College.
Tim.He taps his pencil against the hard wood of the oversized table. The hum of the light above him is driving him crazy. If they want things quiet in the library, why are the lights so damn loud? He glances around him. Nothing. No one. No one that matters, anyway.
Who are these people that hang out here all the time anyway, studying? People who get good grades, probably, he smiles slightly to himself. That's what Lyla would say, anyway. If she were here. Which she's not. But he knows that she'll be pleased that he's sitting here. Right now. In the library. Waiting for his tutor.
He sighs, slamming shut a textbook and pushing it away. Geology 101. They call it Rocks for Jocks here – hell, they probably call it that everywhere. Even at Vanderbilt. But that's never made much sense to Tim – if you need a tutor to pass the class anyway, it's not much use to a football player. Particularly this football player. Who's required to check in with academic counsel once every two weeks during season to confirm his continuing eligibility. Coach's orders. It's not like Tim's not passing. Of course, there was that one incident last fall with some shitty humanities class (it interfered with happy hour at Jimmy's Tavern on Tuesdays and Thursdays), but Coach fixed that up in time for the A&M game – so no worries.
Of course, now, he grudgingly skips happy hour if it interferes with class. During football season, at least. Coach was pretty angry about that whole humanities thing. So was Lyla. It's amazing how well she can keep track of his grades a thousand miles away. It's like all the negatives of having her here ("are you studying, Tim?") without the positives (waking up to her in the morning is still pretty much the best damn feeling in the world). Tim sighs again. Where the hell is that damn tutor, anyway?
"Dude," Tim hears a voice above him. He looks up. Definitely not his tutor. He grins. "You're not seriously staying here, are you?" the young man standing over him smirks and drops his book bag on the floor. He looks sort of like Tim would look if he walked in on his teammate. At the library.
"Tutoring session," Tim leans back in his chair and stretches his arms over his head.
The young man glances at Tim's book. "What is that – Masterson's class? I'm pretty sure we have the answers to the midterm somewhere in the files," he pulls on his football jacket. Number 76.
Tim shrugs. "If I don't check in with this kid, Coach'll be on my ass again. 'Specially before Oklahoma State."
"If you don't get up right now and come to the House with me, the guys'll be on your ass. 'Specially before Oklahoma State," Number 76 grins at Tim and picks up his book bag again.
The House. The football house. It's a frat house without the fraternity. The San Antonio State Wildcats don't need a fraternity – football is their brotherhood, what ties them together. During 6 a.m. workouts. Midnight beer runs. And during games. Especially during games. When one good block is the difference between a raucous victory party and . . . well, for the football players at San Antonio State, a regular party. Of course, Tim prefers the former, but he's never really minded the latter. He's not showboating for the NFL, unlike some of his teammates.
"If I fuck up this midterm," Tim grins up at Number 76, "my girlfriend will be on my ass. And she's scarier than the guys and Coach combined. Believe me."
Number 76 laughs. "Fine, fine. I can't compete with that."
Tim grins. "Give me an hour. Promise."
"Okay. And bring Brady with you – he's downstairs staring at his calculus book like it's written in Chinese."
Tim laughs. "Maybe I need to send my tutor down there. If he ever shows."
Number 76 shakes his head, grinning. "How the fuck are we supposed to graduate when these professors think we should be doing our own work?" He steps back from Tim's table and heads toward the exit. "See you there – an hour."
Tim nods and turns back to his books. He puts his head in his arms and closes his eyes. College. It actually wouldn't be half bad if the books didn't get in the way.
Lyla. She taps a pencil against her desk. Quickly. Nervously. It's the only sound in an otherwise quiet dorm room. She stares down at the textbook in front of her. She's been staring at the same page for 20 minutes now. All the words are blending together.
"I can't even read anymore," she says in frustration. "I seriously can't even read this page."
"It's because you've been reading that damn book for the last three hours," a voice across the room calls out drily. "Actually, probably the last three days."
"I'm screwed," Lyla slams the book shut. "I'm totally screwed." She spins around in her desk chair and looks at her roommate. "I'm screwed," she repeats.
