now; it’s got a little thing at the bottom that tells me so, yet still, she doesn’t respond.

I take a screenshot of the “seen” and circle it in red, even add a little smirk face next to it and send it her way.

I grab my bag from my locker and toss it over my shoulder right as the power ranger theme song peeps, letting me know a message has come through.

I grin, making her wait until I’m outside to open it up and read it.

That grin of mine disappears the second my eyes land on my screen.

Tutor Girl: Please contact the student resource center if you’d like to schedule an appointment for tutoring. An email with my office hours will follow this message.

Oh, she wants to play pinky up, huh?

Yeah ... no.

I text her again.

Me: This kind sir shall call his trusty coach and share thy screenshot.

I chuckle to myself and send another.

Me: I believe he’s asked you to “service” me when needed.

Grinning, I make my way toward the library. She just needed a little push and now that I brought her boss into it, she’ll remember that helping me puts more dough in her pocket.

The three little lines show up at the bottom, disappearing twice before a message finally pops up.

Tutor girl: What time did you have in mind? I’ll see what I can do.

Me: Now.

Tutor girl: I need at least 40 minutes.

Forty minutes, she says.

With a grin, I shake my head. Guess she has to get primped for our little session.

Stuffing my phone in my pocket, I nod to myself, feeling a little lighter, knowing I’ve done the first part of what Coach has asked of me.

I make my way into the library, and what do you know, table number two is free, so I take a seat and wait.

Still in college and others are already making money off my name.

I smile to myself.

Yeah, going pro is going to be the shit.

CHAPTER 5

Meyer

In a rush, I blindly tie my hair back, grab the cereal bowl off the floor and drop it in the sink—Cornflakes, dinner of champions.

“You all right over there, girl?” Bianca teases. “I know you’re always channeling your inner Barry Allen, but you’ve been looking at the clock every five seconds with a whole new kind of dread, more than the usual.”

I swallow past the itchiness creeping up my throat and smile. “I hate last-minute sessions. I like to have everything ready so we can jump right in and waste no time, but I don’t even have time to go to the tutoring center or athletic department to print what I need. I’ll have to split my screens, look at things one at a time, and that’s annoying.”

“I hear you.” She yawns.

“Bailey ate about an hour ago, and she’s been down for about twenty minutes now.”

“Are you still running the humidifier even though she’s better?”

“Only through the night, so don’t worry about it. I’ll turn it on later.” I tug my sweater over a tank top, not bothering to change out of my leggings. “Thanks for getting here so fast.”

“Of course, I was planning on coming over before work anyway.”

“You sure you won’t be too tired later?”

“Not as tired as you. Besides, they’re lucky I’m coming in to help them close when I just got moved to mornings.” She shrugs. “So, who is it tonight? Quarterback? Point Guard?”

“I wish,” I mumble. “Pitcher.”

Her brows jump. “Ah, the tall, tan, tasty-looking Tobias Cruz?”

I turn, frowning at my fuzzy boots as I slip them on, and quickly retie my hair on the top of my head. “That would be him.”