I let the door slam behind me as I enter the room and immediately flop myself onto the futon face down, just as my phone pings.

Dad: The pharmacy says your prescription has been ready for a week and you haven't picked it up. I will drop it off tomorrow, and transfer it to the campus pharmacy to make it easier on you.

I roll my eyes and send back a thumbs up emoji. Another side effect of 'the incident'. A daily dose of a drug whose side effects made me feel worse than better. But to my dad it's like pressing an easy button. A once a day pill that fixes all. One day without it and he thinks I will become manic, a walking zombie ready to terrorize and ruin his life. If he bothered to ask, he would know that I elected to stop taking it the second I turned eighteen two months ago, the refill must have been something automatic.

A second text is waiting for me, no doubt my dad's doing as well after speaking to the pharmacy.

Dr. Hartwell: Just checking in on my favorite patient named Camryn. I know you are making strides, but remember your words and thoughts can be your greatest strength or overwhelming downfall. No matter the idea, writing them out will be your best utilized skill.

I exhale, considering her words. They remind me of something my mom would say. All mom's wield secret powers that allow them to know things not present to the naked eye or ear. Heightened senses somehow acquired during pregnancy like Spiderman being bitten by that radioactive spider, producing the spidey tingle when havoc hangs just around the corner. My mom's spidey tingle was programmed to notice a Camryn meltdown from a mile away. Super sprinting to me in a matter of seconds, a blur until suddenly she was at my side. Deep breath in through your nose and out through your mouth, tell me, what do you need to say or do right now to make the situation better, her voice so soothing it coated me like a blanket. My very own angel whispering in my right ear.

I often imagine what would have become of 'The Incident' if she had been there to talk me through it. To visit me, check in on me and my progress, to celebrate each milestone with me. But then the reminder hits me in the face again, like spiderman accidentally swinging into a brick wall. If she had been here, the incident wouldn't have happened in the first place, or would have presented in a very different manner. More normal for a teenager as my dad would prefer. Like a boyfriend my parents don't approve of or secretly getting a tattoo that would make my grandmother pray for me daily.

I reread the text and contemplate what I would even write to sum up my days if I had to. I've nearly survived two weeks of college classes. Not that the first week counts, if only to remind us that universities don't abide by the whole Go Green movement with the amount of paper wasted on lengthy syllabi handed out in unnecessarily long first lessons that could have been an email.

The only thing I can be one hundred percent sure of is that staying up until three am every night and eight am classes is a disastrous cocktail, leading to an increase in my caffeine consumption, and a decrease in my desire to have a job. Until I can figure out how to adjust my own schedule I am in no state to be monitoring other students with even busier schedules than my own.

I picture my dad sitting in his office with his fingertips touching, mouthing a Dr. Evil laugh. Stopping to revel in his genius plan, keep her busy and there will be no time to make questionable choices. Well points to you pops, because right now in this spot, I can't even lift my hand to mouth to take a bite of the sandwich I grabbed on my way home. Instead, I sit it on the table in front of me and lean down to take a bite, no hands style. Sadly I miss all bits of meat and cheese and end up with mouthful after mouthful of straight bread and mustard.

I really shouldn't be complaining. At least I am taking the same classes as the three students assigned to me, but two out of three of them think that means I am doing their work for them. The thirty page contract and various addendums that I signed prior to starting, make it very clear that I have to 'allow the student to complete the assignment with little assistance' and that our university has a strict no tolerance policy when it comes to plagiarism'.

But that leads me into a whole other dilemma. The one thing that is torturing me day in and day out in the form of a cowboy. And by torture, I mean he exists. I thought after our first, well third encounter, after I set those ground rules, that things would be normal. Boy was I wrong, so wrong. I allow myself to do something I've been avoiding, not wanting to give up more brain space than necessary for him. Instead of responding to Dr. Hartwell's text, I close out of the message app altogether and open a web browser. I type in his name and wait for the results to come up.

The page lights up in front of me with pictures of Taylor. His team roster picture first, the others from him on the field. A couple from the Heisman ceremony last year where he was runner up. I keep scrolling. I pull up his Player Bio from the university page. I knew he was from Texas, but his hometown isn't one of the major cities so I don't recognize it. Either way, his home state explains the accent and the attire. I continue to scroll to find his height, six foot five and two hundred and fifty pounds.

Hitting the back button, I find another source and continue my research. I sigh as I study a new picture of him. It draws my mind back to his player bio, and how it should read tall and lean as fuck instead of whatever proper terminology it contains. The photo is one from his own Instagram of him standing shirtless with his hands on his hips at this years football camp. The caption, like a headline of an article, reads "They told me to take it easy, I said hell na." I pinch my fingers onto the screen and drag them apart, allowing the image to blow up until the muscles of his abs fill my phone screen, each ripple so big I can almost feel them under my fingertips. 

