Two days after the night at the club and the trouble Kat caused, I still feel hung over. Even the almost freezing weather and the fact that it’s three in the afternoon doesn’t help. It’s thirty degrees colder today than it was yesterday, so you’d think I’d be wide-the-fuck awake. Of course, it didn’t help that my 8:30 class was International Accounting. It’s not the type I’ll be able to sleep through and fake it, that’s for sure.

Now, if I could have History of Rock first thing, I wouldn’t have any trouble staying awake. But am I that lucky? Nope. Instead, it’s the last one of the day. Oh well, at least I’ll end it happy. When I finally stroll in the room is filling up. Not a surprise since the majority of my classes are in the business building and this one is across campus in one of two arts buildings. I find a spot near the back and sit down. Some teachers still believe in assigned seats, and if I’m running late, I don’t want to have to head to the front to find my seat. I like attention, but not that kind.

Just before class begins, the seat next to me fills at the same time my phone pings with a text.

His number is just below. Marcus? I have to think for a minute. The name is familiar, but I don’t—oh, wait. Marcus is the guy who runs bets for fights that take place just off campus at the gym some of us use in the off-season to leave the campus machines available for other athletes. Nashville U is too small a college to warrant separate weight rooms for each team, and it gets pretty crowded with the basketball and baseball players trying to use them too.

I send Liam a reply, letting him know I’ll contact Marcus later, not paying much attention to the person who drops into the seat beside me. I vaguely register the familiar scent of cotton candy, but before I can turn, the redhead sitting on my left hands me a stack of stapled together papers. The syllabus for this class isn’t large, only two pages, but there’s a lot of information on the pages. Distracted by words like “film” and “punk”, I pass the papers on without looking at my neighbor. Just by the units we’re going to be studying, I know this is going to be a fucking awesome class: Fifties Rock, Punk, British Rock … it’s a cake class. Add to it the fact that it’s my last class of the day, and it’s on Monday, Wednesday, Friday, and I’m a happy guy.

“Good afternoon, class,” a loud voice booms from the front of the room. “I’m Professor George, but please feel free to call me “Charlie.” We’re going to be spending quite a bit of time together for the next few months, and unlike most of the classes you’re taking, this is a fun one.” I look up to see a man who looks like he’s in his late 20’s or early 30’s with blocky black glasses and a goatee. His blonde hair is unruly and nearly touches his collar. He looks like a cross between a nerd and a hipster with his button up collared shirt and baggy carpenter pants. I wouldn’t be surprised to see a pocket protector, but there isn’t one. He steps out from behind the podium and now I can see he’s even wearing brown sandals. It’s January, and cold, yet this guy is wearing sandals while the rest of us are carrying jackets, hats, and there are even a few sets of gloves sitting on desks or peeking out of bags or pockets.

The unladylike snort from beside me should clue me in to who my seat mate is, but I’m still surprised when I look out of the corner of my eye to see Kat beside me, her pert nose still red from the cold air and her thick brown hair tumbling down past her shoulders, tangled from the wind, but she doesn’t seem to notice. She’s not looking at me. Her focus is on the syllabus in front of her. She has a highlighter in one hand, using it to organize the topics into upcoming tasks and things to remember. I start to speak, but the professor cuts me off with his next words.

“This class may be fun, but it’s not a game.” My head swivels back around at his tone. He’s back behind the podium, his fingers folded together as he leans forward to look at all of us, his eyes focused. “Look at the person to your right. That person will be your partner this semester for the project you’ll be doing on one aspect of Rock ’n Roll. We’ll get into that further in the coming weeks, but for now, introduce yourself to your partner and exchange contact details.” He continues to talk, but all I can concentrate on is the fact that the person to my right is Kat, and there’s no one on hers since she’s at the end of the aisle. I’m going to have to spend the entire semester working on a project with her? We’re going to kill each other by the end of the year. So much for graduating.

I lean towards her and say, “Looks like we’re going to have to pretend to get along … unless you’d rather do the project alone and put my name on it.” On second thought, that sounds like a fantastic option. I get the credit, she does all the work, and we don’t have to spend any time together. Win-win.