Cooking With The QB ✔️

O N E ~ "Got yourself into a pickle?"

"I'm sorry dear, this is the only way for you to graduate." The office lady explains.

The room seems to shrink in size. The fan, that has been spinning above me, seems to stop altogether.

My mouth hangs open in astonishment, my mind whirling with questions.

"But that can't be right!" I exclaim, waving my hands in the air to prove my point.

"It is, dear. You're just going to have to put up with it."

"So you're asking me - on my senior year - to go and ask the Quarter Back of UCLA to teach me how to cook?" I ask, raising an eyebrow.

"It's the only way. You're going to need to ask him yourself."

"Fuck off." I say, the words slipping out of my mouth before I can stop them.

I slap a hand over my mouth, regretting what I just said. The old office lady's eyes that are coated with crusty, black eyeliner widen in shock.

"Excuse me?" She says, her eyes narrowing.

"I'm so sorry, I didn't mean that." I quickly gather the papers that are spread across the desk. "I'm just gonna go."

"That's a good idea." She instructs, her once kind face suddenly stone cold.

I stuff the papers into my bag and push the heavy door of the office open. The cold September air greets me with ice as I shiver.

Trudging through the leaves that rest on the concrete pavement, I look up at the sky with a scowl on my face.

Don't you think about raining.

Great. Now I'm talking to the sky.

As the first drop of rain hits against my forehead, I let out a groan of annoyance.

Senior year is not off to a good start.

••••

I click on the golden button of the elevator, tapping my foot against the floor.

My mind wanders as the floors pass by me.

Why are my even doing this to myself?

The truth is, it's the only way. If I want to graduate with my Master of Fine Arts in dance, then I'm gonna have to do this.

Learn how to cook with Axel McSmith.

Now, I'm never usually intimated by guys.

They're just big bags of testosterone after all.

But Axel McSmith is the quarter back. The best in decades if you ask the officials.

A pile of shit, if you ask me.

But Mrs Eyeliner, also known as the office lady, insists that he volunteered for teaching a class inbetween his busy schedule of games.

The elevator doors glide open and I take a step out.

The red carpet is fluffy and covers the whole floor, daylight streams in from the window that covers the whole back wall. There's two white doors in the corridor, one on each wall. There's a golden chandelier that hangs above me, it's use pointless due to the window.

The whole place screams classy. Exactly where I feel most out of place.

I go to door fifteen and knock.

Silence follows.

I look at the number on the door again, checking that I'm right.

I know where Axel lives due to the amount of parties that have been held here and I'll admit, they've been pretty cool.