Page 34 of Player
Immediately, Miss Coles' image forms before my eyes, and I can feel all the disapproval she won't fail to express when she calls me out for fucking up next week’s quizzes. "Two failed tests? Academic probation!!"
"Damn it," I grumble.
The fact is, my father pulled strings to get me into OMU, despite my football ability. Many universities offered me a scholarship, yet none of them seemed good enough for my father. He kept pushing me to go here. OMU’s got a strict academic reputation, and it’s a school that still believes in the whole ‘student’ part in student athletics. It doesn’t even have special dorms just for the athletes. But it's just another strand in the web that my father weaves, another way he’s got power over me, with the implicit rule that I cannot complain, at least publicly. I hate being kept on such a tight leash!
I stand up and pace back and forth across my room,which doesn't take long given how cramped it is, at least by my standards. Despite my father's connections, he can't create something out of nothing—all the dorms on campus look just like mine. I’m lucky just to have a room to myself.
The sound of breaking glass on the other side of my door pulls me from my thoughts. Without even bothering to put on a t-shirt, I leave the room. I freeze in the common room.
Dixie is there, crouched down, her ass delectably facing me. She's picking up pieces of glass from the floor. I stand motionless watching her, arms crossed over my chest.
"You're really not good at this, Alabama. I feel sorry for any guy who trusts you with his dick."
"Shut up, Player."
She doesn't look up as she speaks, and her tone is at least as sharp as the glass shards she's gathering.
A knife-edge silence fills the room. We must be the only ones still awake at this hour, because nobody comes to check what's happening.
"Ouch!"
Alabama's little cry is followed by crimson drops plopping onto the floor. She freezes, her gaze fixed on the cut in her palm. Seeing that she has no intention of moving, I approach her.
"Shit, Dixie!"
I grab her arms and force her to stand up. She still has her head down, and I'm surprised to find myself wondering what's wrong with her.
"Alabama, snap out of it!"
When her eyes meet mine, I feel like I've taken an uppercut to the stomach. There's such pain in her eyes that I doubt it's just from the cut she just inflicted on herself.
She still isn't responding, so I do the first thing that comes tomind: I bend down to slide an arm under her knees and lift her up.
I'm careful not to step on any glass shards as I carry her to the bathroom, where there’s a first aid kit. Dixie's light as a feather in my arms, calling to my instincts. The scent of her shampoo fills my nostrils as I tighten my grip on her thighs. The softness of her skin doesn't escape me, but I ignore it.
Once we're in the bathroom, I set Dixie down before grabbing her wrist to examine her wound.
"It's superficial," I assure her.
She responds with only a slight shrug, and I frown when I realize she has no intention of treating it.
I let out an annoyed sigh before opening the cabinet above the sink in search of a first aid kit.
What's gotten into me, taking care of her?
I ignore this question and focus on rinsing, disinfecting, and bandaging Dixie's small but deep wound. She flinches a little when I pour the disinfectant on her skin, but she doesn't protest.
"No Disney Princess bandages, I'm afraid," I comment. "You'll have to make do with this."
I point to her hand, but Dixie's gaze remains fixed on my face. My jab hasn't affected her—unless her brain is damaged too?
"You're actually less of an asshole than I thought," she observes.
I turn my back to put away the bandages, and she can't see the smile spreading across my lips.
"If I were you, I wouldn't count on tonight, Alabama."
The medicine cabinet door slams as I close it with a sharp movement. I turn back toward my neighbor, who's staring at me with a distracted look.