"So stay home this weekend and study," her roommate, stretched out on her bed in front of a laptop, glances over at her.
"I can't. It's Oklahoma State. It's a big deal for Tim. I want to be there," Lyla chews her lip and hops up off of her chair, stretching her arms above her head.
"Why couldn't he have gone to a school in our conference?" Lyla's roommate grins at her before shifting her eyes back to her laptop. The screen glows white against her face.
Lyla cracks a smile. Only slight. "I'm serious, Em."
"I'm serious, too. Think of all the hot guys I'd have easy access to if Tim played football here."
Lyla laughs, shaking her head. "I'm gonna fail," she says.
"Only in some alternate universe where you're not Lyla Garrity," Emily sighs. She shuts her laptop. "Seriously – you're being insane. You've been studying all week. And, if, in the worst case scenario, you get a funny-looking squiggle that's not an A – we call them Bs out here in the real world – that's not the end of your life. You know that, right?"
"Of course I know that," Lyla reaches into a mini-fridge for a Coke Zero. She silently holds one out to Emily. Emily shakes her head. Lyla pops open the can and settles onto her bed, crossing her legs underneath her and taking a sip from the soda can.
"And you also know that you're not going to lose your shot at that internship in Austin with a B on your transcript, yes?" Emily raises an eyebrow, grinning at her friend.
"Thanks, Em," Lyla grins. "And, while we're in truth-telling land here, you know that Mike isn't actually going to respond to you any sooner, no matter how many times you hit 'refresh,' right?"
"Bitch," Emily grins.
"Whore," Lyla laughs.
"Sorority sisters forever," Emily cackles and throws herself onto her back, pushing the laptop to the side of her bed and kicking her legs up in the air.
"Forever," Lyla laughs. She remembers when they first had to make the pledge to one another – "sisters forever" – a bunch of scared freshmen trying to make their way in a completely foreign place. It seemed so comforting then. Now it just seems . . . silly. It's not going to help her land that internship at the governor's office, that's for sure.
"He's never going to email me back, is he?" Emily finally asks. Quietly.
Lyla's expression grows serious. "I don't know, Em. If he doesn't, he's an asshole, right?" she takes another sip of her soda and deposits the can onto her desk. She hops up and crosses to Emily's bed. "And you're too awesome and smart and, did I mention hot?," she sits down next to Emily and throws an arm around her friend, "to be sitting around waiting for some asshole to email you back. We know that."
"You're right," Emily says. "I know that. I do," she says, with a sudden force in her voice, "I'm – I'm – screw it. I'm totally asking someone else to the formal."
"Good. Great. Yes," Lyla nods. "You should. Absolutely. Screw him."
"Screw him," Emily agrees. "I should – you know who I should ask? Chris Hemming. He's single, right? That would piss Mike off. Royally."
"Chris just started dating some girl on the lacrosse team, I think."
"Seriously?" Emily looks crestfallen. "Because I would totally look great with him. Mike would be –"
"Let's, um, not think about how Mike would be," Lyla says. Gently.
Emily sighs. "You're not even going to this thing. Who's going to be there to support me? What if Mike's there?"
"Mike's not going to be there. It's our formal. No one's going to invite Mike, okay?"
"Wish you were coming."
"Oklahoma State," Lyla replies quietly. Tim's game. Football season is Tim's season. Lyla can't count the number of plane flights she's been on – football games in San Antonio, in Austin, in Houston, in Oklahoma, in Alabama. Between midterms and Tim's football schedule (and Tim's midterms), sorority formals are the last thing on her mind right now. Even if it is her sorority. And her best friend.
Emily looks up at the ceiling. "Mike's really not going to email me back, is he," she says. Half-statement, half-question.
Lyla doesn't reply. Tim would be rolling his eyes right now. At Emily. At Mike. At sorority formals. At worrying about who you're going to take to the sorority formal so your ex-boyfriend sees you there with someone cuter. But, at Vanderbilt, if you're not in a sorority, you don't exist. And Lyla wants to exist. Even if half of her feels like it's a thousand miles away – on a football field in San Antonio. God, she misses him.
"How about Brian Colby?" Lyla finally asks. "He's definitely single and definitely hot."