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  Finish What You Started

  Memphis Blues Book 1

  Alexandra Evans

  Finish What You Started

  Memphis Blues Book 1

  Alexandra Evans

  This novel is a work of fiction. Any references to real teams, places, people or events is purely fictitious. Other characters and places are a product of the author’s imagination.

  Copyright 2019 by Alexandra Evans

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without express written consent from the author, with the exception of brief quotes for purposes of book review.

  He was hot for teacher…

  Tyler Johansen, catcher for the Memphis Blues, always promised himself he would complete his bachelor’s degree. But his online professor is a real pain in the ass.

  When Professor Harper Manning is forced to bend the rules for one of her students just because he’s a professional athlete, she’s pissed. Entitled jerk.

  Unfortunately he’s the sexiest entitled jerk she’s ever come across, and Ty has made it clear he’s hot for teacher. She could lose her job if they’re caught messing around.

  The problem is, he might be worth it.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  Take It to the Limit

  1

  Tyler Johansen leaned under the hot spray and allowed the steaming water to sluice over his body, relaxing muscles and washing off the tang from being outside in ninety-degree weather in a polyester uniform.

  Everything about him hurt. His shoulders, his hips, his knees from squatting off and on for nearly three and a half hours. He could swear even the roots of his hair were sore. Thank God Manuel hit that homer in the bottom of the tenth. He wasn’t sure he could’ve gone back out for another inning.

  “Dude, good game.”

  Ty lifted his head and flung his hair back to see the closer, Jake Muir, step under the showerhead next to him. “Yeah, you too. That last strike burned clean through my glove.”

  Jake grinned. “Yeah, that felt fucking awesome.”

  As other guys on the team started to filter into the shower room, Ty turned off the water and grabbed a towel. He wrapped it around his waist and headed toward his locker, reciprocating high fives and butt slaps along the way. Pulling a tube of pain relief gel from his locker, he parked his ass on the bench and began to rub the stuff into the skin covering his stiff knee joint. The heat began almost immediately, and the soreness, although not exactly better, lessened. Knee replacement had been mentioned during his last appointment with the orthopedic guy, but Tyler knew that would mean the end of his days as a player, and he wasn’t ready to retire just yet.

  At the ripe old age of thirty-two, he couldn’t see himself as one of those guys who hung on, playing minor league ball when they couldn’t cut it in the majors anymore just to smell the cut grass and leather and feel the wood in their hands. He didn’t need anyone telling him when it was time to turn in his cleats—he already knew that time was close. He’d know when to quit.

  “Hey, Ty. What you got going tonight?” Jake toweled his mop of long brown hair and looked in the mirror in his locker, finger combing the locks into place. “I was thinking about heading out to Bastion’s to slam a few back, maybe score a couple of babes. Wanna come with?”

  Ty looked up at Jake and shook his head. The younger guys always felt like partying after the games, when all he wanted to do was veg in front of SportsCenter, then go to bed. “Nah. Not tonight. I’ve got a paper due.”

  Immediately, the guys started making noise and giving him a hard time. A couple of years ago, he’d begun taking classes to finish up his bachelor’s degree in history, something he’d always promised his mom he’d do, and a goal he’d set for himself as well. Yeah, he wouldn’t need money after his career was over; he’d been good at saving and hadn’t indulged in all the toys and outrageous houses his teammates had. He didn’t really have a need for a degree. But he wanted it. Wanted to feel like he’d done something besides play baseball for the last two decades of his life, and he could do something useful afterward. Maybe teach. Possibly law school.

  As his teammates started to head to their after-game hangouts, still giving him the business, Manuel Martinez sat next to him on the dark blue leather bench.

  “Don’t listen to them,” he said, his voice strong and full of emotion. “Education is a good thing. My children, they will have better than me. When I was a child in Colombia, school was only for the rich. You have to pay for it, or you don’t go. I did not go past third grade. What you are doing is good.”

  With that, his teammate slapped him on the shoulder and stood. “I learned to read Spanish in Colombia,” he told Ty with a smile. “Now, in America, I learn English, I am speaking and reading another language. I am making good money and feeding my family doing something I love. Life is good, my friend.”

  He turned to leave, and Ty grinned to himself. Yeah, some of his teammates learned a new language and adapted to a different culture, all so their families could have more than they did growing up. Some just so their families could be safe. If they could do that, he could surely pass a fucking composition class.

  Harper Manning used her red pen to circle the dismal grade she’d given one of her sophomore comp students. Seriously, texting had ruined this generation of college kids. They couldn’t spell, had no clue how to punctuate, and, thanks to mobile phones and pretty much no face-to-face social interaction, they also had no idea how to formulate a decent paragraph. If it didn’t fit into 280 characters or wasn’t in a picture to be posted to Instagram, they were clueless. How in the heck had they passed their high school English classes? What the heck were they being taught? Because it certainly didn’t seem like it was grammar.

