Under Pressure (Lessons Learned Book 1) Read online

  “He’s picked more than one in past semesters—”

  He shakes his head, a harsh movement that has me stopping mid-sentence. “I heard from his graduate assistant he only has room for one undergraduate study in his schedule this year, and I need it to be mine.”

  He stares straight ahead, ignoring me, and I lean back, facing the other direction as tears prick my eyes. How could I have misjudged him so much? He’s a… a… a jerk. To think of all the time I wasted fantasizing about him, imagining a meet cute between us. This is not a meet cute. This is a meet disaster.

  I focus on breathing in and out, calming myself down until the threat of tears disappears.

  When Sarah opens the door ten minutes of tense silence later and he’s called in, it’s on the tip of my tongue to automatically wish him good luck, but I bite it back instead. He doesn’t deserve my luck. Apparently doesn’t want my niceness at all. Well, he won’t have to worry about that anymore. Crush officially over.

  I take the stairs in the psychology building two at a time the next day, bounding with energy. Dr. Price emailed to say he thought my proposed study was the exact type of thing he’d like to do in his lab and wants to meet today to discuss it further, with some possible modifications.

  Despite Tyler’s best attempts to unnerve me yesterday, I’d spent the time during his interview to mentally center myself and review my notes, making sure I was prepared. And look, it paid off.

  I greet the woman at the front desk again, and she tells me Dr. Price is already waiting for me in his office. I knock softly on his door and turn the knob when I hear an authoritative, “Come in,” from the other side.

  I stop in my tracks, though, when I spot an all too familiar back of the head, the dark strands soft and inviting, but the man they’re attached to definitely not. Tyler turns around in his chair, eyes narrowing at my arrival, but stays silent. What’s he doing here?

  “Ah, Mia,” Dr. Price says jovially, attempting to get up and greet me, but the stuffy office is crammed to the gills with furniture and books upon every surface. “Have a seat.” He motions to the only available chair in the room, directly next to Tyler. I remove a stack of books off the seat and gently set them on the ground, not exactly sure what to do with them.

  “Mia, this is Tyler. He’s also a junior in the psychology program.”

  “We’ve met,” he says dryly, glancing over my way briefly before returning his attention to Dr. Price.

  “Perfect. No need for introductions, then. Now to why I’ve asked you both here.” He settles in his seat behind his desk, his white lab coat wrinkled, salt-and-pepper hair brushed back haphazardly from his face, and clasps his hands together. “I liked both of your studies, but I can only take on one. Your proposals were actually similar enough that combining them may be even better. Mia is studying biofeedback as a solution to student stress and Tyler is doing the same but with a proposed course of physical activity. I believe we could have a control group that takes no action, two cohorts that each exclusively do biofeedback and physical activity, and a fourth that does both. What are your thoughts?”

  Tyler’s hands grip the arms of his chair again, his lips pressed together so tightly his mouth is a white slash across his face. He doesn’t look my way again, but stares at the desk in front of us, littered with papers and more books.

  “You would both be co-authors on the paper,” Dr. Price adds helpfully, as if that would be the tipping point to make us agree.

  “If you had to pick one,” Tyler asks, “which would it be?”

  “Mia’s,” he replies easily. “It’s the more sophisticated of the two proposals. But yours has real added value.”

  A thrill runs through me at his praise, despite what it means for Tyler. Oh, this must be seriously humbling for him. I bet he’s regretting his little speech yesterday.

  His lips somehow compress even further, that beautiful voice of his tight with tension as he diplomatically says, “Then I appreciate the opportunity to work together with you and Mia. If she’s agreeable.” He turns to me, his face completely unreadable, but I know what’s lurking behind the surface. A Slytherin at the mercy of a Hufflepuff.

  And I bet my answer will surprise him even more.

  Chapter Two

  Tyler

  “I’d be happy to do it.”

  I turn sharply toward her. She’ll do it? After all the shit I gave her? What the hell is wrong with her?

  Dr. Price claps his hands jovially. “Excellent.”

