Tristan was in the middle of making his morning protein shake and rocking an air guitar solo when his smartphone abruptly stopped streaming Led Zeppelin’s “Black Dog” and started playing the familiar chorus of Fleetwood Mac’s “Go Your Own Way.” The song was one of his mother’s favorites, and he’d assigned it as her personal ringtone ages ago. It always reminded him of the mornings he’d woken to find her dancing around the kitchen while she cooked.
Grinning, Tristan switched off the blender and accepted the call. He propped the phone between his ear and shoulder. “Hey, Mom.”
“Hi, sweetie. What are you up to?”
“Making some breakfast. I have class in an hour.” Tristan popped the lid off the blender pitcher and poured the pinkish-brown mixture into the tall glass waiting on the counter. Strawberry-banana-spinach didn’t make for a pretty shake, but it tasted good, and the vanilla protein powder wasn’t as offensive as others he’d tried. “How are you?”
“I’m fine. Washing up.” That explained all the banging in the background. “Hannah and I have been canning all morning. We picked blackberries yesterday! I’ll send you some jam next week.”
“Yes, please. You know I love that stuff.” If he didn’t watch himself, he’d eat his mother’s blackberry-honey jam straight from the jar.
“How are your classes going?” she asked as he slugged about a third of his shake in one go.
Tristan swallowed, swiping the back of his hand across his mouth. “Good. My sociology professor is keeping me busy, but my corporate finance course is more laid-back. It’s mostly discussion, but I think I’ll stick with two classes when the season starts again.”
“That’s smart. You’ll have to find the right balance,” his mom said. “You know, Dad and I are very happy you decided to go back. We’re so proud of you, and we hope you’ll be playing hockey for a long time to come, but it never hurts to be prepared.”
“You’re right.” Tristan smiled so his mother would hear it in his voice. They’d had this discussion many times before. “How are things on the farm?” He hadn’t quite overcome the guilt of not being there to help, as he’d done for at least a portion of every other summer since he learned how to walk. “Do you need me to come up?”
“No. Thank you, sweetie, but we’re fine. Hannah and Brian are here. We’ve got it covered.”
“Okay. Well, I’m done with class at the end of July. I might visit for a week or two in August. Otherwise, I won’t see you guys for months.” Tristan set down his shake and went to the fridge to take out a carton of eggs.
“We’d love to see you, of course. But don’t worry about the work, okay? Focus on your studies. Your brother says hello, by the way.”
“Tell him we’re still disappointed about that game seven,” Brian’s muffled voice yelled. “He should’ve never let Gibb get past him. That guy is slower than Grandma skating backwards in a snowstorm.”
Tristan snorted a laugh. Gibb played for the Venom’s biggest rivals, the Memphis Marauders, who they’d lost to in the first round of the playoffs. Gibb wasn’t the quickest or most adept of skaters, but he was one of the league’s top-scoring defensemen and had a ferocious slapshot that had topped 105 miles per hour during skills competitions. Not many players were willing to dive into the path of a puck moving at that velocity.
“Tell Brian I’ll let Gibb know my brother insulted his skating abilities and wants to challenge him to a race the next time I see him.”
“Oh, I put you on speaker. He heard you just fine.” His mother laughed while Brian sputtered.
Brian took the phone from their mother, and they talked about Brian’s last fishing trip while Tristan scrambled egg whites, microwaved some turkey bacon, and threw a couple of slices of whole-wheat bread into the toaster. By the time he’d finished eating, he only had twenty minutes to get to the GSU campus.
Tristan said good-bye to his brother and dumped his dishes in the sink. He rushed out of the apartment, not wanting to risk Professor Cruz’s ire by being late, even if, after the last few weeks, some twisted part of Tristan had started finding the man’s dark-eyed death glare sort of stupidly hot—especially when those sable eyes caught and held his own, as they had when Professor Cruz talked about his sexuality during their last class. Tristan thought he’d spotted interest there, but probably he was only imagining things.
