The Professor Who Shouldn't Want Me

He Doesn’t Stand a Chance

POV: Isadora

It was Saturday morning, and I was at the gym with Ryan. He was working out with his personal trainer while I did my squats off to the side. I preferred it that way; I’d only hired a trainer long enough to nail the form, then decided to go solo. Ryan, on the other hand, knew what he was doing, but he loved the ego boost of being coached.

I needed the distraction more than ever. Law school was turning out to be a nightmare. Every class felt like a fresh wave of frustration. How naive I was to think that getting into Harvard Law would be my biggest hurdle.

Every subject was a struggle, but one in particular was getting under my skin. I hadn't even made a dent in the paper Professor Anderson assigned. I’d tried, but all I had were two incredibly thin paragraphs. It was starting to freak me out, especially since the deadline was Monday.

"Almost done, Izzy?", Ryan asked, strolling over.

"Getting there.", I answered, before finishing my final set. "Done.", I racked the bar and turned to face him.

He was out of breath and drenched in sweat.

"Pushing it hard today?", I asked.

"Yeah, I told the trainer to kick it up a notch."

"How come?"

"No reason.", he shrugged. "Just want to get bigger."

Right. I’m positive the comments from the girls in class, whispering about how massive Professor Anderson looked even under a suit, had absolutely nothing to do with it.

I just flashed him a smile and kept my mouth shut. It was funny how Ryan seemed to be in a one-sided competition with Anderson, even though he didn't stand a ghost of a chance. In the brains department, the professor cleared him easily; even a 22-year-old version of Anderson would still run circles around Ryan.

Physically, it was another loss for Ryan. The professor was taller, people said he was 6'3" or close to it, and way more built. He had more muscle, a broader frame; it was impossible not to notice his biceps straining against his dress shirt every time he crossed his arms.

I often wondered why a prosecutor needed to be that jacked. Was it for intimidation in the courtroom? Honestly, in his case, one look was enough to make any defendant confess to crimes they didn't even commit.

"So, I’ll pick you up at eight?", Ryan asked once we got into the car.

"I don't know... I was actually thinking about skipping."

"What?", he stared at me like I’d just said the most absurd thing in the world.

Dylan Ferraro, a friend of ours, was turning twenty-one and throwing a massive rager to celebrate. He wasn't exactly a close friend of mine; I only knew him through Ryan, who’d gone to high school with him.

"I’m still not done with that Criminal Law paper, and I’m terrified I won't finish in time."

"Why don't you just pay someone to do it, like I did?", he asked, sounding annoyed.

Ryan always paid people to do his assignments and cheated on most of his exams. What blew my mind was that he didn't feel a shred of remorse about it. He acted like it was the normal, logical thing to do.

Unfortunately, I had a bit too much pride for that. As much as I was struggling with the material, to put it lightly, it would be way too humiliating to pay someone else. It would feel like a certified letter of my own incompetence.

"Because I want to do it myself.", I said. He rolled his eyes.

"And you’re gonna blow off a party for that?", he snapped. "What about me? Am I supposed to show up alone? People are gonna think we broke up!"

I sighed. I’d seen that reaction coming a mile away.

Ryan cared way too much about his image. He had this constant need to look better than everyone else, and it drove me crazy sometimes. I know it’s a common thing, especially in our social circle, my mother is even worse than he is, but it’s still exhausting.

"Fine, I’ll go.", I finally gave in. "I’ll try to grind out the paper this afternoon."

He flashed a satisfied smirk and started the car.