Only When It's Us (Bergman Brothers #1)(3)
Rooney serves me the ball and I head it down to her feet. “So if that guy won’t give you the notes, what are you going to do?”
“I don’t know what to do. That’s my problem. I see no solution for a guy who downright ignores me. I know I can be a little prickly, but I was polite. Whereas he was just…rude. I don’t get why. And I really need those notes.”
Switching directions, I scoop the ball onto my foot and softly kick it into the air, right to Rooney’s forehead.
“Honestly,” Rooney says as she returns my pass with a header, “I’d say the issue is with your professor. He’s obligated by our student contract to accommodate your schedule, and this behavior is overtly hostile to your efforts as a student athlete. If I were you, I’d print out our agreement, head to office hours, and remind that jerk that he’s ethically and legally bound to support your learning while you earn his college more publicity and money than his pathetic academic papers have ever contributed.”
Yeah. Rooney looks like Barbie but she’s got stuff between her ears. She’ll make a great lawyer one day.
“Maybe. But this guy’s a hard-ass, Roo. I think he’ll just make my life even more miserable if I do that.”
Rooney frowns, heading the ball back again. “Okay, so show him the contract but do it nicely. Kill him with kindness. Do whatever it takes to be sure you’re eligible to play next week. We need you, and honestly, Willa, I think if you don’t play, you’ll internally combust.”
As we finish our drill, the ball drops to my feet, and I stare down at its familiar shape. It’s a view I’ve seen a thousand times—that black and white ball, set against bright green grass, my cleats on either side of it. Soccer is the one constant in my life when everything else has been unpredictable. I live and breathe this sport not only because I want to be the best, but because it’s the only thing that’s kept me going sometimes.
Rooney’s right. I can’t miss, I can’t be ineligible. I’m going to have to suck it up and do whatever it takes to pass this class.
“Come on,” she says, throwing an arm over my shoulder. “My turn to cook tonight.”
I fake a dry heave, earning her rough shove that sends me stumbling sideways. “Great. I needed a good cleanse anyway.”
Willa
Playlist: “Might Not Like Me,” Brynn Elliott
My reputation as a hothead is well-known across campus. I’ve had a few altercations on the soccer field, as well as one episode freshman year, when some chick went off on Rooney in the cafeteria, accusing her of stealing her boyfriend. I’d already climbed the table with the intent to knock that liar on the ground and finish her off with a good, WWE-style elbow drop, when Rooney thankfully grabbed me by the collar before I could get myself expelled. Nevertheless, the incident earned me a reputation I’ve done nothing to disabuse people of. It’s kept almost everyone either afraid of me or allowing me a healthy distance. That suits me just fine.
But the truth is, as much as I spring to the defense of the people I love, as ready as I am to lean in a shoulder, to shove and struggle for possession every moment I’m on the field, I do not like verbal conflict. I think I’m actually allergic to verbal disagreements and uncomfortable conversations. Every time they happen, I break out in hives.
Which is why angry itchy spots pop up along my neck and chest, as I sit at Professor MacCormack’s desk and watch him read my student athlete agreement.
“Hm.” Flipping over the last page, he spins the document on his desk and slides it back my way. “Listen, Sutter. Believe it or not, I like and respect you.”
My eyebrows shoot up. “Could have fooled me.”
Mac’s smirk is back. I have to sit on my hands so I don’t accidentally slap it off.
“I’m not handing this class to you. You chose to be a student athlete, and with that comes a responsibility to manage your time. You didn’t tell me ahead of the class when you’d be missing, or that you’d need notes. You didn’t communicate until the day of class you missed and then the second time, afterward. That tells me this class isn’t a priority, and frankly, I think it needs to be. This is a foundational course if you want to be prepared for any kind of business management down the line.”
I shift in my seat. I knew I’d be missing classes for games, but asking him ahead of time was daunting. I would have had to meet him separately, ask for those considerations. It felt…well, it felt uncomfortable, and as I’ve said, I don’t do verbal confrontation well.
“Which leads me to believe,” he continues, “that you’re one of those athletes who thinks she doesn’t need an education, who’s just punching in and out, going through the motions. That doesn’t fly in my class.”
I open my mouth to tell him that’s really unfair, that I love learning what I need to know for business management. That I truly want to do well in this class and my other major-related courses, because I know I won’t be a professional athlete forever. When I’m retired, I hope to use my platform for philanthropic work, and I want to ensure I run it myself and do a damn good job of it. I should tell him all of that, but nothing comes out. My jaw clamps shut and my stomach knots sharply.
MacCormack leans in, elbows on his desk. Nerdy black frames obscure ocean blue eyes. His near-black hair is stylishly messy, he has a constant five-o’clock shadow, and if he weren’t such a giant sabotaging jerkface who was at least ten years older than me, I’d probably think he was cute. Right now, all I can think is that he’s the guy who’s going to ruin my soccer career.