Well Played
ADDISON
🏀
Freaking Professor Thompson.
Of all the lecture halls, in all the departments, with all the professors Crestwood University could have inflicted upon me, I get him.
Again.
I pause outside the classroom with one hand wrapped around the strap of my laptop bag and contemplate my options.
Option one: walk inside.
Option two: fake my own death.
Unfortunately, option two probably involves paperwork, and I don’t have time for paperwork.
I have a twenty-hour workweek at the campus Help Desk, another twelve at the library, six classes, a scholarship with approximately seventeen thousand ways to lose it, and parents who still treat every unknown number calling their house like it might be the police.
So.
Class it is.
I square my shoulders and step through the doorway.
Professor Thompson is already at the front, arranging papers on the podium like a man preparing to personally ruin somebody’s semester. His silver hair is combed so precisely I’m tempted to mess it up on principle.
Not that I would.
I don’t do things like that anymore.
I am mature.
Responsible.
Entirely rehabilitated.
My mother would probably prefer I stop describing myself as rehabilitated considering I was never technically convicted of anything, but that’s semantics.
“Ms. Foster.”
Shit.
I force a smile. “Professor Thompson.”
His eyes move over me, and there it is.
Recognition.
Not the good kind either.
Three years ago, freshman Addison had made the questionable decision to correct him during a lecture because he’d attributed a quote to the wrong journalist.
In front of approximately two hundred people.
Was I right?
Yes.
Did that matter?
Apparently not.
I learned an important lesson that day: some people appreciate being corrected, and Professor Ethan Thompson would rather eat his own shoe.
“Glad you could join us.”
I glance at the clock.
8:58.
Class starts at nine.
“Wouldn’t miss it.”
His mouth tightens.
Excellent. We’re off to a strong start.
I find an empty seat near the middle and pull out my laptop, deliberately ignoring the group occupying the back rows. I don’t need to turn around to know who they are.
The Titans have arrived.
Crestwood basketball players travel in packs. Probably a safety thing. One of them gets separated from the herd and he might accidentally attend class.
I open a blank document.
MEDIA & SPORTS MANAGEMENT — NOTES
The title itself offends me.
This isn’t even a required journalism course. It’s an elective, except “elective” suggests I elected to be here instead of being forced into it by a scheduling conflict and the cruel hand of God.
Still, newspapers like applicants who’ve taken it.
And I need an internship.
More specifically, I need the internship at The City Pulse, because it is respectable, local, and exactly the sort of thing my parents can casually mention when someone asks what their daughter is doing.
Oh, Addison?
She’s finishing her journalism degree.
Interning at The City Pulse.
Doing wonderfully.
No federal investigators anywhere in sight.
Perfect.
I flex my fingers over the keyboard.
Don’t think about it.
That should be easy, considering I’ve spent four years practicing.
“Good morning,” Thompson announces.
Nobody answers.
He waits.
Still nothing.
His smile suffers a slow, painful death.
I bite the inside of my cheek.
Maybe this semester won’t be entirely terrible.
“As outlined in your syllabus, a significant portion of your final grade will come from a semester-long media analysis project.”
My smile disappears.
Semester-long anything is never good.
“You will work in pairs.”
Worse.
My schedule is a Tetris board two blocks away from catastrophic failure. Pair assignments require coordination. Coordination requires matching availability. Matching availability requires having availability.
I have Sunday afternoons between two and four.
Usually.
Unless someone at the Help Desk calls in sick.
Or the library needs coverage.
Or I have an assignment.
Or I sleep.
Actually, sleep is probably optional.
I glance around the room, searching for someone vaguely familiar.
There’s Nina from Ethics two rows over.
We made eye contact once.
Basically best friends.
I could—
“I have selected your partners.”
Of course you have.
Thompson lifts a stack of papers.
Somewhere behind me, a guy groans.
Same, mysterious stranger. Same.
“The purpose is to challenge you to work outside your existing social and academic circles. You cannot switch partners. You cannot complete the assignment independently. If your partner withdraws from the course, speak to me.”
His eyes land directly on me.
Okay.
That’s personal.