"No," I mutter to myself. I have to stay on track. This is strictly research. I'm looking for ammunition, a crack in the holier than God facade he presents. I know he has one, everyone has one.

I continue my scroll and land on a news story from April of this year. I click on it and begin reading. It's all about his injury in last year's Championship game. I vaguely remember my dad and Cal talking about this, but void of any specific details. The article mentions that Taylor's surgery was successful and that after this season, if he declares for the draft he is projected to go early in the first round.

So in non football-ese, he's good, like really good. I mean it doesn't take a sports genius to know that a Heisman finalist and a first round draft pick are a big deal. I scroll back to the top of the article and focus on the image of Taylor chosen to be the banner. He's wearing a light gray suit with tiny white strips creating a checkered pattern, paired with a red tie and his signature cowboy boots, but this time in a gray color to match his suit. His long hair is subtly curly and carefully tucked behind his ears. His smile goes all the way from his lips to his eyes. I find myself studying it, just a little too long before I exhale and rage-close the tab and shut my phone off completely. I don't even know why I care. It's not like me knowing more about Taylor will change anything about who he actually is. Ammunition is only good if you plan to be close enough to the person to use it.

Out of my three tutoring students, two are exactly what I suspected. They may not know much else outside of their respected sports, but they do pick up on the whole concept of the faster we get the work done, the faster we get the hell out of there.

Taylor, however, would be undesirable number one on my list. It's as if he has nothing better to do than sit in the six foot by six foot room. You would think someone who already spends a majority of his life throwing a ball around would want to spend the rest of his time doing normal college stuff like playing video games and drinking beer, doing the bare minimum when it comes to school work. But no, he uses every single minute of our two hour session. When he bothers to show up at all, that is.

I mean I guess with his injury, an emphasis that he's not hurt, just injured–his words, not mine, as if it makes a difference. He isn't exerting the same amount of energy he would during a normal season, but still shouldn't that extra energy go into the rehab process so he can actually play again instead of bugging the shit out of me for five hours a week.

It's intriguing really, I need to do some digging, but I am positive the psychology department has done a study on it. I can only imagine what the report would say:

Results: From extensive observations, all the specimen has to do is show in what can be described as a smirk,in the direction of any female and she will turn all attention to him.

When he does show up, each interaction is the same. The constant poking and prodding. testing me. Begging me to give in to him, to play along with his games. His favorite tactic I've learned though, is to say nothing at all. Intimidation through looks solely, as if his direct eye contact will set me on fire. I've only been slightly singed so far, practically breaking into a sweat when he walked into the room on Wednesday. He was wearing these gray cotton shorts that showed off the tight round muscles of his butt. It was the first time I had seen him in anything but bluejeans. And never in my life have paid so much attention to a male's butt.

If that wasn't enough, I've also found myself picking up on his schedule, knowing that on the days we have Biology together right before tutoring he comes straight from practice. On those days his hair is always wet and slicked back from his forehead, the smell of pine. His green eyes pop even more against the darker shade of his hair.

God, I have got to get myself together. This is what he wants me to do. He wants me to conform to the masses and melt into a Ryn sized puddle under his gaze. He is living rent free in my head and I don't know how it happened. I blame the small confines of the university limits and a packed schedule. I am spending entirely too much time doing the same things over and over. It's giving Taylor ample opportunities to take even more space in my brain.

Conclusion to the study: perhaps he doesn't demand to own the room, the room surrenders command to him. Results are supported by the fact that I have to give myself a mental pep talk everyday before going to our sessions.

My only saving grace is the reminder that for a guy like him, I would serve as nothing more than a reusable shopping bag. Stored in the closet until he needs me for a few minutes or hours, then going right back into my place. Until one day he forgets all about me and ends up bringing home another bag. And let's not forget that he is my client, I'm sure there is something in the forms I signed foreboding me to canoodle with the athletes.

I just have to keep my composure for the rest of the semester. Play it cool, calm, and collected. Come January I will have a whole new roster of students. Plus, it's already the end of week two, and there are sixteen weeks in the semester. One of those including a fall break, another including Thanksgiving. So like twelve and a half to go, but who's counting?

I sit up and reach across the futon to the leather book sitting on the corner of my desk, the pen still wedged between the pages. Uncapping the pen I write today's date and try a new format for the entry:

Classes: uneventful.

Work: a means to an end.

Cowboy: a problem.