Mr. Knight/A Jordan Knight Fanfic ✔️

2

2. allegory

The sights, sounds, and smells of White Harp Pub on University Ave are a balm for my tired brain and eyes. Holed up in a booth with my roommate Claire and her boyfriend, Monty, I feel the day's stress draining away at the same rate as my pint. Every crack of a pool cue on a ball, laughter from neighboring tables, or cheer from around the dartboards further elevates my mood toward contentment.

"So yeah," I conclude my rehashing of this morning's debacle, "I was late, didn't have coffee or breakfast, and looked and acted like a hot mess. Awesome first impression."

Claire's hazel eyes dance with mischief. "Were you really wearing your brother's sweatshirt?"

I roll my eyes. "Yes. I couldn't find my coat. And yes, I know I look like a kid in daddy's shirt when I wear it." Which is more apt than either of them know, as my brother had a more substantial role in my upbringing than my father.

Derrick's faded high school hockey sweatshirt is my personal talisman. When I need strength or courage, or an imagined hug from my big brother, all I have to do is put it on.

As the sweatshirt has never failed me, this morning was obviously a fluke.

To redirect my thoughts, I ask Claire, "How was teaching?"

A fellow graduate student, she's pursuing a Masters in Philosophy, and like me has taken on the punishing (and rewarding) life of a teaching assistant. Unlike me, however, she's teaching her own class, an introductory Philosophy course.

"Besides spilling coffee down my blouse right before the lecture?" she asks defeatedly.

I grimace in sympathy. "I saw the shirt soaking in the sink. That sucks, Claire."

Monty, also a Philosophy grad student, looks up from the textbook on the table before him. "It wasn't that bad. You couldn't even see it under the scarf."

Claire groans and drains her beer, then gives me a meaningful look. "It was his scarf. The cable-knit lime green one."

I bite my lips in effort to thwart a grin. "Don't worry, your students won't remember it a week from now." From Claire's answering glare, she knows as well as I do that I'm lying.

First impressions are handprints in cement. Only jackhammers can erase them. There's a high chance that most of her students will forever think of her as Lime Green.

"I heard someone call me Limey as they were leaving," she says miserably.

I bite my lips harder, but it's no use. My burst of laughter makes Claire scowl at first, but eventually she giggles, and then like delinquents in a church pew we suddenly can't stop laughing.
As usual, Monty is late to the festivities and watches us in befuddlement.

A solid two minutes later, I'm wiping the tears of mirth from my eyes when I hear Monty say in an awed tone, "Professor Knight, how are you this evening? Monty Nelson. We met outside the faculty lounge this morning?"

My fingers, which froze at the sound of his name, lower from my eyes in time for me to see the men shake hands.

Knight nods, smiling slightly. "Ah, yes, I remember. You were wearing a rather memorable scarf."

I make the mistake of looking at Claire, and we burst into helpless laughter again. Pressing my palms to my mouth to shut myself up, I lift my gaze to the famous writer currently staring at me with a vaguely unsettled expression.

In dark jeans and a worn leather jacket, with a grey scarf wound around his neck, he looks like something I want to climb and swing on.

He's the Director of the Creative Writing Program.