I slowly close my laptop.
The teaching assistant starts distributing folded slips of paper while everyone around me whispers and cranes their necks.
I don’t care who I get.
That’s the nice thing about assuming the worst.
There’s very little room for disappointment.
The paper lands on my desk.
I flip it open.
CARTER HARRIS
Oh, come on.
A burst of laughter erupts from somewhere behind me, followed by a masculine voice saying, “Who’s Addison Foster?”
My eye twitches.
Apparently my disappointment found room.
Everyone knows Carter Harris.
Even people who don’t care about basketball know Carter Harris.
Crestwood’s golden boy.
Starting shooting guard.
Projected draft pick.
Son of Robert Harris, sports agent extraordinaire and professional owner of too many expensive suits.
Carter is campus royalty in the way only very attractive men who can put balls through hoops become campus royalty.
Professors love him.
Students love him.
Women definitely love him.
Rumor says teaching assistants love him a little too much.
I know the type.
I’ve known the type since I was seventeen.
Star athlete screws up, someone makes a phone call. Grade mysteriously changes. Discipline file disappears. Coach never hears about it. Somebody with money smiles for a photograph while everyone else pretends the system works exactly the same for everybody.
My fingers tighten around the paper.
No.
Not going there.
I don’t know Carter Harris.
He isn’t those boys.
Probably.
Maybe.
Okay, statistically speaking, possibly.
But I’ve learned not to go looking for proof.
That lesson only cost my father his job, my parents most of their savings, and our family enough public humiliation to last several generations.
So, yes.
Lesson learned.
Mostly.
“Class dismissed,” Thompson says. “I expect partners to make contact today.”
I shove my laptop into my bag.
Great.
Let’s make contact.
Then I’ll establish boundaries.
Very tall, very clear, electrified boundaries.
I turn toward the back of the lecture hall.
Finding Carter is embarrassingly easy.
He’s sitting on top of a desk while two guys flank him, all three wearing Crestwood warm-up jackets. Carter has dark hair that looks like someone tried to style it and he immediately ruined their work by dragging his fingers through it.
He’s also—
Oh.
That’s annoying.
Pictures don’t adequately convey Carter Harris.
He’s huge.
Not bulky exactly, but tall enough that even sitting on the desk he takes up too much space. Broad shoulders stretch his jacket, long legs extend in front of him, and when he looks up from the paper in his hands, green eyes meet mine.
Really green.
Of course they are.
Couldn’t be muddy brown.
No.
The universe spent extra time on this asshole.
His gaze drops briefly over me before returning to my face, and something amused flickers there.
I hate him already.
Which is admittedly premature.
But efficient.
“Carter Harris?”
His mouth curves.
“Depends.”
“On?”
“Whether you’re Addison Foster.”
I stop in front of him. “I am.”
“Then yeah.”
At least he knows my name.
Bare minimum achieved.
His friends exchange looks.
One of them gets up. “I’m gonna leave before whatever this is happens.”
“Smart,” I tell him.
Carter laughs.
I don’t.
Mostly because his laugh is unfairly nice and I refuse to reward it.
I pull the assignment sheet from my bag. “I’m going to make this really easy.”
“Love easy.”
“I’m going to handle the project.”
His smile fades a fraction.
“You don’t need to schedule meetings with me. You don’t need to research anything. You don’t even need to pretend you’re going to research anything. I’ll send you the final version, you can read it before we submit it, and we’ll both survive the semester without wasting each other’s time.”
The remaining friend whistles under his breath.
Carter studies me.
I expected relief.
Maybe gratitude.
At minimum, a shrug.
Instead, his jaw shifts.
“That’s your plan?”
“Efficient, right?”
“You do the entire semester project.”
“Yes.”
“And I do nothing.”
“Now you’re getting it.”
His gaze stays on mine.
There’s something about the silence that makes me reconsider my delivery.
Not the content.
The delivery.
Maybe Jenna is right when she says I sometimes sound hostile when I’m trying to be helpful.
Apparently, Move, idiot, there’s a car coming does not require the idiot portion.
Who knew?
Carter slides off the desk.