  She pulled off her reading glasses and rubbed at the ever-deepening wrinkle between her brows. Sometimes she felt like her job was a waste of time. The K-12 curriculum was supposed to prepare kids for higher education, but it was forgetting to prepare them for life. They’d stopped teaching cursive in primary school, barely made them read a book in middle and high school, and then shipped them off to college ill-prepared for writing a grocery list, much less an expository essay on their favorite pastime. Heck, half of them had asked what a pastime meant. Seriously?

  Harper stood and stretched her back, did a couple of deep knee bends to get the circulation in her butt going again after a solid two hours of grading papers. She was determined to finish before going home for a weekend free of worrying about work, something she hadn’t done since the first summer session had started three months ago. Now she was three weeks into the fall semester. It was beyond time for a break.

  At twenty-nine, and lucky enough to be on a tenure track at the university, she should be happy. Her career was going well, she was respected by her peers, and had even contributed to a couple of texts on creative writing. Life was good, right? Then why was she so tired, and why did she feel like nothing she did was pushing her toward her real goals in life? What were her real goals in life? Harper knew she had zero clues about that at the moment. So she came to Southland University each day, taught
students who couldn’t care less about writing anything, and went home at night to the television.

  She turned on her laptop and pulled an energy bar from the desk drawer. Unwrapping it, she took a bite of the dry, crumbly snack and made a face. Turning over the wrapper, she made a mental note not to buy this brand anymore and tossed it in the trash. Great tasting, my ass. It tasted more of pharmaceuticals than chocolate-covered peanut butter. Next time, Snickers all the way. Screw being healthy. She’d given it a try, well, for a day at least, and she preferred Häagen-Dazs to Luna bars.

  Harper paced the small room and stopped in front of the only window. Luckily for her, it looked out over the campus quad, where mature oak and elm trees shaded park benches, old gas lamps lit the cobblestone pathways between buildings, and stoic old stone buildings mingled with newer glass-and-brick structures. It was getting dark, the sky painted blue and orange and purple. Beautiful.

  She loved this city. Her dad’s job as right fielder for the Blues had moved them to Memphis when Harper was only five, and when he went on to the next team a couple years later, her mom had chosen to stay behind. The nomadic life of an MLB wife just wasn’t for her anymore. Not when she had a daughter to raise and wanted her own career. So they’d parted ways, and Harper had seen her father only sporadically until his death.

  With a deep sigh, she turned back to her desk and stared at the small stack of papers she had left to grade. Maybe she’d come in early tomorrow and finish up. It was getting late, and she didn’t really like to walk to her car after dark. The neighborhood wasn’t great, and just last week, a teacher at a nearby high school had been robbed at gunpoint. She loved Memphis, but as in any large city, it was best to avoid potential trouble when you could.

  Just as she began to pack up her tote, a knock sounded on her office door. She glanced at the clock on her computer screen. Six thirty. Most of her students knew she didn’t have a class past four, and she hadn’t made an appointment to meet with anyone. She looked up at the glass window and saw a man. Tall and lean was as much as she could make out through the frosted pane.

  She wasn’t scared, although she probably should be if she were smart, but just in case, she shoved her hand in the pocket of her cardigan and pretended to be holding a can of pepper spray. What good that would possibly do, she had no clue, but it was the first thing that came to mind. She pulled the door open a few inches and peeked through the crack.

  “Can I help you?”

  She felt her eyes widen, and a blush crept up her neck to her cheeks. Standing outside was the most gorgeous man she’d ever laid eyes on. Solidly built, with what appeared to be rock-hard abs she could almost make out through the thin, fitted cotton Henley he wore, brown hair short on the sides but falling just above his eyebrows, and a grin that etched deep lines into his tanned cheeks. Those dark blue eyes staring at her made her breath hitch, and even though she knew it was stupid, she opened the door just a little wider so she could see more of him.

  “Are you Professor Manning?”

  Well, he had a nice enough voice, and he didn’t seem overly stalkerish or anything. “Yes.”

  “Hi, I’m Tyler Johansen.” He stuck out his hand at the introduction, and Harper felt stupid not to place her hand in his. The warmth of his palm radiated up her arm, and she quickly pulled away. He continued, “I was hoping we could talk about the persuasive essay I turned in last week.”

  As she stepped back to let him in, he moved past her into the office, smelling of herb-infused soap, leather, and…bubble gum? That scent always reminded her of her stepbrother, who, when they were kids, had never been without a pack of grape-flavored Bubble Yum in his pocket. Her visitor sat in the chair opposite hers and placed as few pages onto her desk.

