The athletic complex was state-of-the-art, all polished floors and floor-to-ceiling windows that let in natural light. The air conditioning kept everything cool and sterile. Jake walked down the hallway with his hands shoved into the pockets of his joggers, his jaw set tight. The walls were covered in framed photos of championship teams, action shots, banners commemorating conference titles and bowl victories.
He had dreamed of having his photo on these walls since he was fourteen. Now he was just trying not to get kicked off the team.
Coach Miller's office was at the end of the hall, his door held open by a brass doorstop. Jake could see him through the opening—barrel-chested, late fifties, gray hair and a face like weathered stone. He was staring at a computer screen, his frown deepened as he read.
He knocked on the doorframe. "Coach?"
"Shut the door, Thompson."
Jake stepped in and pulled the door close. The office was spacious with dark wood furniture and leather chairs. A coffee maker sat on the credenza, still warm. More photos on the walls, shelves lined with playbooks, and a whiteboard covered in X's and O's.
"Sit."
He sat and tried to look relaxed—shoulders loose, legs sprawled—but his pulse still hammered.
Coach picked up a sheet of paper from his desk and held it up.
"Mid-term grades.Want to guess what I'm looking at?"
Jake swallowed. "Probably not good news."
"Not good news." Coach set the paper down slowly. "Let me read this to you. Cognitive Psychology: F. Organic Chemistry: C. Human Anatomy: C-minus. You know what this tells me, son? It tells me you're failing as a student. You're good at throwing a football and you think that's enough, but it's not. You need to get your grades up."
"Coach, it's not like that—"
"Then what is it like?" Coach leaned forward. "Because from where I'm sitting, it looks like you're wasting everyone's time, including yours. You think Monroe's going to pass you out of pity or something? This isn't high school, Thompson. No one's going to hold your hand."
Jake's jaw tightened. "I'm trying. It's just—those classes are hard. Cognitive Psych is all theory and essays. I don't test well on that stuff—"
"Stop." Coach's hand slammed the desk.
Jake flinched.
"I don't want to hear excuses, I need solutions. Because right now, your GPA is below the threshold for athletic eligibility. You're one bad grade away from academic probation, and if you hit probation, you're done, off the fucking roster. You understand what that means, Jake?"
He clenched his jaw. "Yeah."
"Do you?" Coach leaned back in his chair. "Because I got a call this morning from your father. You know what he told me?"
Jake closed his eyes and sighed.
Of course his dad had called.
"He told me that you're an embarrassment to the family, that he's donated millions to this university, and his son can't even manage a passing grade in an introductory science course. He said—and I'm quoting here—'If Jake can't handle the academic rigor of a D1 program, perhaps he should come home and learn what real work looks like.'"
"Your father is this close to pulling his donations. You know what that means? It means he stops funding our new training equipment, our recruitment events, our travel budget for scouting. All because his son couldn't be bothered to crack a textbook."
"I'm trying," he said again, his voice losing confidence.
"Trying isn't good enough." Coach stood and walked to the window. "You're the starting quarterback, Thompson. You're supposed to be a leader. Right now, you're much more of a liability than an asset, and I can't afford liabilities, not with every other donor breathing down my neck too."
Jake stared at the whiteboard. Sweat beaded at his hairline despite the AC.
"What do you want me to do?"
"Get your shit together, Jake. Monroe's starting mandatory study groups for failing students. You're in one of them as I've been told, it's led by some freshman, Alvarez or something. She's intelligent, apparently and understands the material and everything being taught."
Jake's stomach dropped. "A freshman?"
"Yes, Jake. A freshman. You're going to show up to every session, you're going to participate, you're going to do the work, and you're going to pass that class well enough that your father stops calling my office every goddamn day."
Jake sat there, the words settling over him, then he replied, "And if I don't?"
Coach's expression didn't change. "Then you're done, Jake. And I'll personally call your father to let him know."
Jake stood up, his legs felt unsteady, but he forced himself to walk to the door.
"Thompson."
He stopped.
"Don't disappoint me. And more importantly, don't disappoint yourself. You're better than this, son. Start acting like it."
Jake nodded and left.
He could hear the distant echo of the team running drills outside—the sharp blast of a whistle,thud of bodies hitting tackle dummies—but he didn't want to face anyone right now or have to explain himself, so he walked quickly, hands clenched into fists.
He made it to the locker room and sat on the bench in front of his locker, head in his hands. His father's words kept replaying, An embarrassment....can't even manage a passing grade.....you should come home.
Home.
He clenched his fists.
Going home meant giving up football, working at his father's practice, being groomed to take over a legacy he'd never wanted, no pro shot, no proving that he could not make it on his own, never being anything but Dr. Richard Thompson's son.
His phone blinked, he'd gotten three missed calls, two texts. All from his father.
We need to talk about your academic performance.
Call me tonight. 8 PM sharp.
He closed his eyes and leaned back against the cold metal locker. The room smelled of sweat and deodorant. This was his world–the field, the locker room, his teammates, their victories,the memories.
He was good at this, but it wasn't enough.
His phone buzzed. It was a message from Riley.
You good? Saw you coming out of the coach's office. You looked rough.
Jake typed back: Fine. Just the usual bullshit.
But he wasn't fine.
His mind dirfted off to the study group and the freshman Dr. Monroe had assigned.
Figures.
Dr. Monroe's favorite. Little Miss Perfect, always looking down her nose at anyone who struggled with academic work, especially him.
She thought he was a joke, now she was his tutor. The universe sure had a wicked sense of humor.
He almost laughed.
Two hours a week being tutored by someone who saw him as an idiot. Maybe she was right.
He stood up, grabbed his duffel bag, and headed out, in search of a solution. And maybe that solution started with asking for help from the one person who seemed to hate his guts.