Chapter 2: Under the Professor’s Gaze

I barely heard a word she said. I kept doodling in the margins of my notebook, glancing at the clock every two minutes. Every time she looked my way, I sat up straighter, trying not to look guilty.

During the break, I checked the teacher’s profile on the college website and Googled her.

My phone buzzed in my lap as I scrolled through RateMyProfessors and a half-dozen Reddit threads. Her name popped up everywhere, always with the same warning: strict, no-nonsense, doesn’t let anything slide.

And then the panic hit.

My chest tightened. I chewed my thumbnail, imagining all the ways this could go south. My imagination ran wild—academic integrity report, conduct office, maybe even a call to my parents. I tried to steady my breathing.

Online, people said she was famously strict and didn’t tolerate skipping class at all.

One post called her “the attendance hawk.” Another said, “Don’t even THINK about missing her class unless you want a lecture and a zero.” My heart sank further with every review.

I couldn’t help but text Tyler McAllister.

"Hey, I might’ve just gotten you in trouble."

I kept my message short, my fingers shaking as I hit send. The three little dots popped up almost instantly.

He replied fast: “Did you get caught?”

His response was quick, almost too casual. I could picture him somewhere, probably in a locker room, checking his phone between plays.

I texted back: “Looks like it. And it’s a different professor—a super strict woman, not the usual guy.”

I watched the typing dots blink on and off, my nerves jangling with every pause. It felt like waiting for a verdict.

He went silent for a while. The typing dots kept blinking, but nothing came through for a bit.

I imagined him sweating it out, maybe pacing, maybe just laughing it off. I was about ready to text again when—

Finally, he replied with just four words: “It’s not a big deal.”

I stared at the screen, a little incredulous. That was it? No panic? No plan?

Since he said it wasn’t a big deal, I relaxed a little.

I took a deep breath and tried to let it go. Maybe he knew something I didn’t. Maybe this kind of thing happened all the time on the basketball team.

During the break, I asked some classmates nearby about Tyler McAllister.

I figured if I was going to keep up the girlfriend act, I’d better have some details ready—names, hobbies, anything. I leaned in, doing my best to sound casual.

After all, as his 'girlfriend,' I couldn’t know nothing—at least the basics.

I scribbled down a few notes as they talked, hoping I wouldn’t trip up later.

Turns out, this guy’s life was almost comically simple.

“He eats, sleeps, and breathes basketball,” one guy said. Another girl chimed in, “He’s nice, but he’s kind of a one-track mind.”

He’s the captain of the basketball team and loves playing ball. Other than basketball, nobody really knew much else about him.

No wild parties, no drama, just practices and games. He was the kind of guy who’d show up early to shoot free throws and stay late to help clean up the gym.

He almost never skips class. This time, I heard it was because there was a game against another school, and it overlapped with class, so he missed it for the game.

Apparently, even his absences were basketball-related. It figured. I mentally filed that away, just in case it came up again.

Finally, after three lectures, the professor looked at me and said, “Tyler’s girlfriend, come with me.”

Her voice cut through the low buzz of students packing up. I could feel eyes on me as I gathered my things and followed her out. It felt like walking to the principal’s office in high school all over again.

I followed her to her office.

Her office was neat, with a couple of potted plants on the windowsill and a framed diploma on the wall. The air smelled faintly of peppermint tea. She motioned to a chair across from her desk.

She pulled out a chair for me. “Don’t be nervous, have a seat.”

Her voice was softer now, almost motherly. I hesitated, hovering awkwardly by the chair.

I didn’t dare sit. I hurriedly declined.

“Oh, I’m fine standing,” I said, trying to sound polite. My hands fidgeted with the strap of my backpack.

She asked, “What’s your name?”