The Playmaker
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Natalie Ashee
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Final Thesis
NOVA
I fiddle nervously with the unraveled string from my sweater as I sit patiently in Dr. Ronanās office. I have no idea the reason for which heās called this impromptu meeting.
All I know is that it has something to do with my final thesis, and that worries me.
Itās now August, and while I should have my final grade by now, I donāt; and though Iāve already graduated, I have yet to receive my degree.
I took a monumental risk with the topic of my dissertationāgiving it a somewhat personal aspectāand Iām not sure how I fared in comparison with my classmates.
Most assume that being a āchild geniusāāthe moniker kids in grade school bestowed upon me to prolong my humiliation well past high schoolāmeans that everything comes easy to me, including school.
However, this isnāt the case.
Having skipped two grades means that Iāve had to adapt to the level of academia that challenges me; and that being said, I quickly discovered that getting my PhD among students who were more well read and more cultured and who had more resources proved to be no small feat.
Not only had I had to acclimate to the rigorous coursework, but I did so at a time in my life when most people my age were decorating their graduation caps or packing up their dorm rooms.
Instead, here I am, twenty-four years old, living in a world where my peers are four years my senior.
I have no real-world or life experience, and I graduated with a doctorate in applied mathematics and physics with not a clue in hell about what to do with it.
To say that my emotional maturity has been stunted would be an understatement.
Most girls my age have taken their first shot at relationships and broken up with their firstāand possibly secondāboyfriend, had their first kiss, and experienced their first orgasm.
According to the standard IQ test, I may be intellectually superior to most men and women my age, but socially, Iām nothing short of an idiot.
Playing catch-up socially and emotionally only made keeping up with my studies all the more challenging.
That coupled with the fact that I work two jobs to help support my father and myself, Iām surprised I managed to finish with an A in all my coursesāall except my capstone. So far.
Iām wondering whatās taking Dr. Ronan so long to meet me when the click of the doorknob turning nearly causes me to jump.
I smooth the cheap, rough fabric of my skirt as the handsome man shuffles behind his desk, carrying a yellow file of some sort.
On my first day of classes, I developed a crush on my professor.
I remember thinking he possessed a studious but laid-back charm, and his piercing blue eyes, salt-and-pepper hair, and manicured beard didnāt hurt.
Heās not the typical āteacherā type; if anything, he reminds me more of a lumberjack than a grad school professor, but that rugged, outdoorsy look is what draws womenālike my classmates and meāto him like moths to a flame.
Unfortunately for us, though, the man is very happily married.
āSorry to make you wait, Nova. Iāve been on the phone for the last half hour, and I only just ended the call.ā
Dr. Ronanās eyes brim with excitement, and while Iām relieved he doesnāt seem to have called this meeting to rip my thesis to shreds, my earlier trepidation has been replaced with curiosity.
āItās all right. But what exactly am I here for?ā
Dr. Ronan chuckles, and the fact that heās practically bouncing in his seat has me on edge to hear his news.
āMiss Connors, in all my years of teaching, Iāve never had a thesis quite as innovative as your own, and well, that being said, I think you should know that I took the liberty to share it.ā
I nervously tug at the piece of string once more as I wait for him to get on with it.
Itās not unusual for professors to share their studentsā work, but it is unusual when they act as though a twenty-page dissertation on how physics can save a failing football teamās seasonāand potentially the quarterbackās jobāis the equivalent of Christmas morning to a seven-year-old.
āMiss Connors, do you know who Gabriel Winters is?ā
My jaw nearly hits the floor, and Iām not sure Iāve heard him right. āIām sorry, did you just say Gabriel Winters as in head coach of the Atlanta Crusaders, Gabriel Winters?ā
Surely he did not share my senior thesis with the head coach of the very team I wrote about? Suddenly, my excitement dissolves into panic.
Iām not sure how a head coach would feel about some random math nerd criticizing his franchise playerās offensive strategies.
āYes, Nova. I sent him and Mike Rodney, the offensive coordinator, your thesis, and Iām not going to lie to you, I didnāt even expect them to read it, but they did.
āI just got off the phone with Rodney, and he wants you to come in for an interview.ā
My professor claps like a giddy schoolgirl whoās just passed a love note to her crush, and to be honest, I canāt help but revel in his excitement. Thereās only one thing I donāt understandā¦
āWait. When you say interviewā¦ Whaāā
āHe wants to outsource you as a consultant to help him with the offense this season. Nova, your thesis was so brilliant, an NFL team wants to hire you to help them use it!ā
I really try to listen to Dr. Ronan after I hear the words āconsultantā and āNFL team wants to hire you,ā but I canāt.
All I can think about is the fact that Iām interviewing for a job that seemed like a pipe dream just yesterday.
After my mother left when I was twelve, my father and I watched football together as a means to bond and to cope with her being gone.
Eventually, the sport grew on me, and it became my and my fatherās very own religion. I grew up watching the Atlanta Crusaders, and now they want me to work for them?
The first thought that enters my mind after I finally leave my professorās office is, I have to tell Dad.
