chapter three

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I'm late, again.

Well late for me. I'm on time according to my class schedule, but since Coach Kennley has beaten the idea of if you're not ten minutes early then you're ten minutes late into my head for the past three years, it's bled over into my everyday life. It only took one time of Coach screaming at me about the importance of punctuality while I was dead tired, running suicides after practice for me to never show up late to a practice again. 

Coach might be an old man, but he sure as hell knows how to get a point across.

I down the last bit of my protein shake and toss the empty carton into a trashcan just outside of the general science building. I'm more than a little shocked that I don't have a hangover after last night. After ditching the formal, the team went to one of the frat's notorious after parties. Six games of beer pong and four shots of fireball later I was lucky that I found a bed to stumble into to. Not my bed though. No, last night I was riding the glorious wave of drunken bliss with Tori Hanson--or rather, she was riding me. 

The memory of her perky body grinding on top of me is hazy at best but the trail of the fresh hickey's on my stomach are more evidence of what I can't remember. I could have easily banked another round this morning when she woke me up with her hand down my boxers, but I barely had enough time to get home and shower off the stench of beer, and I couldn't show up late to classes on the first day. 

Two guys standing by the entrance of the building stare at me as I walk up, their eyes widening as the recognition sets in. I have to stop myself from groaning out loud as the familiar scene begins to play out in front of me. 

If I passed up getting a good morning fuck from Tori Hanson so I wouldn't be late, I sure as hell am not going to be late to talk to these guys about shooting percentages and NBA draft picks. I keep my gaze straight and pick up my pace, trying to look like I'm in a rush, but the shorter one with a WSU basketball shirt on extends his hand for a handshake. 

Random people interacting with me like they know me was kind of a shock at first and definitely took some getting used to, but after three and a half years, the oddity of it has worn off and I just kind of go with it. I nod to them and slap the guy's outstretched hand, keeping my stride as to not get pulled into a conversation with two strangers.

"Nice game against Stanford, Beck, you've been fucking killing it, dude," he calls after me as I open the door of the building, "you keep that hand hot we'll crush Oregon on Friday,"

"Thanks, man," I nod, my eyes already scanning the classroom numbers for the 131A.

The buildings heat hits me instantly and my cheeks and ears prickle as they start to defrost. Early mornings in January are always freezing, but the fact that it's not snowing or spewing down fat rain drops cold enough to feel like an assault is enough for me to be thankful for this weather. 

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