My eyes dart open at the sound of my alarm, a groan escapes my throat. There is no way it's been ten minutes already. I avert from hitting snooze again and roll myself out of bed. Alyssa is still snoring so I do my best to be quiet and grab my shower caddy before leaving the room.

My extra snooze this morning accompanied by my lack of clean clothes has me running late. There is only one thing I hate more than lack of sleep, and it's running late. I mean there are plenty of things I hate but running late is definitely at the top of the list.

I've especially never been late for the first day of school. We moved around so much when my dad was still an assistant coach, meaning I started a new elementary school almost every year. I had little control over that fact, but I could control the clocks in the house.

One year I carefully set them an hour early the night before the first day of second grade. My little stunt allowed me to be the first person in my class and guaranteed thirty free minutes to prepare for being the new girl yet again. The rest of my family put me on trial that evening at the dinner table, but my mom made sure we were at least thirty minutes early to school the first day every single year after. I think back to other first days of school, remembering that because they fall at the start of football season, my dad hasn't been present for any, except for that first day of second grade because I purposely made him early.

I grab my backpack and quickly slide my arms through the straps. I let myself pause for a few more seconds to find the one portrait on my desk, a picture of me and my mom the summer before she passed away. Twin smiles filling our faces, her arms wrapped tightly around my shoulders. I let myself imagine that her smile would be just as big if she could see me today.

🏈🏈🏈

"And now that we have made it through introductions, we can move on to the syllabus which you can find under this course in Blackboard," My biology professor announces to the class.

I'd normally prefer a hard copy of a syllabus to reference weekly when planning out my to-do list, but considering I read the syllabus she posted a week ago, I gladly take the chance to play around on my laptop for the remainder of the class. Reaching into my backpack I search for the cold smooth metal of my Macbook. However, I'm let down when all I feel is the nylon and built-in foam of my backpack's laptop sleeve.

Damnit, I knew my backpack felt too light this morning. I pull out my phone instead, it's not like I need my laptop. Except...Fuck me. Of course I have my first day of work at the tutor center today and all information for which is on that laptop. I quickly open the email from my supervisor and attempt to access the university website from my phone. The server loads half way, but then crashes no matter how many times I hit refresh.

I strategize a plan in my head while Professor Schilling blabs about the attendance policy. If I leave here ten minutes early, I can drop my books off at McGregor and then just swing by the room to get it. I nod silently confirming the plan to myself.

🏈🏈🏈

"Gabi I really have to go, we can talk about this later. I'll even read the article so I know what you're talking about, promise," I say halfway out the door. Glancing at the time in the right hand corner of my phone I realize I just wasted ten minutes listening to her mumble about how two celebrities she has never met are done for good, and the reasons why she's heartbroken about it.

"They are just too perf, they can't just be done," she argues.

I shouldn't have answered the call. I should have known it was a trap. One where I would find myself in an endless loop of telling her I don't care, and her continuing to tell me anyway. But our phone calls have been few and far between since her practices, games and classes started.

We text constantly, but it's nice to hear her voice sometimes. I hang up the call as I hear Gabi scoff again, as if she were literally offended that I wasn't engaging with her.

She immediately sends a text instead.

Gabriella Brown: I expect a full report on this later!

Click the link for the full article: Bravo's RHWOP stars Randall Richards and Missy Sullivan call it quits after almost 3 years of marriage. A source close to the couple is opening up about the ironclad prenup Richard's attorneys had drawn up.

I take off in the fastest speed walk I can manage in unbreathable denim while carrying a computer. If only I could record myself I think I would qualify for the olympics at this moment.

When I reach the hall I take the stairs two at a time to the third floor, not stopping until I reach room three hundred and one. I don't slow down to greet my student, instead I set my laptop down and have to catch my breath. I rest my hands on my knees and heave, attempting to fill my lungs with the oxygen I was neglecting the whole run walk here. I ignore the fact that chain smoking might be catching up with me.

I hear the student say something with a laugh, but it vaguely registers as, "Uh, are you okay?"

"Sorry— late— laptop— had to go back," I say between gasps for air.

Finally realizing how ridiculous I must look and sound, I stand up straight, take a deep breath, and repeat the statement with a steady voice.

"Uh sorry I'm late. I forgot my laptop and had to go back to my room to get it. Shall we get started?" I take my seat across from him. I can finally see that it is him, and begin to look up his information. For a long second the only sound filling the room is the clicking of my keyboard as I sign in.

"Tell me, you ever heard of a hit and run?" he asks.