He made it to his seat seconds before Professor Cruz sailed into the lecture hall and slammed his messenger bag onto the desk with unnecessary force. His gaze swept the room, lingering on Tristan for a long, tense moment that made Tristan squirm, though probably not in the way the good professor intended.
His movements were tightly controlled as he unpacked his laptop and connected it to the projector screen. Tristan couldn’t stop himself from eyeing the lean lines of Professor Cruz’s back, the breadth of his shoulders beneath the crisp white material of his dress shirt, the taper of his waist down to his round, fine-looking ass. Distracted, Tristan tongued his lower lip while wondering what Professor Cruz did for exercise. He had the body of a runner, wiry and strong instead of bulky from weight lifting. Tristan had several inches on him, but then, when he wasn’t among athletes, Tristan was often the tallest person in the room. It wouldn’t be enough of a height difference to make kissing difficult, though . . .
Jesus. What are you even thinking? Focus.
Steven leaned closer to whisper, “Is it me or does he seem even more pissed off than usual?”
Tristan hid a chuckle behind a cough and earned himself a hard glare from Professor Cruz. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Steven’s mustache quivering as he fought back his own laughter.
Tristan’s amusement withered at the expression on Professor Cruz’s face. Steven was right. Not that Professor Cruz could be described as cheerful on the best of days, but right then, he looked about ready to commit murder. Damn. What had crawled up his butt and died? And what the hell was wrong with Tristan that the ferocious glare being aimed his way made him hot instead of putting him off?
Professor Cruz released Tristan from his stare and started lecturing, his voice a deep, familiar rumble. Tristan could easily envision that stern, no-nonsense tone ordering him around in bed, and it made his dick stir with interest.
Tristan bit back a groan. Fuck. The very last thing he needed was to be caught fantasizing about Professor Cruz during class. For one, it was inappropriate as hell. Two, the jockstrap and sweatpants Tristan wore hid absolutely nothing. If he chubbed up any further, his hard-on would be unmistakable. What if Steven looked over and noticed?
Tristan had a sudden, uncomfortable flashback to high school algebra, back when his horny teenaged body popped a boner at the mere whiff of another hot, sweaty boy. He remembered sitting in his seat, mortified and silently praying Mr. Martin wouldn’t call on him to solve a problem in front of the class. The residual humiliation from having to shuffle up to the board with a book covering his crotch was enough to wilt his erection even now.
Ugh. Tristan cringed at the memory.
But how could he help himself? Tristan couldn’t be the only student looking at Professor Cruz differently after his revelation last week. Perceptions always changed the more you learned about a person, whether it be their sexuality, political views, or the way they treated homeless people on the street.
In this particular situation, Tristan imagined most of his classmates probably weren’t picturing a naked Professor Cruz forcing them onto their knees, but hey, he’d already been having that fantasy. Professor Cruz’s admission simply took his lusty daydreams from purely hypothetical jerk-off material to an entirely possible, if not very likely, reality.
Tristan tuned back in to the lecture. Professor Cruz was talking about nepotism and how it related to crime and punishment and the privilege of wealth. Tristan pushed aside his smutty, wayward thoughts and forced himself to concentrate so he could open a new document on his MacBook to start taking notes. He’d done well on the last two papers, and he wanted to keep that momentum going.
He wanted—no, needed—to flip the big, dumb jock stereotype on its head. People rarely acknowledged the sheer amount of discipline and dedication it took to be involved in professional sports. Tristan worked his ass off to keep his body honed and develop his skills during the regular season, and he continued those routines throughout the summer. He couldn’t slack because they weren’t actively playing, and many of his peers worked just as hard. But so often athletes were ridiculed as stupid, overpaid brutes undeserving of their contracts or accolades and incapable of any thought beyond hitting pucks with sticks or scoring touchdowns.
There was more to Tristan than his ability to block a shot. Professor Cruz had asked for them to get personal, and Tristan’s experiences had given him plenty of source material for his last paper. He was proud of what he’d written, and he hoped his grade reflected the effort he’d put into it. Tristan might not be the strongest of writers, but he knew he’d been improving with every assignment. His competitive nature ensured he constantly strove to be better, even when his only competition was himself.