  He launches into talk of schedules and logistics, but it’s hard to focus over the fact that I’ll be spending the next few months with this girl. Wild, curly brown hair. Soft, gray eyes. Fresh-faced in a way that doesn’t match at all with the Clemons I remember from Research Methods. Based on her answers in class, I had imagined a studious, confident Ravenclaw. I’d never bothered to actually see who responded to what questions, but this wholesome-looking girl looks like she belongs on some Midwest dairy farm, not working in a psychology laboratory.

  It burns that I’ll share credit with her, that he believes her study proposal is better. But the worst part is that objectively, he’s right. It’s probably only because biofeedback sounds fancy, though. Involves some kind of special machine and a trained person to do it. I’m not too familiar with it, but I know that my proposal of physical activity is a proven stress reducer. It helped me when I needed it most. Boxing saved my life, became an outlet for my aggression. And Lord knows there was a lot of it.

  Dr. Price said my study had real added value. He might as well have bitch-slapped me. It’s fine, though. This is an in. A way to make a name for myself, gain experience. I’ll have an actual paper credited to me. And that will mean something when I apply to grad school. I’ll be running my own lab one day. Then I’ll be deciding who’s worthy of a study or not.

  “You’re both required to take a human subjects research training online before the Institutional Review Board will approve the study,” he continues. “And, Mia, you’ll need to complete additional certifications in order to be qualified to perform biofeedback. Since your part is more labor intensive every week, Tyler will take lead on analyzing the data.”

  We nod our agreement, and I’m glad this actually works in my favor. More responsibility means more credit.

  “You’ll need to create a comprehensive standard physical activity each participant will do,” he says to me. “Figure out if it needs to be adjusted for sex, current body weight, all that, and bring it back to me for approval.”

  He goes on detailing what Mia and I should decide on together. Prerequisites and disqualifiers for potential participants. An incentive to offer. Developing a questionnaire that will define how we measure self-reported stress levels in individuals we can track throughout the study. How participants should be assigned to each cohort. Balancing pre-qualifying factors like how much they already exercise and how much stress they’re reportedly under.

  The list goes on, Mia and I both frantically scribbling in our notebooks after realizing there’s no way we can remember the amount of information he’s throwing at us.

  “I know it’s a lot to take in, but I’ll be here to help you with any questions that arise, or you can ask the graduate students here in the Stress Lab. And lucky for you, you’ll have each other to rely on as well.”

  Yeah, lucky us.

  He dismisses us and we exit his office together, walking out of the Stress Lab. Mia waves goodbye to the receptionist, and when the door closes behind her, I turn to her. “Why are you being nice?”

  “What?” She startles, actually looking taken aback. Maybe that’s more because of the accusatory way I said it, though.

  “Why did you agree? I was an asshole to you yesterday. Is it a mind game? A power play? Because don’t think I owe you anything now.”

  She tilts her head to the side, eyes softening with compassion. “Have you ever heard of the Golden Rule?”

  Something tickles the back of my mind. My mom
telling me to be nicer, using the word unto, which I always thought was odd because who actually uses that word?

  I cross my arms over my chest. “Remind me of it again.”

  “Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.” She smiles. “I hope you would have given me the same opportunity to be included if the roles were reversed.”

  Yeah, fat chance of that.

  She quirks her lips as if she can read my mind on the matter. “But don’t think just because I’m nice, I’m a pushover,” she says sweetly. “We’re equals on this project. Okay?”

  Now this attitude I can begrudgingly respect. I nod.

  “Good. Do you want to get started on this stuff?” She holds up her notebook with its list of tasks on the page. “We could go to the library. I’ve got a couple hours till my evening class.”

  I indicate for her to walk ahead and down the stairs, an icy wind blasting us as soon as we exit the psychology building. We’re supposed to get another four inches of snow tonight.

  She burrows into her coat, her shorter legs practically sprinting in an effort to keep up with mine. “Could you—” She quickens her pace to catch my eye. “Could you slow down?”