I continue to dig into my backpack without looking up and ask, "Like hitting someone's car and then driving off? Sure, yeah?"

"Any thoughts?" he asks.

"I guess that's a pretty asshole move, especially if you do damage. The least you could do is leave a note. But I missed that question on the practice LSAT, so don't look to me for legal advice," I say, not giving much thought to this interaction as I type in the verification code that was sent to my phone.

"That's weird, because I could have sworn you were the type to put the run into hit and run," he adds.

I hit enter and let myself relax a bit in my seat while the page loads. It's the first time since walking in that my ears actually process his voice and hear the twinge of drawn out vowels in hit and run. His accent makes it impossible to properly pronounce the words.

"What are you talking about? Is this some weird would you rather type game? Because we don't have time for that today," I say as I rearrange the stack of books on the table so I can get a good look at this guy. I hope to convey my lack of amusement with my gaze, however my eyes grow wide as I see a specific shade of green that I've only seen on one person before.

I begin internally panicking, asking myself what I could have possibly done to deserve this. The devil's minions are at work again, I see. I scramble to open his file and begin clicking at least one hundred times as if the extra clicks will make it load faster. But I need to confirm that he is in fact supposed to be here, and not just present to torture me.

"Taylor," I say, remembering the way the girl on the balcony said it. How she begged him for attention with those two syllables. I suddenly feel like I can't catch my breath once more.

"Reed," he finishes for me before continuing. "Nice to see you again," he says, waiting for me to give him my name.

"Ryn, uhm, Quinn," I answer.

"Which is it? Ryn or Quinn?" he asks and I can tell from the big smile now spread across his face that he is trying not to laugh.

"Camryn Quinn, first name then last name. Most people are familiar with the concept," I spout as I cross my arms, my already thin patience is stretched further than I thought it could. If it were to take physical form it may resemble dental floss. The nod he gives before continuing tells me he hasn't caught on, or worse, he doesn't care.

"Ah yes, Ms. Quinn, now what were you saying about not leaving a note being an asshole move? I mean I could have sustained a season ending injury at the hands of your scooter and you didn't so much as look in my direction!" He says, the palm of his hand flat on his chest. "What excuse do you have for yourself?" he asks with his brow furrowed and a serious tone. As if he is the detective and I've just been brought in for questioning.

"You know what? You have no right to come in here and accuse me of anything. I barely hit you, it was more of a tap. And you didn't say anything. More truthfully, I think I did more damage to myself from the cinder blocks you call legs. I'm the one who was lying on the ground in pain. I still have a bruise!" I cry, molding my face to hold the same serious expression as his.

Taylor pauses briefly, narrowing his eyes into mine, before his face relaxes again. I can't quite read his expressions which throws me off. I quickly straighten my spine to regain my confidence.

"Cinderblocks huh? Ya know... I felt like those extra lunges were making a difference, but sometimes you need to hear it from someone else, ya know?" Taylor slides his right leg out from under the table and begins flexing and retracting it a few times.

Is he serious? I don't even bother hiding my disgust. This guy will get the hint at some point.

"And if anything you walked out in front of me. Distracted walking looking down at your phone. Didn't anyone ever teach you to look both ways before you cross the street? These campus buses drive like they are trying to imitate the Knight Bus! They will hit you without a second thought," I reply, crossing my arms over my chest and leaning back in my chair.

"The— what bus? I think that the law doesn't care about the reasons for hitting a person Miss Quinn. Besides you were also on your phone, if I must remind you. Every way you look at it you're in the wrong."

"Now he's the lawyer," I scoff under my breath and begin busying myself with opening my computer again. I refuse to listen to this, this asshole spewing off ridiculous accusations. I quickly pull up my contract to see if I can trade students. Or get them kicked off their sports team for verbally assaulting me. "You saw me again, after that, you know?" I interrogate.

"I know. The smoker," He says pointing at me as if the label has been imprinted in his mind since that night. I clench my jaw to fight back the shame threatening to creep over my facial expressions.

"And you didn't say anything then, why?"

"Didn't want to." He shrugs.

"Then why now? What do you gain from coming in here and annoying me with something that obviously wasn't that big of a deal if you didn't feel the need to confront me?

Taylor scoots his seat back, crossing one leg over his knee. He's still wearing those stupid jeans and ridiculous cowboy boots, but his choice of t-shirt today is red and has the school football logo printed across the chest.

"You don't like me do you? You don't even know me, but I have a feeling that you don't like me," he says with a single chuckle. Even his chuckle is annoying.

