Mine Without Permission

Chapter 5: The Monday Aftermath

Chapter 5: The Monday Aftermath

The campus was still buzzing with the electric afterglow of Saturday night’s game. Mateo hadn't just played; he’d dominated, putting on a clinic that resulted in one hell of a touchdown—several, actually. By Sunday morning, Cambridge University’s second win of the semester was all over social media, with Mateo’s handle tagged in every other post. But Mateo hadn't spent his weekend scrolling or thirsty for digital validation. His celebration had been much more visceral: a house packed to the rafters, bone-shaking music, and enough drinks to make the victory blur into a perfect weekend haze.

But Monday is the great equalizer.

By the time the sun hit the quad, the party was a memory and the grind was back. Anastasia was feeling every bit of it. She’d spent the early hours in a brutal weightlifting session with the squad. People often forgot that behind the glitter and the cheers, the team had to build a specific kind of explosive strength to pull off their stunts. Anastasia had a love-hate relationship with the iron, and today, she was leaning toward hate.

She’d barely had time to sprint back to her apartment—ten minutes from campus—to scrub the sweat off and change into a gray school sweatshirt and shorts before racing back for Professor Quinn’s lecture.

"We have a quiz on Wednesday, and yes, it counts toward your grade," Professor Quinn announced, his voice cutting through the morning fog of the classroom.

A wave of groans and the sharp thwack of frustrated lips smacking filled the room. Quinn just smiled, leaning back against his desk. "Moan and groan all you want, but I posted the notice online and sent out the emails. Every single one of you had to see it, so I don't want to hear the excuses."

"I didn't get any email," a student muttered from the back.

"Yeah, me neither!" another called out.

Quinn didn't budge. "Well, consider this your official notice. The homework is due by eight p.m. tonight. Study hard."

"How many questions?" someone asked.

"Twenty-six questions, plus two for extra credit," Quinn replied. "I’ve gone over every topic that will be on there. Don’t come to me on Thursday saying the material wasn't highlighted."

Anastasia felt a cold spike of anxiety. She knew the game some professors played—tossing students to the wolves by testing on things they never actually lectured on. If the whole class failed, it was a teacher problem, but if only she failed, it was a scholarship problem.

"Can we retake it if we fail?" she listened intently as a classmate voiced her exact fear.

"I haven't decided yet," Quinn said, his eyes scanning the room. "Let’s have a little faith that you can at least hit a seventy percent."

Seventy percent? Anastasia scoured her brain for the last formula she’d actually memorized. She wasn't feeling the faith.

As the class was dismissed, Quinn’s voice rose above the shuffle of laptops. "Anastasia, can we talk for a moment?"

She sighed, adjusting the heavy tote on her shoulder as she navigated the stream of students. "Yes, Professor?"

"Have you thought any more about those office hours?" he asked.

"I actually came by last week," she admitted, watching a frown touch his face. "I waited around for nearly half an hour, but you weren't there."

"I am so sorry," Quinn said, looking genuinely pained. "I had an emergency, and in the rush, it slipped my mind to put a note on the door. If you’re free today, please, stop by."

"I can’t," she said, shifting her weight. She was dying to get to a restroom after drinking her weight in water this morning. "I have practice."

"I’ll email you a list of recommended tutors then," he offered. "Don't let this quiz sink you, Anastasia."

"Thank you, Professor." She hurried out, catching fragments of conversation from other struggling students. It was a small relief to know she wasn't the only one drowning in equations.

She spent her pre-practice "break" tucked into a corner of a campus cafe. While her friends chatted, Anastasia was frantically testing herself. She got a few right, but the moment the formulas got complex, her brain hit a wall. Frustrated, she tossed her pencil down. She needed a breather. She spent the rest of the hour looking at Gabrielle’s YouTube edits—scripts and directing were Gabrielle's world, and her passion was a welcome distraction from the numbers.

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The afternoon sun was high over the football field as the team began to assemble. Mateo was already there, the atmosphere a bit heavy as the guys discussed Jason’s forced absence. Austin was giving a play-by-play of how pissed Jason was, venting his hatred toward Jocelyn for supposedly "ratting" on his PED use.

But the conversation quickly pivoted to the weekend's festivities.

"I shot that girl from the party a DM on Insta," Felix said, tossing a football idly into the air. "Ten minutes later? Blocked."

"Maybe the s*x wasn't as good as you thought, man," Austin joked.

Felix scoffed, blowing air through his teeth. "Please. The noises she was making? Ella amaba esta polla—she loved this dick."

Austin looked confused. "I'm assuming you just said she was faking it?"

Mateo chuckled, his eyes wandering toward the sidelines. That’s when he saw her. Anastasia was setting her bag down, her presence immediately pulling his focus away from the locker-room banter.

"Faking? With me?" Felix continued, completely unaware he’d lost his audience. "I make 'em crazy, bro. Remember that girl who showed up at my job because I blocked her? They get obsessed. Ask Mateo."

Mateo didn't even look back at his best friend. "He’s lying," he said softly, his eyes fixed on Anastasia.

Felix’s jaw dropped. "I am not!" He turned to see what had Mateo so mesmerized and caught sight of the girl. He smirked, realization dawning.

Mateo watched as a small, genuine smile spread across Anastasia’s face. She looked vibrant, even in a simple sweatshirt, and the sight of her was enough to make the noise of the field fade into the background.