  “It’s twenty degrees out. I’m not waiting around for you.”

  What sounds like a growling noise, followed by a lot of mumbling, emanates from her, and I glance over in amusement as she hitches her backpack higher and jogs next to me.

  Warm air greets us as we trigger the automatic doors of the library ten minutes later and we take a second to thaw out our frozen faces before securing a free table. The place is eerily silent this early in the semester before it becomes a zoo. The only other time I’ve seen it this quiet is during midterms and finals week when there’s some kind of hive mind going on that mutually forbids everyone from talking.

  Thankfully, Mia brought her laptop, so we can type up everything and look up examples of what Dr. Price is asking for. Both of us have volunteered in labs before running experiments, but have never designed one from scratch.

  We sit down and get to work, two hours going by quickly as we power through the list. Just when we’re getting to creating an informed consent form, a blonde walks by and does a double take, circling back to take a seat across from us.

  “Mia,” she drawls. “Who’s your friend here?” She taps her bright pink nails on the table annoyingly. Can’t she see we’re busy?

  Mia shifts in her chair. “My partner for the new research study I’m working on.”

  “And do you have a name?” she asks me flirtatiously, twirling a finger around a strand of her blonde hair.

  “Tyler,” I grunt, looking back at the computer screen. Should we go for full-out written consent or just employ verbal consent?

  “Tyler... Tyler,” the girl mutters, then slaps her palms down on the table, making Mia jump. “Not the Tyler you had a crush on last year?”

  I glance over at Mia, her face slowly reddening, body stiff. Her eyes dart over to me briefly before she nervously licks her lips. “No, not that Tyler,” she grits out. “It was someone else.”

  “Oh my God.” The girl leans an elbow on the table, redirecting her attention to me. “She used to go on and on about this guy’s voice and how smart he was—”

  “Don’t you have somewhere to be?” Mia interrupts, her own voice tight with tension, looking like she’s wavering between punching the girl and crying.

  “Huh?” The blonde tilts her head quizzically, then widens her eyes. “Oh.” She looks back at me. “Oh, yeah, I have, um, that thing to go to. See you later.”

  Mia stares down at her paper, her face still red, refusing to turn my way no matter how long I stare at her.

  Despite not caring one bit, I can’t resist the urge to tease. “You had a crush on me?”

  She closes her eyes, wincing. “That was a long time ago,” she whispers. “Before I knew you.”

  My brows rise. “So, what, now that you know me, there’s less to like?”

  I’m aware it’s a stupid question as soon as I see her temper spark. She turns to me and demands, “Tell me, what exactly is there to like?”

  I’m surprised by her tone. Where did the shy Hufflepuff go?

  “Make sure you leave out the rude and surly bits when selling yourself. I don’t think those will help your case much.”

  My mouth goes dry staring at her, how defiant she looks, all those curls on her head practically vibrating with energy too, like a Medusa. The effect is glorious.

  Whoa, where’d that come from?

  I shake my head, putting on a smirk, and throw an arm casually over the back of my chair. “I’ve got plenty of women interested. I don’t need some Hufflepuff crush.”

  “Name one.”

  My smirk drops at her hard tone, her eyes flashing fire. I straighten in my seat. “Excuse me?”

  “Name me one woman actually interested in you. Even one past girlfriend you’ve had.”

  I scoff. “I don’t do girlfriends. They’re a waste of time.”

  “Big surprise,” she mutters. “You probably have a stable of fuck buddies you rotate through that don’t care about your charming personality.”

  I almost choke on my own spit at the words coming out of that wholesome mouth. “What?”

  “Nothing.” She plasters a fake smile on her face and stands, closing her laptop before stuffing her things in her backpack. “I’ve got a three-hour lecture class tonight and still need to grab dinner before it. Email me when you’ve finished with your half of what Dr. Price wants and then we’ll work on combining it all.”

  She scribbles her email address on my notebook page and slings her bag over her shoulder, marching toward the exit.

