Only When It's Us Page 2

  But the truth is, as much as I spring to the defense of the people I love, as ready as I am to lean in a shoulder, to shove and struggle for possession every moment I’m on the field, I do not like verbal conflict. I think I’m actually allergic to verbal disagreements and uncomfortable conversations. Every time they happen, I break out in hives.

  Which is why angry itchy spots pop up along my neck and chest, as I sit at Professor MacCormack’s desk and watch him read my student athlete agreement.

  “Hm.” Flipping over the last page, he spins the document on his desk and slides it back my way. “Listen, Sutter. Believe it or not, I like and respect you.”

  My eyebrows shoot up. “Could have fooled me.”

  Mac’s smirk is back. I have to sit on my hands so I don’t accidentally slap it off.

  “I’m not handing this class to you. You chose to be a student athlete, and with that comes a responsibility to manage your time. You didn’t tell me ahead of the class when you’d be missing, or that you’d need notes. You didn’t communicate until the day of class you missed and then the second time, afterward. That tells me this class isn’t a priority, and frankly, I think it needs to be. This is a foundational course if you want to be prepared for any kind of business management down the line.”

  I shift in my seat. I knew I’d be missing classes for games, but asking him ahead of time was daunting. I would have had to meet him separately, ask for those considerations. It felt…well, it felt uncomfortable, and as I’ve said, I don’t do verbal confrontation well.

  “Which leads me to believe,” he continues, “that you’re one of those athletes who thinks she doesn’t need an education, who’s just punching in and out, going through the motions. That doesn’t fly in my class.”

  I open my mouth to tell him that’s really unfair, that I love learning what I need to know for business management. That I truly want to do well in this class and my other major-related courses, because I know I won’t be a professional athlete forever. When I’m retired, I hope to use my platform for philanthropic work, and I want to ensure I run it myself and do a damn good job of it. I should tell him all of that, but nothing comes out. My jaw clamps shut and my stomach knots sharply.

  MacCormack leans in, elbows on his desk. Nerdy black frames obscure ocean blue eyes. His near-black hair is stylishly messy, he has a constant five-o’clock shadow, and if he weren’t such a giant sabotaging jerkface who was at least ten years older than me, I’d probably think he was cute. Right now, all I can think is that he’s the guy who’s going to ruin my soccer career.

  “You look upset,” he says quietly.

  I take a jagged inhale as hot tears prick my eyes. No crying, Sutter. Never show them your weak spot.

  “I’m sorry,” I manage around the lump in my throat. “I’m not…I don’t talk well when…” Swallowing, I pinch the bridge of my nose and breathe deeply. When I exhale, I’m somewhat together and I find my courage. “I care about this class. I realize I haven’t shown you that very well. I should have asked you before the semester started, but I’ve never had to do that before. In the past, professors have automatically held notes for me and sent me what I needed.”

  Mac sits back in his seat, brow furrowed. “Well, I’m not one of those professors, and if you’re going to make it as a professional female athlete, I’ve got news for you—you have to learn how to start sticking up for yourself.”

  I reel. “Yeah, so, I’m aware of the prejudices and double standards female athletes face, and I’m prepared for them. But thanks for the lecture anyway.”

  “Fine.” He throws his hands up. “My point is, I’m not impeding your success in this class. I’ve been here, available to you, and there’s a sea of people in that room you could ask for notes. I handed you Ryder on a silver platter—”

  “A silver platter?” I slap my hands on his desk and lean in. “He ignored me, entirely.”

  “Maybe you didn’t do enough to make yourself heard.” Mac shrugs, standing and sweeping a pile of papers and his laptop into his arms. He looks at his wristwatch, then at me. “Either way, your success is not my responsibility. I’ve given you a solution to your problem. I’m not holding your hand to get there. Figure it out. Talk to him. Don’t just whisper once, then give up and throw him a death glare.”

  My eyes widen. “Do you have surveillance in that room?”

  That damn smirk widens to a grin. “Just eyes in the back of my head. What professor doesn’t? Come on, Sutter. Time for class.”

