Page 21 of Falling for the Quarterback

A few students pass by me on the pathway and I wait until they’re out of earshot to speak again.

“That’s not ethical, you know,” I whisper. I can’t do that to him if he does the work. I will not let my personal feelings color my role in academia.

She blows out what I assume is smoke from the cigarette she still smokes. “Then threaten to go to the dean and acknowledge the past affair.”

“Fuck no!” I yelp and cover my mouth, glancing around surreptitiously to make sure no one heard that. I lower my voice. “What if Joel retaliates and does that tome?”

“Hmmm…well, I don’t know. Do you like him?” I can hear the gravitas in her voice and know the question is sincere.

“It doesn’t matter. I’m not risking everything I worked for, not for anyone,” I say with an air of sadness.

“Okay, I guess that settles it then. Move on and upwards. By the way, what’s Hubert doing out there?” Poppy asks, completely catching me off guard.

“He was a guest lecturer. And…” I trail off, considering her other question.Do I like Joel?Yes. I really do like him. At some point last night, in between rounds of incredible sex, he pulled a Charles Dickens book off my nightstand and started quoting from it, from memory and then gave me an opinion on the theme. It turns out the football player is very smart. I suppose it makes sense since he’s in a grad school program.

“And yes, I like Joel. There, I said it. If I weren’t his professor, I’d want to see more of him. Ugh. Why does this have to be so complicated, Pop?”

“Complications aside, I think you have your answer,” she says. “You little slag, you.”

I huff with indignation. “I amnota slag.”

Oops. I may have said that a bit too loud because a pair of female students walk by, whip their heads in my direction, and giggle as they walk on.Shit. I can’t be caught cursing and swearing like a sailor around students.

Just then my phone buzzes with an incoming text from an unknown number. I pull my phone away from my ear and click on it.

Unknown: Coffee is good…but it’d be better in bed, naked with you.

Shit, it’s Joel. I forgot I gave my students my mobile number so they could contact me with any questions during the semester. My cheeks flush and a pang of lust hits me in the center of my legs.

“Lottie? What’s happening?”

“He just texted me,” I state dryly, taking a screenshot to send her. “It’s what I feared…he’s not going to give this up.”

It’s obvious when she sees the text because she whistles. “Hot damn. I like his vibe.”

“Poppy! Focus!” I chastise, wondering if I’ll even get good advice from her at this point or if she’s just going to keep pushing me toward Joel.

Poppy has been known to give me very good advice when I’ve needed it. After all, she was the one who talked me into leaving Oliver and coming to the US, the best decision I could have ever made.

But she seems a bit hung up on me pursuing this thing with Joel.

“Well, you have two choices,” she asserts. “You can report it to the dean and hope there are no repercussions, or you keep having amazing sex with your student on the down-low, in a clandestine affair.”

“I don’t like either option,” I admit, even though the second option sounds very tantalizing probably because it’s forbidden.

“Okay, then maybe tell him you’re going to divulge it to the dean and see what Joel says. It could push him to decide to drop your class after all.”

I consider the merits of this action. It’s not the worst idea.

“Okay. I’ll give that a try. Can’t hurt,” I agree.

Or it could sting like a sonofabitch.

We say our goodbyes and I text Joel back with my reply.

Me: This ends now. Please stop with the suggestive flirting. I’m going to talk to the dean tomorrow.

There’s an immediate response.

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