Mine Without Permission

Chapter 1: The Equation of Failure The minty flavor of Anastasia’s gum had long since died, leaving her with a tasteless rubbery mass that she chewed on aggressively. She stared at the final question on the page until her vision began to blur, the numbers dancing and mocking her. It was only the second week of the semester. Usually, this was the "grace period"—the time when professors were still fumbling with their syllabi and forgetting students' names. But Professor Quinn was not a "grace period" kind of man. As they had filed into the lecture hall, he had handed out a pop quiz like it was a death warrant. The room was thick with a palpable sense of dread. To her left, a guy was sweating through his sweatshirt; to her right, a girl was frantically tapping a pencil against her desk. Quinn had claimed the quiz was a "diagnostic tool" to see what they knew, promising it wouldn't be held against their final grade. But the nerves were already shot. For most of the students, their brains had simply shut down, leading to a sea of randomly circled letters and desperate guesses. Anastasia was in the same sinking boat. She was a junior, a woman who had navigated the elite, historic halls of Cambridge University before transferring here. She was smart—scary smart in most subjects—but put her in a room full of calculus equations and she felt like she’d never spent a day in school. Math was a gray fog that crept over her mind, turning her usually sharp intellect into mush. She was zoned out for the last ten minutes, her mind drifting to her afternoon schedule. Math was such a bore that it felt like a sedative, a heavy wave of tiredness pressing on her eyelids every time Quinn went over a formula. Her brain simply refused to connect the dots. When she finally stood up to hand in her paper, she didn't expect a miracle. She expected a disaster. She tried to keep her movements quiet, squeezing her athletic frame between the cramped desks, her bag slung heavily over one shoulder. "Here ya go," she said lowly, sliding the paper across Quinn’s desk with a sigh that felt like a surrender. "Ms. Bailey?" She stopped, adjusting the strap of her bag. "Yes, Professor Quinn?" She looked down at the older man. He wore a crisp blue sweater vest that complemented the deep, rich tone of his skin. He pushed his wire-rimmed glasses up the bridge of his nose, his eyes scanning her nearly-blank paper before meeting hers. "I know the pop quiz was sudden," he said, crossing his arms. "But I have to ask—was it easy for you, or were you struggling?" She could have lied. She could have said she was just having an off day. But the truth was written in the messy scribbles of her quiz. "It was... something," she said with a forced, tight smile. Quinn set his glasses on the desk. He had noticed her biting her short, neat acrylic nails throughout the hour. He’d seen her looking at the clock every two minutes. He knew. "Math isn't a natural language for everyone," he admitted with a sigh. "It’s a tangle of numbers and rigid formulas. But as a teacher, I thrive on seeing my students succeed. I don't want you to be part of the fifty percent that drops this class by next Friday." Anastasia’s stomach twisted. She couldn't drop the class, and she certainly couldn't fail it. As a college cheerleader, her life was a high-wire act. She wasn't like some of the athletes who paid classmates to do their homework; she did everything herself. She was either face-down in a textbook or high in the air at practice. To stay on the team, she had to maintain a 3.0 GPA. One bad grade in a core math class could ruin years of effort. The fear of losing cheer was petrifying. It wasn't just a hobby; it was her identity. She had spent her life in competition, fighting for her spot on the mat. "There are tutors around campus," Quinn suggested. "Or, my office hours are three to five. I can help you for free. You have too much to lose to let this class beat you." "I'll check out the tutors," she replied, though the thought left a bitter taste in her mouth. She’d had tutors before, especially back at Cambridge. Most of them were elitist assholes who treated her like she was a burden. If she was one minute late because of practice, they’d act as if she’d insulted their entire lineage. They looked down on her, assuming that because she was an athlete—and a Black woman—she was naturally less capable. They reeked of that "I’m smarter than you, dumbass" energy. "Just stop by for twenty minutes tomorrow," Quinn pushed. "See if you like the way I explain things. No pressure." Anastasia left the room, her feet taking her down the hall at a slow, contemplative pace. She smiled back at the students who recognized her—being a cheerleader meant being a public face on campus. She had to work twice as hard to maintain that "nice girl" image to fight the negative stigmas that followed her. There was the "dumb cheerleader" stereotype, and then there was the weight of being a Black woman in a space that hadn't always welcomed her. She had spent years breaking down barriers, becoming a role model for the little Black girls in the crowd who finally saw someone who looked like them flying high on the field. She wouldn't let a calculus equation take that away from them—or from her. "Would you look at that?" The voice of her best friend, Jameson, broke through her thoughts. They linked arms, heading toward the sprawling green of the football field for their afternoon crossover. "The juicy quads are out, the muscle tees are back, and the prints are showin’," Jameson purred, her eyes scanning the field with predatory delight. Anastasia let out a genuine laugh, her math-induced headache finally beginning to fade. The football team was in the middle of a high-intensity drill. The air was filled with the sound of pads clashing and whistles blowing. But as they walked past the 20-yard line, her eyes caught on a single player. He was taller than the rest, his jersey stretched tight over shoulders that looked like they were molded from iron. He moved with a terrifying, smooth grace, catching a pass with a flick of his wrist before turning to head back to the huddle. As he turned, his eyes—sharp and intense—locked onto hers. The world around the field seemed to quiet for a split second, the heavy thumping of her heart drowning out Jameson’s chatter. He didn't look away. He watched her, a slow, knowing smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.