Oh.
Standing is worse.
I have to tip my head back.
A lot.
At five-one, this isn’t an uncommon problem, but Carter has to be at least six-four. Maybe six-five.
A skyscraper with cheekbones.
Fantastic.
“Question,” he says.
“I’m listening.”
“Do I look stupid?”
I blink. “Is this a trap?”
His friend coughs into his fist.
Carter’s lips twitch. “Just curious.”
“I don’t know you well enough to make an informed assessment.”
“Didn’t stop you from deciding I can’t do a college project.”
Ah.
Well.
“Your reputation precedes you.”
“Which reputation? I’ve got a few.”
“The one where other people do your work.”
His eyebrows lift. “Never heard that one.”
“Really?”
“Nope. Sex stuff, partying, ego problem, once got banned from a frozen yogurt place—”
“Why?”
“Long story.”
“I don’t care.”
“Then why’d you ask?”
God, he’s irritating.
Carter reaches for my assignment sheet before I realize what he’s doing.
“Hey.”
He holds it above my head.
I stare at him.
He stares back.
“Give me that.”
“Trying to read it.”
“You have your own.”
“Lost it.”
“We’ve been out of class for ninety seconds.”
“It’s been a rough ninety seconds.”
I make a grab for the sheet.
He lifts it higher.
I freeze.
“Oh, don’t.”
His grin finally returns. “Don’t what?”
“Become a cliché.”
“What cliché?”
“The giant athlete holding something where the short girl can’t reach it.”
He looks at the paper.
Looks at me.
Then lowers it immediately.
“Fair.”
I snatch it from his hand.
That was annoyingly reasonable.
“Friday,” he says.
“What about it?”
“Ten o’clock. Library.”
My stomach drops.
“How do you know I work at the library?”
“You just told Thompson you needed Fridays after ten when he asked about scheduling.”
Oh.
Right.
I did.
Maybe I should start listening when I speak.
“I’m not meeting you.”
“One meeting.”
“No.”
“One.”
“Carter.”
“Addison.”
He leans back against the desk, folding his arms. “You give me one hour. We go through the assignment. If, after that hour, you still think I’m a brain-dead asshole who needs you to carry him, I’ll let you take the lead.”
“Let me?”
His eyes gleam.
Poor choice of words.
“But if I know what I’m doing,” he continues, ignoring my tone, “you stop treating me like I’ve got someone else tying my shoes.”
I glance down at them.
His sneakers are, indeed, tied.
“Compelling evidence.”
He laughs again.
Damn it.
“One hour,” he repeats.
I should say no.
I don’t have an hour to waste proving something I already know.
Except—
That’s the problem, isn’t it?
I don’t know.
Not really.
I know rumors.
I know his father.
I know basketball players get away with things normal students don’t.
I know exactly what can happen when powerful people start bending rules for their favorites.
But I don’t know Carter.
And maybe somewhere between becoming a Responsible Adult™ and never touching another system I wasn’t supposed to touch, I should have learned that evidence is supposed to come before the verdict.
Annoying.
“Fine. One hour.”
Carter pushes away from the desk.
“Friday. Ten.”
“Ten-oh-five.”
“Why?”
“My shift ends at ten.”
“I’ll wait.”
I narrow my eyes.
He smiles.
Not cocky this time.
Almost pleased.
Like he won something.
He didn’t.
Probably.
I turn to leave.
“Addison?”
I glance over my shoulder.
Carter gives me an easy little salute. “See you Friday.”
I stare at him for half a second longer before walking away.
One hour.
That’s all.
I can survive one hour with Carter Harris.
And then I’ll prove I was right about him, finish this stupid project, graduate, get my respectable little journalism job and continue living my extremely boring, extremely legal life.
Easy.
My phone buzzes inside my bag.
MOM: First day okay?
I stare at the message.
Then back toward Carter.
He’s laughing with his friends like he doesn’t have a concern in the world.
Like exactly the kind of person I promised myself I’d stop caring enough to investigate.
I type my answer.
ADDISON: Perfect. Nothing interesting at all.
There.
Not technically a lie.
Yet.
