*Slow updates*
After agreeing to be the focus of a college article,
senior Charlie Murtaugh gets more than he bargains for when he's assigned a clueless sophomore who knows nothing about the sport.
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8 O'clock on a Tuesday morning equals elementary stat and elementary stat just happens to equal a bunch of college students looking like they'd rather be picked apart by a mountain lion than sit through another gruesome maths lecture. I'm just happy that I'm not the only one who doesn't like anything about the class.
Not the professor who loves to throw questions he knows damn well that I can't answer at me, not the lecture room thats all the way in the freaking basement and definitely not the lecture that's going to happen in the next ten minutes on Preparation For Midterms.
Maths and I stopped being friends in twelvth grade because that's when shit started to go beyond numbers into letters. Everything honestly went downhill from there.
Despite not wanting to be here, I set up my things on the table-my laptop, pencil case and a notebook that I use to jot things down. It's very clear from the words displayed on the board that there will be a lot of writing today. Preparation For Midterms. Another awful reminder that dead week is fast approaching. I don't even want to start thinking about that because it gives me a headache.
I wriggle slightly in my seat (I'm two rows to the back of the class this time. A seat where Professor Byrne will never be able to call on me-I made sure to be here on time for this reason) as students file in, most of them with a cup of Starbucks in hand. I should have branched to grab a cup myself but I wasn't taking any chances -I didn't plan on being late today. Morning rush at Starbucks is the worst.
The half empty lecture room starts to get filled up while the professor walks up and down the stage as he sets up for class. A bunch of people are now headed towards my row because it has more empty seats.
As if the infuriating hot dreams I had about this person last night wasn't enough, I hear his voice. Charlie. He's talking to a group of freshmen boys I don't like because they make too many unneeded jokes during lecture.
I just don't understand why Ryan is here. I've never noticed him in this class before. Neither did I notice Charlie freaking Murtaugh. To be honest, I know no one from this class simple because the people I knew actually passed and moved on with their lives while I'm stuck here, retaking. Most of the time I'm thinking about how to get the hell out this class.
I look at Charlie. He's wearing a black hoodie and black jeans, the same yankees cap sitting on his head. My breath catches softly when he catches me staring. He whispers something in Ryan's ears which causes Ryan to laugh before looking at me.
My face warms and I frown, looking away as I mutter an asshole under my breath. Charlie shifts his wilful gaze to the empty seat next to me.
Oh no. God, please no. Grant me this one favour.
After slapping one of the boys on the shoulder, he strides over to my row with Ryan following suit, earning glances from a lot of people in the room as they watch where the golden boy's final destination will be. I bite my lower lip nervously, the events of yesterday making me crease as it replays in my head for the umpteenth time.
