After Tristan left his office, Sebastian sat in his chair and stared moodily at his computer screen while he cursed himself for being such an asshole.
He’d completely misjudged the situation and made assumptions based on Tristan’s appearance, which was totally unprofessional—not to mention went against everything Sebastian taught as a sociologist. What the hell was wrong with him that he’d been so quick to assume Tristan was the plagiarist frat boy?
He couldn’t deny that he was glad Tristan wasn’t a plagiarist, but it didn’t change the fact that he was disappointed in himself for his own behavior.
“So, because I look like an empty-headed jock and he’s some hipster nerd, he had more credibility than me?”
Groaning quietly, Sebastian stood up and shoved his things back into his messenger bag. He knew he was going to have to apologize to Tristan. Some sociology professor he was. They should revoke his PhD and send him back to undergrad.
Maybe it was the lingering effects of the Catholic upbringing, but Sebastian had a strong desire to confess his stupidity to someone so he could feel better about what he’d done.
Preferably over alcohol, but it was way too early in the day for that.
As he made his way to the Math Department, he kept a wary eye out for Tristan, and wasn’t sure if he was relieved or disappointed not to run into him. Remembering that flash of hurt in Tristan’s bright-blue eyes made him wince, and he was in a bad mood when he knocked on R.J.’s office and waited for his friend’s gruff, “Come in,” before shoving the door open.
“Hey, Seb,” R.J. said, but his friendly smile dimmed somewhat as he took in Seb’s stormy expression. “You need help hiding a body or what? You look pissed as hell.”
“I’m an idiot,” Sebastian said bluntly. “I did something exceedingly stupid, and I can’t believe myself.”
“Um.” R.J. gestured to the chair in front of his desk. “Have a seat and tell me about it.”
Sebastian gave him the short version, telling him about the plagiarized paper and how he’d immediately assumed Tristan was the plagiarist instead of the original author. He’d just mentioned Tristan’s name when R.J. held up a hand to stop him.
“Wait—wait. You said Tristan Holt . . . you don’t mean the hockey player, do you?”
“His paper was about hockey, yeah,” said Sebastian, momentarily confused. “Does he play for GSU? I didn’t know the school even had a hockey team.” Sebastian scowled. “Then again, apparently I don’t know much of anything, today.”
“Dude.” R.J.’s eyes went wide. He was apparently ignoring Sebastian’s momentary lapse into dramatics. “Tristan Holt doesn’t play hockey for the college. He plays hockey for the Venom.”
“The . . . what?”
R.J. snorted, typed something on his computer and then gestured for Sebastian to come around his desk. “Look.”
Sebastian walked around and peered over R.J.’s shoulder. There, on the screen, were images of Tristan in green-and-gold hockey gear. He took in Tristan’s broad shoulders, looking even more so in the pads, and then glanced at R.J. before finding his eyes drawn once more to the screen.
“The Atlanta Venom is an NHL team,” R.J. explained. “Your student is a professional athlete.”
That would explain Tristan’s papers—the very insightful paper about hockey, and, Sebastian realized, the first assignment about finding oneself suddenly jumping from one economic class to another. A quick glance at the Wikipedia page R.J. pulled up showed that Tristan’s contract was several hundred thousand dollars, and that was a lot of money—especially for a twenty-three-year-old.
R.J. was still extolling Tristan’s virtues as a defenseman—apparently he was a hockey fan—which was not helping Sebastian feel better about his fuckup. Nor did it help when R.J. said, “That’s impressive he’s got this great career and he’s getting his degree at the same time. Takes a lot of dedication.”
Sebastian crossed his arms and shot R.J. the same sharp stare he gave his students. “You’re not helping.”
R.J. shrugged. “I don’t think there’s really anything I can say that will. You fucked up and you know it. Did you apologize?”
“Of course,” Sebastian snapped, perhaps a little too hastily. At R.J.’s disbelieving look, he scowled harder and raked a hand through his hair. “I— All right, no, not really. But I was going to. He left before I had the chance.”
R.J. tilted his head to look up at Sebastian, who moved away when he realized he was looming over his friend and practically crowding him. “Well, you should probably do that.”
“Yes,” Sebastian said, testily. “I know.” He went back and grabbed his bag from the chair, shouldering it. “Meanwhile, I have to do something about the student who actually plagiarized.”
R.J. gave him a sympathetic look that was completely and utterly contrived. “You’re sure you got the right one this time, Cruz? You need me to google any more student athletes for you?”
“Oh, shut up,” Sebastian muttered, but despite his surly tone, he knew that R.J. wouldn’t take it personally. It was obvious that Sebastian was only upset with himself. “You want to meet later for a drink?”
“I promised to run a study group tonight,” R.J. said, clearly regretful. “Rain check?”