He's mocking me now, taunting me. Using my emotionally fueled reaction as bait, like catching a smaller fish only to dangle it above the water hoping a bigger fish comes out to play. If he pokes me enough, a bigger, more amusing reaction will surface.

He thinks I don't know him, but he doesn't know me. I do know him, know his type. This whole facade just to prove that he thinks he is better than me, better than anyone. To prove that he controls all interactions. Narcissistic tendencies take over everything that comes out of his mouth. Comments he thinks don't hit as hard because they flow from a face that looks like his.

With someone like Taylor everything is about him. He can't help it, his talent has allowed him to think that. Everyone has a talent, but just because he is a football player he is immediately superior to anyone else on this campus. Guys want to be him, girls just want to have him. Taylor can't possibly fathom someone like me. Someone who doesn't want the attention, doesn't like it. But if I were to ever tell him that he would think I'm lying. The same thing I've been told over and over again in my life, but by the people who actually should care.

"But I do know you... Tay-lor Reed," I say, adding emphasis to each syllable like a pregame announcer would do. "The big football guy on campus. Come on... you can't walk anywhere in this city without someone knowing who you are. People idolize you for everything you have and you love it, you just eat it up. Humble isn't in your vocabulary."

"Awh, who's the guy?" Taylor slings his hand over his heart as he says it.

"Excuse me?" I say, repeatedly typing Fuck Taylor Reed into my search engine to make it seem like I am doing something of importance. When really it's just giving me a chance to slow my heart rate.

"The one who obviously broke your heart. Or do you always project your feelings onto strangers?" He says.

"Okay," I say, straightening up in my seat and closing my laptop, lacing my fingers on top of it. "Let's get a few things straight. We are here to work on your schoolwork, and make sure you pass your classes so you can keep making hits, scoring goals, or whatever your responsibility is. We aren't discussing personal lives because as far as you are concerned, I am a page covered in biology terms and the words of American literary heroes. Okay? Biology, good. English, good. Boys, girls, fish, etc, bad. Got it?" I spew.

"Why would we talk about fish?" He asks.

Is that all he got out of that, really? I inhale deeply, eyes closed. I hold it for a few seconds in search of my calm space. Okay, mental note to keep it short and monosyllabic.

"My life, off limits. Your life, off limits," I explain.

Taylor leans forward now resting his forearms on the table in front of him, lacing his hands in an identical fashion to mine. It's uncanny how close we are to actually living that Criminal Minds bit we started on my brother's balcony.

"Didn't anyone ever teach you not to judge a book by its cover Miss Quinn? Deep down under all of these muscles I could be a big ole' squishy marshmallow who loves poetry and romcoms," he says, narrowing his eyes at me.

"I have no desire to know what makes you up deep down, or on any level for that matter," I say.
"You may not want to now, but you will. They always do." Taylor sits back in his seat and winks at me.

"Let me stop you right there with three words. Not. Going. To. Happen."

His mouth twitches as he says, "Well, correct me if I'm wrong, Teach, but technically that was four words."

I exhale loudly. "Three words, repeat after me. School. Talk. Only."

He says, "Well technically that was eight words."

That's it, I get up and walk across the room to the door and open it, "If you aren't here for help with your homework, you can leave, and I will let my supervisor know you were a no show." Let's see how much Mr. Cowboy is smirking when his ass is sitting on a bench on Saturdays because he's failing his classes.

"Easy killer," he says this time grabbing at his chest with laughter, just further confirming my depiction of him. An accurate definition wasn't hard, I grew up with the king and prince of Praise City.

After a few dramatic moments his face falls as he clears his throat. I decide I can return to my seat. I exhale and repeat a new mantra to myself: You are the bigger person, Ryn.

"Okay listen, I am just having a day and wasn't expecting to see you again ever." Wasn't expecting to, but was hoping to, my mind tries to betray me. "But this is still my job and I get paid to actually work on your school work with you so can we just move on. You know, clean slate, bury the fictional hatchet," I say, extending my hand in a peace offering.

"Ma'am yes ma'am!" he says with a salute. Not exactly what I had in mind, but whatever. The sooner we start working the sooner this session will be over. I begin to lower my hand considering it a lost cause, but he surprises me by grabbing it with a gentle squeeze.

"It's very nice to meet you, Camryn Quinn," He says with that stupid crooked smile.

"Likewise Taylor Reed," I say, forcing my lips to curl into a tight lipped smile.