Over the next couple of days, Tristan gave serious consideration to the topic Professor Cruz had assigned. What “social space” did he inhabit? Hockey, of course. The dressing rooms, the arenas, the charter planes and busses. Tristan spent most of his time with other athletes. Where did he fit into the hockey power hierarchy? What role did he play—aside from the obvious answer of “defenseman”? Did he ever do anything to challenge that role?
Tristan typed a first draft, which was more of a stream-of-consciousness-style brain dump than anything. It ended up a seven-page ramble that had no real purpose or sense of direction, but luckily, there were a few diamonds amid all that rough. Those ideas Tristan cut and polished into a more cohesive second draft. One he thought Professor Cruz would appreciate.
Sexy, dark-eyed, gay Professor Cruz, who put his sexuality out there like it was nothing. Who lifted his chin and practically dared anyone in the class to say something negative.
What would it be like to be able to do that in front of a group of strangers? To be totally candid and honest about who he was? Tristan wouldn’t know. He couldn’t quite imagine saying the words to his family or his teammates, let alone a lecture hall full of people whose respect he wanted to keep.
Professor Cruz had certainly earned Tristan’s respect with his frankness. And his bravery. Even if the guy was out flying rainbow flags every weekend, it couldn’t be easy to share that aspect of his personal life, potentially opening himself to criticism or bigotry. Tristan admired the courage that took as he sat there ruminating on his place in the world of hockey and the homophobia that still pervaded the sport, particularly in the junior levels.
No one had stood up in front of the league and proudly declared their queerness to the masses. But that wasn’t something Tristan planned to address in this paper. Or anywhere else, for that matter.
He refocused on the task at hand—deconstructing his place within the hockey community, and what about him, aside from his sexuality, challenged the perceptions of outsiders. The answer came in a flash that left Tristan feeling foolish in the aftermath. Obviously, the fact that he was back in school pursuing a degree made him different from many of his teammates. He still considered it worthwhile to complete his education, though he had a salary many people would envy and friends like Morley who questioned why he would bother.
His topic decided, Tristan tackled the paper with renewed energy. He was in the middle of reworking his closing paragraph when a ping from his MacBook alerted him to a new message.
Tristan’s Gmail inbox was open, and a little green box flashed in the corner—a chat invite from Steven. They’d been emailing consistently since the first day of class. He’d already begged Tristan to send him notes a couple of times, but he’d never initiated a chat before.
Curious, Tristan accepted the invite to see the message.
Steven: Hey, how’s the paper going? Did you figure out your subject yet?
Tristan: Yeah. Almost done, actually.
Steven: Oh man, seriously? I’ve got nothing so far
Tristan considered for a moment. Are you part of any clubs? Play any sports? Or are you involved in a church or anything?
Steven: No I’m not really into any of that. IDK. I’m stumped
There was a pause. Then Steven sent another message: Would you mind letting me read your paper? Just so I can see what you did. I can proofread for you!
Tristan hesitated. But, really, what harm could there be? Besides, he could do with a second set of eyes.
Tristan: Yeah, sure. Will send in a bit.
Steven: Thanks, man, you’re a lifesaver! Hey gotta go but I’ll read it later and get back to you
Steven signed off before Tristan could reply.
Another hour passed before he felt ready to let someone else see his work, but eventually, Tristan completed his revisions and sent the paper off to Steven. Not too shabby, if he said so himself. It might even earn him an elusive A from Professor Cruz.
After a quick shower and a protein shake, Tristan checked his phone to find a stream of texts from Morley.
Morley: Bro remember that movie I wanted to see? Its @ the cheap theater now
Morley: Shootouts car chases hot chicks EXPLOSIONS!! Fuck yeah lets go!!!
Morley: Dont ignore me ill show up @ ur house and drag u out the door in a headlock
Morley: Cmon bro im bored af
Tristan snorted. What the hell. He could use a couple of hours of mindless entertainment. What better way to decompress than with over-the-top special effects and excessive amounts of gunfire?
Tristan could think of one thing, but it had been a while since he’d gotten laid and he wasn’t in the mood to deal with Grindr or trying to go out to pick someone up. For now, his hand and Vin Diesel fantasies would have to do.
Tristan: Sorry, was working. Yeah, let’s go. Come pick me up.
Morley replied almost immediately—with a row of five thumbs-up emojis, an eggplant, a peach, and three bombs.
Translation: I’m on my way.
Tristan laughed and shook his head.
The papers came in by the end of the week, and to be fair, most of the students appeared to have at least tried to apply to their papers what Sebastian had been talking about. One student talked candidly about being raised Mormon and estranged from the church, one talked about their family, and a few others talked about activities they belonged to—an acapella group, a dance team, and a LARP group (though Sebastian wasn’t exactly sure what that meant).
Most interesting so far was, oddly enough, about a student who was apparently heavily involved in playing lacrosse—a sport that Sebastian knew absolutely nothing about and had no idea if GSU even had a team. But he wasn’t that big into sports, so it was entirely likely that the college had a team and that this student, Steven Wheeling, was a lacrosse player and had chosen to write his paper on his experiences. It was a good paper, and while Sebastian couldn’t relate entirely to the athletic aspect, he did know what it was like to challenge misconceptions people had based on one aspect of his identity. He left a few notes and resisted adding any sort of personal message—it would be inappropriate.
Sebastian recorded the student’s grade in the PAWS system, clicked back to his desktop and opened the next Word document. For a moment, he thought he’d clicked the same document and reopened the lacrosse paper, because the opening paragraph was exactly the same.
Well. It was the same, but instead of the word lacrosse it said hockey. Frowning, Sebastian glanced quickly at the pages and realized he was reading an almost word-for-word version of the earlier paper. The only difference was the sport, and Sebastian might not know much about college athletics or the lacrosse team, but he knew for sure GSU did not have an ice hockey team. He copied a few paragraphs and ran it through a plagiarism checker that the school gave professors access to, but nothing came up.
This wasn’t a paper in a fraternity file that had been used over and over again. This was one person’s paper that had been stolen. Sebastian thought about Gray Sweatpants and the trendy kid with his notebook, and how he’d heard them exchanging emails the first week of class. If he had to pick which one of them was a student athlete lacrosse player and which one was a frat boy who thought their gay professor would buy the idea of a hockey team at a Southern school . . .
Seething, Sebastian stared hard at the screen and drummed his fingers on his desk. He couldn’t say why he was so disappointed, because honestly, he shouldn’t have been surprised. He’d been warned about the possibility of plagiarism, of course, and had figured that it would crop up sooner or later in one of his classes. He considered contacting the dean and reporting it, and he’d have to do that eventually. But first, he was going to confront the plagiarist—Tristan Holt, according to the document—and give him an appropriate lecture. It might not do any good, because people like that never learned. Likely it would go in one ear and out the other, but Sebastian was going to make sure it at least burned on its way through the kid’s empty skull.
Tristan Holt and his sweatpants were one piece of eye candy Sebastian wouldn’t be enjoying the rest of the semester, because Sebastian was going to make sure he never set foot in his classroom again.