“Sure,” said Sebastian, and promised that yes, he would apologize to Tristan and no, he wasn’t going to ask him for hockey tickets.
After leaving R.J.’s office, Sebastian headed home and changed his clothes to go for a run. He was training for a half marathon, and technically he should do a seven-mile run today. Lucky for him, that wasn’t a problem—he was in the mood to run at least ten. Of course, the heat and humidity of the Georgia summer day was enough to make him reconsider the longer distance. But every time he thought about what had happened with Tristan, he forced himself to keep going until he was covered in sweat and his muscles burned from exertion.
Once home, he showered, fixed himself a light supper and drank practically a half gallon of water. He felt better than he would have if he’d gone out for a drink, and he was glad that R.J. had that study group after all.
Once he was finished with the dishes, he sat down and pulled out his notes for the next class meeting. He’d already made it clear that he never deviated from the syllabus, but this time, he was going to make an exception. As he jotted down a few reminders and reviewed the class roster, mind cleared from the exercise and determined to make up for his mistake, Sebastian started putting together a plan.
“I know the syllabus says we’re supposed to discuss the systems of power that are put in place to keep people stagnant in their circumstances, but there’s something else I want to address.” Sebastian faced his class, his eyes touching briefly on Tristan’s.
“Our last assignment was about perceptions, and how those perceptions can affect our behaviors—both positively and negatively.” Sebastian leaned back against the desk, his posture far more casual than normal. “In my case, it was the latter. I made an egregious assumption based on appearance, and it was both unprofessional and shortsighted of me.” He gave a slight nod to Tristan. “Even those of us who study these sorts of things for a living aren’t immune. That’s how powerful these biases are.”
Sebastian then asked the students if they wanted to talk about the experiences they’d written about in their last assignments. At first it was a bit like pulling teeth, but after a while, they had some actual dialogue about the ideas and concepts they’d been discussing. It wasn’t precisely lively, but it was more interactive—and more engaging—than classes had been thus far.
After class, Sebastian waited for Tristan to walk past his desk and stopped him with a quiet, “If you wouldn’t mind staying behind for a few minutes, Mr. Holt, I’d appreciate it.”
Tristan was wearing those sweatpants that were so distracting, and his hair—which had been damp when he’d shown up for class today—had dried into soft spikes. He shifted his backpack and nodded, waiting quietly while the other students filed out of the room.
A few of them actually told him to have a nice weekend, which was a change. Sebastian acknowledged them with a nod, trying not to focus entirely on the young man waiting next to him. Tristan smelled like soap and faintly like fabric softener, as if those distracting sweatpants had been taken directly from the laundry that morning and pulled on over freshly showered skin—
“Professor Cruz?”
Sebastian cleared his throat, realizing with a slight twinge of embarrassment that they were alone. “Yes, Mr. Holt. I owe you an apology for my assumption that you’d plagiarized your paper. You’re right, it was entirely my fault for assuming that you were the plagiarist because of the way you looked.”
Tristan smiled a bit. “Yeah, well. I’m used to people making assumptions about me.”
Sebastian nodded. “I’m sure you are, but it doesn’t excuse my behavior. Your assignments have all been very insightful, and I meant all of the comments that I’ve left for you. I’m not sure what you’re planning on doing for your final paper, but I’m looking forward to reading it.”
“I’m . . . thinking about a couple of things.” Tristan raked a hand through his hair. “I haven’t narrowed it down yet, though.”
“Well, if there’s anything you’d like to discuss with me, please feel free to do so. Also, just to reassure you, Steven Wheeling has been removed from this class and assigned a failing grade for the summer term. He was made to understand that stealing a classmate’s paper is entirely unacceptable.” Sebastian wanted to add something else, but he didn’t know what.
“Okay, good,” said Tristan. “Thanks, Professor Cruz.”
He liked the way that sounded, Sebastian realized, in a way that was as inappropriate as his erroneous assumption of plagiarism had been . . . only in a completely different way. “You’re welcome. I appreciate the opportunity to apologize, and thank you for accepting it.” He paused. “I also think it’s wonderful what you’re doing, pursuing your education in addition to playing a professional sport. That must take an incredible amount of dedication.”
If anything, Tristan looked embarrassed by Sebastian’s entirely genuine praise. His fair skin pinkened slightly, and it gave Sebastian even more inappropriate thoughts about what else he could do to make Tristan flush like that.
“Some days it’s more work than others.” Tristan gave Sebastian a nice smile, teeth slightly crooked in a way that was somehow just as attractive as the rest of him. “Have a good weekend, Professor.”
“You too, Mr. Holt,” said Sebastian, and didn’t even pretend not to stare at Tristan’s ass on his way out.