Page 44 of Stroke of Fate

Her sharp intake of breath echoes in the quiet room.

As I head for the door, I say over my shoulder. “Get some rest. I’ll text Macy, but you should, too. She’s probably worried.”

15 | BEAR

First, I doodle. Then, I tap my pen against my notebook. Next, I shift in my seat. My mind is too distracted to focus on homework, so I don’t even bother.

The class was supposed to start five minutes ago, but there’s still no sign of the professor. Usually, I’d scroll aimlessly on my phone, but even that lost its appeal a while ago. Pia’s text—the one reminding me it’s been four days, and I still haven’t updated her on the party—remains unanswered.

There’s a reason I haven’t responded. A whole six-foot-something reason. I already know Pia will only encourage whatever this is. Her whole not everything has to mean something spiel is partly to blame for what happened over the weekend.

God, what was I thinking? Coming on to him like that and practicallybegginghim to sleep with me. It was partly a lack of inhibition, thanks to the alcohol, but that wasn’t the only reason.

I was just so tired of pretending that I didn’t want him. Logic went out the window, and giving in felt far too easy.

The memory of how I reacted when Levi put his finger in my mouth has me smothering a groan of mortification.

I know why he didn’t take things further. He thought I wouldn’t remember because of the alcohol, but he was wrong. When we got back to my apartment, I was barely tipsy. I wanted him, and the fact thathewas the one to end things? That stung. Rejection, no matter the reason, still sucks.

However, now that my head is clear and I’m fully hydrated, my resolve is firmly back in place. My common sense has returned, and I need to hold on to it. Moving forward, thebest thing to do is to avoid Levi and pretend nothing happened. I should forget about hi—

“Don’t get too excited. Class isn’t canceled.” Professor Blackwell announces.

Her wide, loose-legged pants swish behind her as she picks up speed. When she reaches the wooden podium at the center of the room, she plants her hands on either side and leans into her forearms.

“Apologies for the delay. I had to attend to an emergency, but we’ll proceed with today’s lesson as planned.” She scans the room. “Before we start, let me remind you that The Science of Human Movement is an elective class. As in, you chose to be here, right?”

When everyone nods at her question, she carries on.

“Good. Keep that in mind when I tell you about your upcoming assignment, which will make up eighty percent of your grade this semester.”

Professor Blackwell moves in front of the podium, leaning back against it. She crosses her arms and then her ankles, one over the other.

“Movement of the human body, " she begins, and I flip my notebook to a page not covered in anxious doodles.

“In simple terms, it’s how we move. For example, which muscles do you use when picking up a fork? Or—” She tilts her head, eyes narrowing. “Texting during class, Mr. Evans.”

Someone mumbles a muffled apology behind me, and the chatter and snickers in the room pickup.

Professor Blackwell claps her hands, the bracelets on her arms jingling with the movement. Only once the noise quiets down does she continue.

“Observing how the human body moves is far more interesting than hearing me go on about it.” She says. “This iswhy I created this project last year. And seeing as it’s been so successful, I decided to keep it going.”

“At a school like Huska, there’s no shortage of sports teams. Although this is an individual project, two of you will be assigned to a team. You’ll each pick one athlete to observe and write a full report on.” Professor Blackwell glances at us over the rim of her glasses.

“Coaches are aware you’ll be there, but please, do not let anyone come back to me saying one of my students is a distraction. Understood?” Her eyes narrow as she waits for us to acknowledge her words with mumbled agreements and nods.

“How many practices or games you attend is up to you, but you need enough information to fill the report and help draw plausible conclusions.”

My handwriting gets sloppier the more she talks as I try to keep up. I’ve just put a period at the end of my last sentence when she starts the next.

“So, what exactly are you reporting on? To break it down, you’re observing how these athletes move and which muscles they’re using. Do they have pre-existing injuries that could hinder their performance? Which muscles are being overexerted and could lead to injury? Etcetera.”

“Your chosen team member is your test subject. Talk to them about any muscle fatigue they may be experiencing, watch them at games, and learn their workout routines. Remember, there’s more to being an athlete than just showing up for the main event.”

Professor Blackwell pushes off the podium, picks up a small remote, and points it at the projector screen. An Excel sheet with our names pops up.

With her back still to us, she says, “Let’s get to the part of who’s going where. And let me make this clear right now. I used a random generator tool to split everyone up, so don’tcome to me after class asking to switch because your boyfriend or girlfriend is on a certain team.” Her tone is sharp, leaving no room for argument, as she clicks on the first group, enlarging the text.

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