“It’s unreliable.”
He peers hard into my eyes, unflinching. “Instinct and talent just won us a playoff game.”
“Discipline sustains a career. There are fifty-two men on the roster all thinking they’ll go pro, but only one percent will meet that goal. But you don’t have to worry. You have the O’Ryan name, but do you have the discipline?”
It’s so quiet you can hear people reading—in their head. He strums his long, tanned fingers on his notebook and twists his lips and says, “So you don’t like football.”
“I don’t like wasted potential.”
“Why do you always say that?” he mutters.
“Because it’s true,” I blurt out louder than I should when students are trying to study. “You football players think of one thing only… going pro.”
He snaps his legs back and lurches forward. The veins inhis neck pop reminding me of what I escaped. “You don’t know me.”
I whisper-shout, “I know you skip your assignments. And studying comes last.”
“I have to prioritize my time.”
“You prioritize what gives you attention,” I snarl and look away. My voice betrays me.
He freezes. “Careful,” he says.
I know I shouldn’t push but something about the girls, the laughter and the ease in which the world wraps around him. It scratches at something ugly and painful inside me.
My lips tighten and through gritted teeth, I say, “I don’t tutor ego. I tutor effort, which you’re not giving.”
His nostrils flare. He looks like he hates me as much as I hate him. He’s an egomaniac and thinks he’s the only person at this table who’s an athlete.
“Ego? That’s what you think this is.”
“Well, you walked in here like it was an afterthought and optional.”
“It is optional.”
My stomach tightens. He holds the power.
I want to think he needs me. That somebody needs me, but he doesn’t. So, what do I do when I feel abandoned? Lash out.
“Well, then you don’t need a tutor.” I push back my chair, recklessly gathering my books and pens.
He stands and reaches across the desk for my arm. “That’s not what I said.”
“It’s what you implied.” I twitch until he releases my arm from his hand.
“Annika—”
“Just open your book.”
He doesn’t move. Instead, he mumbles, “You’re jealous of the girls, and where did you get that purple shirt?”
“Ha.” My spine stiffens. “Of course, you would think it’s about them and for your information, it’s my boyfriend’s.”
“It sure feels like it is. So, your boyfriend goes to school on the other side of town?”
“No. Yes. I’m not sharing my personal life, and I have no reason to care who you entertain or how many times you…”
“Then why does it seem like you’re about to throw that textbook at my head?”