Page 9 of Player
The room is full,and I take a seat in the back next to Emery. All of the Jaguars are here, seventy total athletes.
"I thought you weren't coming."
I give my friend a sideways glance without answering. I also thought I'd skip this mandatory meeting, but when your head coach calls you aside at practice to press the issue, I knew he wasn't going to let it go. I finally decided to move and join the others even if the prospect doesn't thrill me at all.
With the tip of my finger, I turn up the volume on my earbuds. The music drowns out the surrounding noise, and I can almost convince myself I'm not here. Almost.
The agitation among my teammates increases a notch when a petite redhead enters the room. I raise a curious eyebrow, without turning down the music. Emery elbows me before pulling out my right earbud. Immediately the sounds mix, creating a cacophony in my head. I grimace, growling, "What the hell are you doing?"
The big blocking machine returns my gaze without flinching. I think he knows me too well to be bothered by my attitude and my sharp tone.
"You need to listen, it's important," he retorts.
I'm about to tell him that nothing happening at OMU has the slightest importance to me, but the young woman addresses us, catching my attention. "Hello everyone, I'm Colyne Coles, your education counselor."
Approving whistles rise from the group. I admit she's got a nice body. She must be in her thirties, wearing a pair of tight jeans and a dressy little blouse with a modest neckline that still hints at a nice figure Exactly the kind of woman I fuck.
"My role is to guide you during this semester so that you can get the best possible grades. More importantly, so you can stay eligible to play ball."
"I'd like you to help my balls right now," exclaims one of the players with an unmistakable gesture toward his crotch.
Laughter erupts, but Colyne ignores it. She's probably usedto this kind of inappropriate remark. What a bunch of idiots. They wouldn't know how to handle a woman like her, while I'm used to it.
"I want things to be perfectly clear," she continues. "I'm here to help you, but you need to understand that I can't work miracles. The first key to your success at OMU is attendance in class. Four unexcused absences and you're dropped from the course. Two drops, and you’re no longer eligible to play . There will be no special treatment just because you're good on the field."
A certain seriousness now falls over all the players.
"The second important thing is maintaining a C average to pass your semester. This means if you get a D in one class, you'll need an B in another to maintain your average. I repeat: this is non-negotiable, NCAA rules."
My mouth stretches into a bitter smile. She's addressing guys who aren't mentally conditioned to attend class. Most are used to being coddled by their high schools because they work miracles on the field. I have no illusions about them. As for me, I have so little motivation that going to class each day will be torture. If it were up to me, I'd leave right now, but I know what the consequences of such an attitude would be, and I can't afford that.
I clench my teeth thinking that I'll have to go to class and get decent grades or face my father. All my muscles are tense with the rage that has been simmering in me for months. Once again, I feel trapped in my life with no chance of escape.
My thoughts are still dark afterwards when I enter the lecture hall where Econ 101 has already started. Even though my father forced me to attend this college, I'm not about to become a serious student—I'll do the bare minimum to survive my college years.
I've barely settled in when the professor's voice reaches me. "The objective will be to identify and analyze global problems such as unemployment, economic growth, or inflation..."
And there it is! In a single sentence, I've just lost ten years of my life. I can't imagine how anyone could be more boring than this skinny old man with wild hair who looks more like a mad scientist than anything else. While he rolls out his course content, I use my phone to distract myself.
A check of my inbox informs me that I have pending messages on a surfing forum. I click on a link that takes me to the specialized platform, and while responding to different topics, I lose track of time. If it were up to me, I'd be on the West Coast right now, or maybe in Latin America, chasing the biggest waves the Pacific can create. Instead, I'm rotting in the plastic seats of this stupid college. Sure, I like football, but it's nothing compared to surfing.
I hold back a sigh of frustration, but it's not enough to chase away the desire that has rekindled in me, to taste the salty flavor of water on my lips, to feel my board gliding on the wave, to perceive the bluish nuances of the ocean.
It's only when the other students move around me that I realize class is over. I have nothing to pack up since I didn't bring anything. All things considered, I don't even know why I bothered to come since my absence wouldn't have been noticed.
I head toward the exit when someone bumps into me. I turn my head toward the idiot who ran into me and find myself looking into familiar brown eyes.
"Oops, sorry!" Dixie says.
But I can see she doesn't mean a word of it. She passes me without waiting for my response, and I find myself standing there like an idiot, checking out her ass.
I snap out of it and hurry after her. As if she sensed I wasbehind her, Dixie quickens her pace, but I'm taller than she is and it doesn't take me long to catch up. I grab her by the arm just as she’s about to leave the building and pull her toward the wall. "You did that on purpose!"
She stares at me without showing the slightest fear.
"I don't know what you're talking about," she evades. Her gaze drifts over my shoulder, and she adds, "I have to go."
She's about to go around me to leave, but she doesn't count on my reflexes. Instead, I block her path with a very firm a hand on the wall near her head. This time, Dixie stares at me with a perplexed look on her face.