When the class ended, Tristan gathered his belongings and followed Steven down the aisle on his way out of the lecture hall. Tristan had a break before his next class, which he usually spent in the library, but as he passed Professor Cruz’s desk, he heard, “I need to see you in my office, Mr. Holt. Right now.”
Tristan almost kept walking, assuming Professor Cruz was speaking to someone behind him, until he registered the “Mr. Holt” and looked up to find himself the sole focus of that dark-eyed stare.
“Okay,” Tristan said. It sounded more like a question. He waved for Steven to go ahead without him.
Professor Cruz nodded sharply. “Follow me. My office is on the first floor.”
Brow furrowed, Tristan trailed Professor Cruz down a couple of flights of stairs to a door wedged between a men’s restroom and a storage closet. Tristan waited for him to unlock it and followed him inside the small office.
“Have a seat,” Professor Cruz said.
As Tristan sank onto the chair in front of the desk, he looked curiously around the room. There was a distinct lack of pictures or personal items, save for a large framed print of the album cover for Pink Floyd’s The Dark Side of the Moon mounted on the wall next to the bookshelf. Tristan smiled a bit at that—they were one of his all-time favorite bands—but before he could comment, Professor Cruz set aside his messenger bag and settled into his seat.
He didn’t speak until he’d withdrawn a sheaf of papers from one of the drawers. He separated them into two piles and slid both across the desk to Tristan. “Do you have anything to say about this?” Professor Cruz hiked an imperious eyebrow.
Tristan leaned forward. One pile of paper appeared to be his latest assignment. The other had something about lacrosse in the title and had the name Steven Wheeling in the top, left-hand corner.
Tristan chewed his lower lip, knowing he probably appeared as confused as he felt. “No?” he finally said.
Professor Cruz’s face darkened. “No? Do you think this is some kind of joke? You clearly copied your classmate’s paper, and it’s beyond insulting that you actually thought I wouldn’t notice. You do realize once I report this, there will be disciplinary action, up to and including your immediate removal from my class and a failing grade for the course. Allow me to assure you, I am very seriously considering making that my recommendation to the committee.”
Tristan jerked back in his seat and raised his hands. “Whoa, whoa, whoa. I think there’s been a misunderstanding. I didn’t copy anyone’s paper.”
Professor Cruz huffed and shot him an unimpressed glare. “The evidence sits right before you, Mr. Holt. I spoke to Mr. Wheeling this morning. He told me he’d sent you his paper to proofread. You might have changed the sport to hockey, but otherwise, it’s clearly identical.”
Horror hit Tristan like an unexpected punch to the stomach. Queasiness welled in the wake of the shock, tightening his throat. For a few seconds, Tristan didn’t even dare to speak. If he opened his mouth, he might puke from the violent rage churning in his guts. He yanked the papers closer and quickly scanned the one with Steven’s name in the corner. It was, almost word for word, an exact copy of the paper Tristan himself had written.
“That asshole!” he burst out.
“Please restrain yourself, Mr. Holt. Don’t blame Mr. Wheeling for the fact that you got caught.”
Tristan shook his head. “You don’t understand. This is my paper. He asked me if he could see it because he couldn’t decide on a subject. He offered to proofread for me. He told me he doesn’t even play sports! I can show you the chat history if you want proof.”
Professor Cruz stared at him. For the first time, Tristan got to see him nonplussed.
After a long pause, Professor Cruz cleared his throat. “Show me.”
His hands trembling with barely contained fury, Tristan dug his phone from his backpack and pulled up the Google Hangouts app. He opened the conversation with Steven and scrolled to the top before handing the phone to Professor Cruz.
The silence stretched. Then, wordlessly, Professor Cruz returned the phone. “My apologies. Mr. Wheeling was very convincing when we spoke this morning.”
“What proof did he show you?” Tristan asked.
Professor Cruz hesitated.
Tristan laughed without humor. “None, then. You assumed I was the one who copied because, what?”
