Not My Match (The Game Changers 2)

Chapter 12

GISELLE

“You missed a cohort check-in this morning, Ms. Riley,” drawls Dr. Blanton as he sits behind his desk in his office the next day. He frowns at my hair, a curl of distaste on his lips. “We discussed the upcoming fall schedule and bounced ideas for thesis papers.”

I take a seat, even though he hasn’t offered one. “It’s Saturday. I must have missed the email. Thank you for letting me stop by instead.”

“You could have joined us online. Most of your cohorts did just that.”

“I’m sorry.” I’m really not. Frankly, it’s inconsiderate of him to expect us to be available for an online meeting in the summer—on the weekend.

He glowers at me.

I frown. “Dr. Blanton, look, my apartment burned down this week, and I’ve been helping a friend, and things are a bit scattered.” I cross my legs, regretting that I still haven’t had time to pick up real clothes and wore skinny jeans and one of Devon’s shirts tied in a knot. There hasn’t been time to upgrade my wardrobe to nice slacks and silk blouses.

Earlier this morning, while Devon went to the stadium, John and I moved Myrtle into a somewhat furnished lower-level apartment near our old place. After that, we got the call that we were cleared to go inside the burned building, as long as we avoided the basement. I raced upstairs and found my pearls under the coffee table, then left my apartment to help clean out hers, planning on going back later this week to retrieve other items of mine. All my clothes reek of smoke, but I’m praying a dry cleaner can remedy that.

Myrtle’s place was less fortunate than mine—nothing burned, but she was upset at the wreckage on the first floor. She found her journals, books, and special mementos, and we left for her new place. She cried some and cursed a lot, muttering about insurance and renovations.

But for now, things are shaping up. I have a place to stay, Myrtle is situated, and John’s new place is in the same building as Myrtle’s, and he’s offered to check on her every day. It won’t be a hardship, he told me with a glint in his eyes. Now, it’s time to deal with my professional life. Hence, the visit with Dr. Blanton.

The room swells with silence, and I shift around in my seat, touching my hair, then dropping my hands. I clench my fist.

“I’d like to have a new advisor,” I announce, straightening my spine and meeting his gaze.

He grinds his jaw. I’m sure it’s a cut to his ego. He is the head of the physics department; that’s why I chose him. “I agree. You’re not the caliber of student I usually mentor, your grades are mediocre, your attitude is shockingly lax with underclassmen, and your appearance is less than desired. I will put in a request immediately and see who’s available to take you on. I’m not sure anyone will.”

And . . . I stand up. Dick. “No, you will not put in a request. I will find my own advisor so I can make sure we have the same goals and outlook for my future.”

I snatch my computer bag up and head to the door, but his voice stops me.

“Ms. Riley, the only assignment you had this summer besides teaching was to write a paper. It was due yesterday. You never sent it.”

I turn and face him.

“I sent it Thursday.” Right as Devon was going out the door, I pushed send, giddy by the topic of researching dark matter with the Large Hadron Collider.

He slaps down a thick set of papers. “No, you sent me Sexy Alien Warrior and His Captive Earth Girl.”

The world spins and my mouth dries as I dart my eyes from my manuscript, then back to his tight face. My hands clutch the back of the chair, and I inhale a deep breath. “Now that I hear it out loud, the title is a bit too on the nose.”

He flushes. “Ms. Riley! You are not a serious student! You’ve spent your summer writing science fiction, not science fact. This”—he picks up the papers and tosses them in the trash—“is utter nonsense.”

“Obviously you didn’t read the chapter about Vureck repairing his laser beam using my fundamental knowledge of quantum theory, Dr. Blanton, so I beg to differ. My book isn’t just fiction. It’s written for people who appreciate science facts with their romance.”

“Ah!” He points down at the trash. “Romance? That’s what you call this drivel? It’s the most ridiculous application of a student’s bright mind that I’ve encountered. You’re blowing your chance at a doctorate with this hogwash. Do you think your work will ever see the light of day in a serious publishing house?” he huffs.

“How do you know?”

He crosses his arms. “I can read, Ms. Riley. I thought your story was your paper. I read the first page and thumbed through the rest. Well, after that, it all made sense—your lack of motivation, your increasing distractedness, your horrible attitude. You don’t have the focus it takes to be part of this esteemed program.”