  This time I’m not the only one who’s late. MacCormack strides briskly ahead of me, dropping his pile of papers onto the desk with a thwack, hooking up his laptop to the projector, and immediately jumping into the lecture. Once again the place is packed, and once again, the only remaining seat is next to the tall asshole, Ryder, Keeper of Notes.

  While I was too angry to really process his appearance last time, I recognize in retrospect that he’s wearing essentially the same thing, a uniform of sorts: frayed dark blue ball cap, another soft-looking flannel loose over his torso, and faded jeans. His long legs stretch out from his seat, and his eyes are down, scanning this class’s lecture notes. Once again, he completely ignores me. I drop into my seat, huffing as I whip open my notebook.

  At least this time I’ll be able to follow the lecture in its entirety. No thanks to him.

  As MacCormack lectures, I’m sucked into the class material, because like I nearly chickened out on telling him, I really do love learning about business management. My concentration is unflappable. I’m making notes left and right. I even raise my hand and ask Mac a question that earns his surprised, approving smile. I’m getting back on track. I still have to figure out how to get notes for the remaining coursework I’ll miss, but for today, Willa Rose Sutter is on her game—

  My arm’s bumped, and my writing hand flies diagonally, sending a slash of black pen across my notes. I whip to the right, meeting eyes with Ryder. His are annoyingly, startlingly green like last time, and once again they’re wide, as if I surprised him by existing.

  I glance down from my page, then back to him. “What the hell was that?” I hiss.

  His mouth drops open, and for a second I’m oddly distracted by that. With his startled expression, that haphazard hair and scraggly beard, the blue-and-green plaid flannel he’s wearing, he looks like a lumberjack interrupted mid-swing. My gaze lowers from his eyes, searching his face. So much is hidden behind that blond scruff. Cheekbones, lips, a jawline.

  What does he look like underneath all that?

  Snapping myself out of those bizarre thoughts, I lock eyes with him again, my gaze widening with expectation. I’m waiting for an apology, an explanation, anything that accounts for why he just threw an elbow into my arm and made me screw up my notes.

  But nothing comes. His jaw clamps shut, his eyes narrow, and then he spins forward, his focus back on the chalkboard. Mac turns off the projector, earning a groan from roughly one-third of the class who wasn’t writing fast enough. That would include me, thanks to the asshole lumberjack who distracted me from reading and recording the last few minutes.

  “You’ll remember,” Mac says to the class, “that the format of this course is the first six weeks are dedicated to drilling into you the foundation of Business Mathematics. I’m teaching you theory, and I’m cramming it down your throat. I realize you’re probably overwhelmed at this point.”

  A collective sigh followed by a wave of mumbles and whispers indicates MacCormack might be a formidable instructor, but at least knows his audience.

  “Now we are at the point in our course in which you are assigned a collaborative partner for the remainder of the semester. This is for two reasons. One, because of the size of this class,” Mac says. “Unlike many instructors, I’m not passing you off to TAs. You get me, all semester, all office hours, and the trade-off is I halve the number of papers and projects I have to keep up on grading when I pair you up. Two, because anybody who wants a career in busines
s needs to develop core skills of collaboration, negotiation, and compromise. Knowing numbers and economic theory is useless if you can’t talk with your teammates, listen to their ideas, and synthesize your insights into a practical, successful application.

  “While the major focus of your teamwork is your final project and test, midterms are right around the corner. I suggest you begin sooner rather than later familiarizing yourself with your partner and supporting each other’s learning. Study together, quiz each other. Get used to each other. Even though we aren’t even halfway through the semester, start working on your project concept as soon as you’re paired off. Your final project and examination account for fifty percent of your grade, so for those of you who are struggling thus far—” His eyes dance across the room, and he makes a point of lifting his eyebrows when he looks at me. “I suggest you take this quite seriously. It can make or break your grade.”

  Another collective groan echoes around the lecture hall. Mac smirks, hands in his pockets. “Pairs will be announced next class. Have a great day, everybody!”