Professor Cruz lifted his chin. “It appeared that—”
“It appeared,” Tristan broke in. “So, because I look like an empty-headed jock and he’s some hipster nerd, he had more credibility than me? You didn’t ask him to prove his work? I can show you my first draft of the paper too, if the chat history isn’t enough.”
Professor Cruz held up a slender hand. “It’s enough. I believe you.”
“And?” Tristan arched his brows, wishing his shaky voice hadn’t so clearly projected his annoyance.
“And Mr. Wheeling will be disciplined appropriately, I assure you.”
“Good.” Tristan grabbed his bag and got to his feet, staring down into dark, unreadable eyes. “Are we done here, Professor?” He needed to get out of this office before the tenuous grip on his temper snapped.
“We’re done.”
Tristan stalked to the door, his heart racing. He paused on the threshold and looked over his shoulder. “You know, for all your preaching about privilege and tolerance in class, you seem pretty biased yourself. Maybe it’s time for a bit of introspection, Professor.”
He walked away without waiting for a response. Fury blazed bright in his chest. Tristan wanted to go back in there and really rip Professor Cruz a new one. Instead of doing something rash, he slammed out of the closest exit into the hot summer afternoon.
Tristan wasn’t sure what made him angrier—the plagiarism accusation or that fucker Steven cozying up to him in class and then stealing his paper. Steven must’ve known what Professor Cruz wanted to talk to Tristan about today, and he hadn’t even looked guilty when Professor Cruz asked to see Tristan in his office. That little shit.
No, Tristan did know what pissed him off more—the assumption that he, Tristan, would be the one to steal someone else’s work, based solely on appearances. Professor Cruz, a college-educated man who taught sociology and should theoretically be above stereotyping, had clearly slotted Tristan into the “dumb, blond jock” category without giving him the benefit of the doubt. It was unfair, and more than that, it was infuriating.
“Son of a bitch!” Tristan snarled, startling a short guy who’d been walking unnoticed beside him.
The guy squeaked, wide-eyed, and scrambled away.
Tristan raised his hands, palms out. “Oh, no, sorry, man. Sorry. Not you.”
The guy took off without answering, and Tristan cringed as guilt cramped his stomach. Breathing harshly, he detoured from the walking path and stopped under the shade of a tree.
“Get a grip, Holtzy,” he muttered, shaking out his limbs. He hadn’t been this enraged or disappointed since his disallowed goal lost the Venom game six of the first round of the playoffs, forcing the game seven that ended their run at the Stanley Cup Final. If he saw Steven right now, Tristan didn’t know what he’d do. Choke the little fucker, probably.
Breathe. Breathe.
Good thing Tristan was fairly certain Professor Cruz would ensure the thieving douchebag never stepped foot in his class again. That was the only upside in this situation. The rest of it was a disaster. Tristan’s ill-advised crush on his professor had thrown him off-kilter, causing him to invent a connection between them that didn’t actually exist. Why should it matter what Professor Cruz thought or assumed? The dude was a judgmental, sanctimonious prick. His opinions meant less than nothing. And if there was a bigger boner-killer than being threatened with disciplinary action—and not the fun kind—by the guy he’d been thirsting for, Tristan couldn’t imagine it.
God, he felt like such an asshole for even entertaining any of those sex fantasies in the first place. Professor Cruz had ripped Tristan’s rose-tinted glasses right off. Maybe it was for the best. Tristan didn’t need to be lusting after one of his teachers anyway. In another four weeks, he wouldn’t have to see Professor Cruz or hear his name ever again.
One thing was certain: Mr. Sociology needed to take a long, hard look at his own personal prejudices. If Tristan wanted, he could report Professor Cruz to the school board or the chair or whoever the hell was in charge of these kinds of things. He’d have to check the handbook to find out for sure, but Tristan couldn’t imagine they’d appreciate hearing one of their staff members had made such a gigantic screwup. Lucky for Professor Cruz, Tristan wasn’t inclined to be petty. But that definitely wouldn’t stop him from being pissed off.