Not My Match (The Game Changers 2)
A dry tone cuts across from the building. “Ms. Riley, your class is dismissed. I’d like to speak with you, please.”
Glancing over, I see him standing on the steps, eyes squarely on me. Dread inches up my spine as I pick a piece of grass out of my hair.
“Ohhhh, he looks pissy,” Corey says under his breath as we gather up our things.
Several of the students tell me bye as they leave, and I wave, reminding them to study their notes.
“Go on now,” I tell Corey, who’s hanging behind, still darting looks at Dr. Blanton.
“You sure? I’ll walk you over to him if you want.”
Oh, Dr. Blanton would just love that.
“No, that’s okay.”
He winces. “I don’t think he likes our class—or you. He’s always poking his head in and glaring.”
I smile and pat his arm. “Don’t worry about me. Study this week instead of hanging out at the ATO house.”
“I’ll chug a beer for ya, Ms. Riley.”
“Be safe at least.”
He nods, gives Dr. Blanton a wide berth, and leaves.
I reach Dr. Blanton on the steps of the building, acutely aware of the shorts, T-shirt, and flip-flops I bought. I should have changed into jeans at the hospital but didn’t.
He presses his lips together, looking warm in his tweed jacket. I have the female version of that blazer. “Taking a class outside? Is that conducive to learning?”
“Not all kids learn in a classroom, especially these. There are actually seven different types of learning: verbal, visual, auditory, physical—”
He cuts me off with a slice of his hand. “Ms. Riley, spare me the rhetoric. I overhead your lecture.”
“It wasn’t a lecture; I prefer learning experiences.”
He exhales, having heard this argument before. “Regardless of where you teach, the lesson plan was relativity this week.”
I bob my head. “I did that. Just adding to the objective, Dr. Blanton. Isn’t that what I’m supposed to be doing? Expanding minds? Creating questions? Getting them interested?”
He studies me through his wire spectacles, as if I’m a bug. His eyes land on my bare legs, and I inhale. We’re supposed to wear slacks or a skirt. “I prefer traditional methods. Just the facts—in a classroom with an overhead. You can’t be friends with students.”
I’m not! I just don’t want to see them struggle.
He’s used to teaching upper-level classes, students with high IQs and a drive to absorb anything put in front of them.
“Most are terrified of physics. They flunked—”
“Enough.”
I bite my tongue but take two steps until we’re on the same level, not comfortable with him being higher than me. “Was there anything else?”
“Yes. The multiverse is not a legitimate topic of scientific inquiry. Don’t encourage them.”
It is, dammit, and many physicists would stand next to me and argue the case.
“The topic came up because the students find it interesting, and it’s a way to introduce string theory. I see nothing wrong with exciting students.”
He glowers at me. “The mere idea erodes public confidence in science. It’s a philosophic notion.”
“Are you saying that some of the major theorists of our generation are wasting their time? Theoretical physics questions everything. It’s why I’m here.”
He takes his glasses off and cleans them with a hankie. Stuffy man. He needs a Myrtle in his life. “Ten percent of our female doctorate candidates don’t make it to the end of the program, Ms. Riley. You’re about to start your second year, and I’m not impressed.”
My heart drops, my failures creeping in. First Preston, now my career?
“Your level of work dropped dramatically last semester. Don’t bother to apply for CERN again unless I see marked improvement.”
The knife of that disappointment cuts deep. “I’m aware. I had a few personal issues earlier in the year—”
“No excuses, please.” His jaw grinds as his eyes sweep over me. “Women,” he mutters under his breath.
My anger coils up, and my face heats. Before I can tell the misogynistic jerk to go fuck right off—
“Wear decent clothes, Ms. Riley. You look like one of your students.” And then he’s stalking back inside the building.
He isn’t wrong, but my fists curl, and I let out a string of muttered curses once he’s out of earshot. Sure, I can stand up for Devon and Myrtle in a heartbeat, but when it comes to myself . . .
Chapter 9
DEVON
“No frat-boy innuendoes, and I’m sitting at the table with you for the first fifteen minutes until she’s comfortable. We clear?” I tell Brandt Jacobs the next day as I walk over to his silver Porsche.
“Let me get this straight,” he replies as he shuts his car door and faces me, huffing out a laugh. “You called me about this girl you want me to meet, and you’re going to monitor my behavior? Am I being punked?”
“You’re here to meet her. That’s it. Drinks only. If she asks you to stay for dinner, you do whatever you want, but she has to invite you. You’ve got half an hour with her.” Those are the guidelines Giselle and I worked out over breakfast this morning. She liked knowing I’d be close, and it was her idea to wait until they met and chatted before she asked him to eat dinner with us afterward.