  Before I can even put the cap on my pen, Ryder’s out of his seat. Tossing his bag over his shoulder, he storms out of the room, weaving and pressing his way through the slowly exiting throng.

  I turn back slowly, stunned at this guy’s level of douchery. I mean, it takes work to be that big of a dick.

  “But he’s kind of a cute dick,” a voice says.

  I jump and spin to my left. “Sorry. I didn’t know I was thinking out loud.”

  She shrugs and smiles. “No worries. I could tell. I’m Emily.”

  “Willa.” Standing, I fold my notebook shut and stuff it into my bookbag.

  Her smile widens. “Oh, I love that name. Like the novelist, Willa Cather?”

  I nod as pain pinches my chest and I think of Mama. “Yep.”

  I should ask Emily if she takes thorough notes and if I could impose on her to copy them. But once again, my tongue-tied fear of asking anyone for anything—or worse, having my request be rejected—silences me.

  “Well, have a nice day!” she says brightly.

  I have mountains of schoolwork, practice to prepare for the game against one of our toughest competitors, and I’m heading to the hospital to hear how my mom’s latest biopsy went. Good isn’t what I expect this day to be.

  “Thanks,” I manage. “You too.”

  I’m used to the hospital routine by now. The smells, the sounds. The whoosh and ping of elevators arriving, sneakers squeaking on linoleum. The din of fluorescents and the mixed smell of antiseptic and urine. Oddly enough, I don’t hate it. It’s the place that’s been home to Mama this past month, and wherever she is, that’s where I want to be.

  “Willa Rose!” Mama sets down her book and opens her thin arms wide for me.

  “Hi, Mama.” I blow her a kiss, then tug off my hoodie and wash my hands diligently. Mama’s immunosuppressed and college kids are Petri dishes, Dr. B said, so I scrub up to my elbows, followed by a few squirts of hand sanitizer for good measure.

  Finally, I can lean over and accept her hug. It’s strong and long-lasting. She clasps her fingers together behind my back like always and gives me a good squeeze.

  “How was your day, honey?” she asks.

  Mama sits back and her eyes meet mine. When I look at my mother, I’m always grateful for the reminder that, but for my crazy hair, I’m nearly her duplicate. It lets me pretend that I just came from Mama, that I’m all hers.

  “Not too bad.” I sit gently on the edge of her bed and eyeball her uneaten tray of food.

  She waves her hand. “It tastes like garbage.”

  “But, Mama, if you don’t eat, you won’t have energy. And you need your energy.”

  Sighing, she clasps my fingers. “I know. Barbara from that church outreach program is bringing me homemade chicken soup later on.”

  God bless that church program because it picks up my slack. I should be cooking my mom homemade meals, not some sweet Lutheran lady named Barbara, but I’ll take it. It nourishes Mama, and she usually gets a nice visit with a stranger. Unlike me, my mother doesn’t totally stick her foot in her mouth when she converses with others, and actually enjoys small talk.

  Mama and I are all alone, and I don’t see that as a bad thing, just how it is. We’ve traveled too much over the years to pick up any lasting friendships, and we’re both fairly solitary women. My family has only ever been Grandma Rose and Mama. Grandma Rose died when I was in high school, and I still miss her. She was a real firecracker who loved her vegetable and flower gardens, always won at Trivial Pursuit, chain-smoked, and swore like a sailor. Apparently, I inherited her temper.

  “Okay.” I pull out an orange and start peeling it. Once I tug all the fine fibers off of the segments, Mama and I will split it. It’s our routine. “What’s the news?” My eyes are on the orange as I tear the peel and send a spray of zest into the air. I’m worried I’m going to see that look in Mama’s eyes when she has to tell me bad news.

  “What news?” she asks.

  My eyes snap up to her. “Don’t play dumb, Joy Sutter.”

  She smiles and it makes her eyes twinkle. “Biopsy wasn’t great, but Dr. B’s got a game plan for me. He’s my triple threat—brains, balls, and beauty.”

  I jerk my head back, making sure no one is at the door.

  Mama chuckles. “He knows I’m joking. But I do think the world of him, and he totally uses it to his advantage, getting me to do things like eat my meals and walk around the halls.”