  Well, the girl’s certainly got a mouth on her when riled up. I find myself grinning watching her saunter away, then immediately wipe my face clear when I realize what I’m doing. What I said earlier is true. I couldn’t care less about some girl’s silly crush.

  But staring at the mass of curls still visible in the distance, a pang goes through me knowing I’ve lost it.

  I mentally slap the wistfulness out of me. Jesus Christ, get it together. If I didn’t know I had it in the first place, why should it matter if her crush is gone?

  I stop by my mom’s house on the way home to grab some leftovers she promised me. I skipped Sunday night dinner this week, claiming I needed to get ready for the start of the semester and prepare for Dr. Price’s interview, but she could probably see through the excuse.

  She knows I hate being here longer than necessary. If it wasn’t for her and my little sister, Riley, I’d never visit again.

  I’m a bastard. Plain and simple. Literally and figuratively.

  Mom and Dan had a happy marriage initially, producing two boys, Brandon and Dylan, my older brothers. But eventually, I guess Mom got unhappy and she had an affair—resulting in me.

  It was a one-night stand, some guy she never even got the name of. She said she regretted it immediately, and when she found out she was pregnant, kept the real circumstances of my conception a secret.

  But the truth couldn’t be denied when I looked nothing like either of my fair-haired, Nordic-gened parents. Dark hair and tan skin don’t exactly match the family Christmas photo. On my first birthday, apparently Dan finally questioned Mom about it, who confessed everything. He couldn’t forgive her and they divorced.

  For the next six years, whenever he came to pick up Brandon and Dylan for their weekly visits, I would get a cold stare. A you are the reason why our family is broken look I’ve never been able to shake. When a kid grows up with that kind of look weekly, how is he not supposed to internalize it?

  By the age of seven, Mom and Dan cautiously decided to try things again, to see if they could make the family whole. But I wasn’t a part of that family. I knew how he really felt. If it were up to him, I would be sent off to whoever my biological father was. Out of sight, out of mind.

  Six years later, they welcomed a surprise baby gi
rl, Riley. I admit, Dan is a good father to her. But it just makes it all the more obvious he wasn’t that way with me.

  “Tyler!” Riley calls out when I walk in the door. She rushes to me and I pick her up and swing her around, even though at eight years old she’s getting a little too big for it. “Are you staying for dinner?” she asks hopefully, her wide, blue eyes angelic surrounded by all that fair hair.

  “No, squirt. I’ve got work later.” It’s not quite a lie. I do plan to go home and continue working on the study, even if I’m not going to my actual job at the computer lab on campus.

  “Hey,” Mom says, stepping out of the kitchen, drying her hands with a dish towel. “There’s food for you in the fridge.”

  I give her a quick hug on my way past her and grab the Tupperware, opening it up to see what’s inside. Pot roast and mashed potatoes. My mouth salivates just looking at it.

  “We’re having tacos tonight,” she says enticingly, smiling at me from the kitchen entryway.

  “Yeah, tacos,” Riley repeats, coming over and latching herself on to my leg.

  My resolve softens until the sound of the front door opening and shutting greets us. “Was that Tyler’s car parked—” Dan stops talking when he comes upon the three of us in the kitchen. “Hey, Tyler,” he says easily, setting down his messenger bag on the counter. He always puts on a good front when others are around.

  I make a noncommittal noise and gently untangle Riley’s arms from me, then move past everyone to the foyer.

  “See you later,” I call out, not in the mood to get into it with everyone right now. I leave and duck my head down against the wind until I reach my Camry, still warm from driving over.

  I head home to the house I share with three other guys and heat up the leftovers, refusing to wait for it to cool down, and end up burning my tongue. Ethan, the only roommate I talk to, isn’t here, so I go in my room and shut the door, stretching out on my bed. The guy I rent from who owns the place, Tom, is home, but we have nothing in common. A decade older than me, he just works part-time, collects rent, and plays video games most of the day. His friend Sean lives here too, but he at least has a career and acts his age.