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Is that Dr. Randie?
I push open the mahogany door, not bothering to knock, and find that it is Dr. Randie. She’s standing behind her desk, organizing papers and looking back periodically at the man sitting in the office, one ankle casually resting on his opposite knee. His arms are stretched behind his head, with two woven hands supporting the base of his skull – the position, though seemingly nonchalant, effortlessly highlights the intense curve of his tanned biceps.
Anderson.
I clear my throat, immediately gaining both of their attention.
“Georgia, sweetheart! So good to see you. I was just getting acquainted with Mr. Anderson here.”
He flicks his gaze in my direction, his charming smile once again displayed across his face with no sign of his earlier vulnerability.
His eyes still fixed on me, Dr. Randie takes a moment to discreetly point at him, her arm half-tucked beneath her to hide the motion. She smiles, her mouth agape, and raises her eyebrows.
“He’s cute,” she mouths quickly, careful to ensure he doesn’t notice.
I roll my eyes at her, shaking my head and taking the chair beside his.
“So,” she begins, “Georgia, I’m sure you’re aware of why you’re here. Mr. Anderson, though, has yet to be informed.”
From my peripheral, I see him shoot me a confused glance. I keep my eyes on Dr. Randie, refusing to make eye contact.
“I – as well as Coach Bryer – have read the article Georgia wrote about football fundamentals,” she continues, “but, unfortunately, we’re afraid it won’t capture the… greatest interest out of our student body.”
She looks at me, her eyes softening.
“With that said,” she says, shooting her signature half-smile in Henry’s direction, “I’d like for Georgia to focus her remaining articles entirely on you, Mr. Anderson. It’s my understanding that you were recently drafted to the Lone Star Mavericks. Congratulations, by the way–”
“Oh, I wasn’t drafted,” Henry interrupts respectfully, shifting his weight in his chair as he speaks. “I won’t be officially entering the draft until next year. But the Mavericks made a deal with me that, once I do enter the draft, I’ll be a first-round pick. Which is as good as being drafted I’d say, but… a little different.”
“I see, dear – thank you for clarifying. So, with that, Mr. Bryer and I believe that garnering interest in the captain of our TU Titans, one with a certain career ahead of him, could help gain the support we are both looking for.”
She folds her hands in front of her, glancing at me to assess my reaction. I say nothing, refusing to acknowledge the horror that is writing a series of articles over Henry Anderson, still with no literature column in sight.
Barf.
15 | Henry
“I’LL MEET YOU at 9 a.m. tomorrow, on the field,” she grunts, her olive eyes glancing up at me as she turns to leave Dr. Randie’s office. “Don’t be late.”
Georgia swiftly exits the room, shutting the mahogany door behind her before I have a chance to respond. The scent of her vanilla perfume lingers in the air, even after she’s gone.
“She can be a bit of a handful,” Dr. Randie says from behind me, her voice gentle. “But she’s a sweet girl. She’ll warm up.”
I turn towards her and she smiles just slightly, without looking up from her paperwork.
“Thank you, Dr. Randie,” I mumble, my thoughts distracted as I exit out the door and into the crowded hallway.
The meeting with Dr. Randie ran much later than expected – surprising, since Georgia refused to speak a word the entire time. But Dr. Randie had plenty of questions for me about college football, what it’s like to be captain, and my deal with the Lone Star Mavericks.
I felt proud to answer the questions and excited for the future. But these feelings felt stifled and almost unimportant the second I glanced towards the girl beside me, remembering her sadness from a few days prior.
That fucker Patrick is such a prick. Leaving a bruise on her wrist, screaming at her. I can’t even think about it.
I look up from my phone, fully focused on making my way through the hordes of students that crowd central campus. The Chem building is just a few hundred yards away, and I can’t afford to be late to another class. I break into a jog, effortlessly dodging the numerous booths set up by the sorority houses promoting local charities. I make eye contact with a few of the girls as I jog past, their eyes flaring and mouths curving into flirtatious smirks.
“Hi, Henry!” some of them call, waving at me and giggling lightly with their friends. I wave back, not bothering to turn their way.
Walking up the steps to the Chem building, it suddenly occurs to me how massive it is. A pre-World War II brick structure standing five stories high, it spans nearly the entire block and houses all different STEM courses. Walking down the halls, students of all ages – fresh out of high school to finishing their PhD – roam around in groups, laughing and chatting with friends. My molecular chemistry class, which I take with Jonah, is on the third floor, the last door at the end of the hallway.