  “Smart man,” I mutter. “Tall, ginger, and handsome was always your speed.”

  “I like what I like. Gingers don’t get enough love in this world. Now, talk to me about life, school, the team.” Mama shifts in her bed and tries to hide a grimace. “I feel like I have no clue what’s going on these days.”

  I tell her about the pad thai that Rooney tried to make the other night, how it made the whole apartment smell like a rotten fish carcass and the noodles were so hard when I took a bite, I was positive I’d cracked a molar.

  Mama laughs until it turns into a coughing fit. A nurse stops in, giving my mom some oxygen while giving me a look that says, Simmer down, Sutter.

  Deciding I’ll try not to make her laugh like that anymore for the night, I tell Mama about the upcoming match, the strategy we’re taking to be more offensive than usual. We’ve been playing me as the lone striker, so if they’re smart, our opposition will try to double-team me. We’ll set Rooney on top with me as a fellow forward rather than her typical spot in midfield. If Rooney’s up there, pulling their defense, hopefully, she and I can string together a couple of goals.

  “That sounds great,” Mama says. She pops an orange segment in her mouth and smiles. “Scouts will be coming around soon, keeping their eye on you, right?”

  I throw back an orange segment, too. “Yep,” I say around my bite. “If I can stay eligible.”

  Mama’s faint eyebrows shoot up. “I’m sorry, Willa Rose, have I missed something? You are a hardworking, dependable student. Your grades have never been in jeopardy before.”

  Groaning, I drop sideways until my head is in her lap. Mama’s hands wander to my hair, trying to make order out of chaos. “Tell me, honey.”

  It tumbles out. How I naively expected Professor MacCormack to act like every other instructor I’ve had, and when I realized he wasn’t going to, how nervous I got to ask him for what I needed. I don’t get to tell her about the asshole lumberjack before Mama tsks and shakes her head.

  “You never have been good at having the tough conversations.” Mama sighs. “Don’t know where you got that. If someone paid me to argue for a living, I would.”

  Her hands are so soothing, I let my eyes slide shut and savor the sensation of her fingers, rhythmically sliding through my hair. Once she’s done, my wild hair won’t be half as tangled, but it will be twice as puffy. I don’t mind, though. “You’d have made a great lawyer, Mama. Between you and Rooney, I’m surrounded by pugna
cious personalities—”

  “That’s it!” Mom reaches for her crossword puzzle, tongue stuck out as she writes in the letters. “Pug-na-cious. Oh, Willa, thank you. Now I can rub it in Dr. B’s face when he next stops in.”

  I pick up my head and meet her eyes. “So it’s Dr. B who put you up to crosswords?” She’s been obsessed with them for a few weeks now, texting me all hours of the day and night, when she wants to see if Rooney or I know a word she’s looking for.

  “Well, he said if I ate my meals and didn’t drop any more weight on him, he’d let me out for your championship game.”

  “Mama, we have to make it through qualifiers and playoffs—”

  “Ah. Ah. Ah.” Mama holds up her hand, commanding silence. “What have I taught you?”

  I sigh. “I can do anything I set my heart and mind to.”

  “That’s right. You want that championship game, Willa, you’ll get it. As I was saying, if I keep my weight up, I get to come, but if I do the New York Times crossword in one day, he’ll take me himself in his fancy sports car.”

  I sit upright, abruptly. “But it’s in San Jose this year. Isn’t that dangerous? I mean, the travel will take it out of you, and the outside world is a germ-fest, and—”

  “Willa.” Mama interlaces her fingers with mine and smiles reassuringly. “It’s fine. He’s a doctor, he knows.”

  My shoulders are pinched, worry twisting my stomach. I hate that Mama’s sick enough to need to be in the hospital, but I love that here, I know she’s safe and taken care of. As far as I’m concerned, I want her here, getting the care she needs, for as long as necessary. Thankfully, Grandma Rose left us decent life savings and Mama’s military pension helps. That’s where virtually all of our finances go—her cancer treatment, so she can get better as soon as possible.