  She recognized the name, of course. Tyler Johansen, a professional athlete she’d been told to help in any way possible. And by “help,” they meant bend the rules, ’cause he was used to be catered to for playing a game really well. She’d been told to allow him to take the course online, even though it wasn’t offered online this semester, with the professor who normally taught that class on sabbatical. She’d agreed to do so. Not really like she had a choice anyway if she ever wanted to get tenure.

  “How can I help you?”

  He flipped the pages around to face her and pointed to a printout of the electronic grading sheet she submitted along with her edits on the class’s first essay. Lines etched his forehead as he stared at her. He seemed more than a little upset. “Ms. Manning, I don’t understand the grade you gave me. Fifty? Surely it was worth a seventy, maybe seventy-five. I know I’m not great at writing, but—”

  She looked at the paper and back at him. “I grade everyone according to the same rubric, Mr. Johansen, which was supplied at the beginning of the course, so I’m pretty sure if I gave you a fifty, it’s what I felt the level of the work was in compliance with that rubric.”

  “C’mon, seriously? It’s better than a fifty.” He tried that persuasive voice, the one that all guys used when they wanted something. The one that said, c’mon, you know you wanna. Well, sweet talk wasn’t something that worked on her. Especially coming from someone who played a game for a living and was probably used to getting his way. “Would you mind maybe looking at it again? Or at least explain to me how I messed up, what I can do better next time? Maybe let me rewrite it to get some extra points? This is my next-to-last class for my degree, and I really, really need to pass so I can finish up in the spring.”

  Harper donned her black cat-eye reading glasses and pulled the papers toward her. The essay hadn’t been horrible for a first try in her class, something about concussion in sports and the suicide rates of professional athletes who suffered too many of them. The research had been good, and she’d actually been surprised at some of the statistics he listed, but it had been several days overdue. An automatic deduction of five percent per day. She felt her lips tighten and did her best not to scowl when she took her glasses off and looked back up at him.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Johansen, but grades for assignments turned in late have an automatic deduction rate per day. That’s all in the rubric. As I remember, you were five days past the assigned date, which means you would have gotten that seventy-five if you’d turned the assignment in on time.”

  “But I have a special deal with the dean.” He scooted up on the chair and leaned his elbows on the faded oak of her desk. “See, I play ball, and since I’m having to take this class during the season, I can’t always get my assignments in on time. Sometimes I’m on the road—”

  “They don’t have Wi-Fi in your hotels?”

  “Yeah, but—”

  “You have your laptop or access to a computer when you’re on the road?”

  “Most of the time, but—”

  “So you had the same opportunity to get this turned in on time that all my other students did, especially since you aren’t carrying a full load on top of working as some students in my classes do.”

  He sat back in his chair and scowled. “Well, I do work. Baseball is a full-time job. It’s more than a full-time job, to be perfectly honest, when you factor in workouts, practices, games, interviews, team meetings, and all the other crap that goes along with it.”

  “With one class. That’s doable for all the rest of my students, Mr. Johansen, so I expect it to be doable for you as well, special arrangements or not. I think the dean would agree with me on that.”

  She pushed the essay back toward him and rolled her chair up closer to her desk. She should have done a little jig of victory, but instead she felt a little tinge of…guilt? No, not that. He’d been late on his assignment, and playing ball was no excuse. It was never an excuse for shirking responsibilities. If you wanted something enough, you went all out for it. If her father had taught her nothing else in his miserable life, what little of it he’d actually spent with her, he’d taught her that.

  “Now, if you want to discuss the issues with your writing, I’m happy to do so.” She
pushed her glasses back up her nose. “Otherwise, I would like to finish up my work and head home. If you don’t mind.”

  She watched as he mulled over her offer, staring into her eyes, his blue ones darkening like storm clouds over the ocean. Then his perfectly carved lips pressed into a thin line, and a flush turned his cheeks and neck a ruddy color beneath his tan. He reached out and snatched the essay from the desk and stood.

  “Thanks for the offer,” he said as he headed for her door. “By the way, you have a blob of chocolate on the corner of your mouth.”

  “Um, thanks,” she said, swiping at her lips as the door snicked shut behind him. Okay, maybe she’d been a bit snarky. He seemed like a nice enough guy. At least he hadn’t slammed the door when he left, which she’d half expected him to do since he was just another spoiled, rich athlete who played a game for a living.

  Harper finished entering grades into the spreadsheet, shut down her laptop, and called it a day. Okay, yeah, she could admit to herself she’d been a little harsh with the guy. She supposed she could have let the fact his paper was a disrespectful five days late affect her grading of it. And maybe she could have been a little nicer when she offered to help him, made the offer sound a little bit like she meant it. But she’d been annoyed that he seemed to think he was special, that she should understand he wasn’t exactly like her other students.

  Well, she did understand, and it made not one tiny bit of difference to her. There was nothing special about being a ballplayer. Nobody knew that better than her.