Abby Ryan has her whole life planned out, up until graduation that is. As a journalism student at the University of Southern Washington, she has one goal in mind for her last semester of senior year: secure a scholarship for graduate school. But whe...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
I'm late again.
Well, late for me. I'm on time according to my class schedule, but since Coach Kennley has beaten the idea of if you're not ten minutes early, you're ten minutes late into my head for the past three years, it's bled over into my everyday life. It only took one time of Coach screaming about the importance of punctuality while he had me running suicides for me never to show up late to practice again. Coach might be an old man, but he sure as hell knows how to get a point across.
I down the last of my protein shake and toss the empty carton into a trashcan just outside of the general science building. I'm more than a little shocked that I don't have a hangover after last night. After ditching the formal, the team went to one of the frat's notorious after-parties. Six games of beer pong and four shots of Fireball later, I was lucky that I found a bed to stumble into. Not my bed, though. No, last night I was riding the glorious wave of drunken bliss with Tori Hanson, or rather, she was riding me.
The memory of her perky body grinding on top of me is hazy at best, but the trail of fresh hickeys on my stomach is more evidence of what I can't remember. I could have easily banked another round this morning when she woke me up with her hand down my boxers, but I couldn't show up late to class on the first day. Coach would kill me.
Two guys standing by the building entrance stare at me as I walk up, and I watch their eyes widen as the recognition sets in. I have to stop myself from groaning as the familiar scene begins to play out. If I passed up a good morning fuck from Tori Hanson so I wouldn't be late, I sure as hell wouldn't be late to talk to these guys about shooting percentages and NBA Draft picks. I keep my gaze straight and pick up my pace, trying to look like I'm in a rush, but the shorter one with a USW Warriors sweatshirt extends his hand for a handshake.
Random people interacting with me like they know me was kind of a shock at first, but after three years, the oddity of it has worn off and I just kind of go with it. I nod to them and slap the guy's outstretched hand, keeping my stride so I don't get pulled into a conversation with two strangers.
"Nice game against Utah, Beck. You've been fucking killing it, dude," he calls after me as I pull open the door. "You keep that hand hot, and we'll crush Stanford on Friday."
"Thanks, man." I nod over my shoulder noncommittally before turning to scan the classroom numbers for the one listed on my new semester schedule.
The building's heat hits me instantly, and my cheeks and ears prickle as they start to defrost. Early mornings in January are always freezing, but the fact that it's not snowing, or spewing down fat raindrops cold enough to feel like an assault, is enough for me to be thankful for this weather.
I haven't stepped into the general science building since freshman year, but the same smell of old furniture and cleaning supplies hasn't changed since I was here last. A few message boards line the walls, overflowing with flyers, most of them old enough to be archived in some kind of USW time capsule. The familiar crimson paper listing the basketball game schedule is stapled on top of the rest.
