WELL, fucking hell.
That sure looks like another failing grade to me. I turned in my first- ever English Lit paper on Monday, and I’ve already fumbled the bag. I thought this tutor bullshit was supposed to be helping, but clearly, I need to bump up my efforts here.
With a resigned sigh, I sling my backpack over my shoulder, scrambling up to the front as my classmates shuffle out of the lecture hall.
“Professor, I was wondering if you had a spare minute?”
She glances up from her spot at the podium, readjusting her glasses before giving me a tight smile. “What can I do for you, Theodore?”
I clear my throat, nervously stuffing my hands into my front pockets. “I had a question about the grade I received on my paper.”
“You know, all students must earn their grade in my class. Athletes aren’t given any special permissions or leeway. Now that it’s the off-season, you should be able to put in a little more effort.”
Well, goddamn, that was mighty presumptuous of her. I’ve certainly never asked anyone for special treatment. My 2.3 GPA should be more than enough proof of that.
Besides, I worked my ass off on this paper. My tutor and I spent countless hours analyzing and discussing the assigned text. We worked on it until late into the night, making sure every point was well articulated, and the structure was sound.
I normally wouldn’t be shocked by a shitty grade, but this time around, it just feels like a slap to the fucking face.
“I completely understand.” I gulp back my frustration. “I’m not asking for leeway, but is there any other feedback you could give me?”
“Yes.” She nods, tidying her papers into a neat stack. “Properly cite your sources, and check for grammatical errors.”
“That’s fair. I did have my tutor look over—”
“Theodore, if you have any further questions, you’ll need to schedule a time to meet with me during my office hours.” She slams her folder closed, clearly indicating my dismissal.
“Of course,” I say through gritted teeth. “Thank you for your time, Professor.”
“Very well, Theodore. Remember, my office hours are posted on the syllabus. Make sure to email me in advance to set up an appointment,” she says dismissively, her gaze already shifting to the exit.
Biting back a harsh retort, I turn on my heel and stalk out of the lecture hall before her. It’s one thing to be struggling; it’s another entirely to be dismissed so easily by the person who’s supposed to help you learn.
I run a ragged hand through my hair in frustration. If I’m going to pass this class, I need to figure out what the hell I’m doing wrong. I’ve got the drive; I just need the direction.
And it’s clear as day that I’m not going to get that from Professor Hartman.
“I need a fucking beer,” I mutter to myself, making a beeline for my favorite off-campus bar. If I’m going to spend the rest of my day staring at a red-inked English paper, I might as well have a cold one in my hand.
 |
I TRUDGE BACK to my off-campus house, a dark cloud of frustration and dread following me like a bad omen. The potential implications of failing another assignment crawl through my mind, threatening my dreams— scholarship, football, first-round draft pick—they all hang in the balance.
“Hey, man.” Cam’s deep voice cuts through my brooding.
The two of us have been sharing this house since last year, along with Daniel Moreno, another linebacker for the team. Danny is good company, but he spends most of his time at his girlfriend’s place these days.
My gaze finds Cam lounged on our living room couch, legs nonchalantly thrown over the coffee table, a laptop balancing precariously on one thigh.
“Hmph.” I return the greeting with a grunt, hardly managing to conceal my irritation.
“Why do you look like someone ran over your cat?” he asks, not looking up from his screen.
Wordlessly, I stride toward him, flinging my marked paper onto his lap, the damning F atop the page all but screaming failure.
“Two weeks into the term, and I’m already tanking,” I grumble, a bitter edge to my voice.
“Easy, man,” he says, his eyes briefly scanning the paper before placing it on the coffee table. “There’s still plenty of time to pull up your grade.”
I scoff. “Right. Maybe if I sit next to you long enough, some of your genius will rub off on me.”
His smirk is instant. “So, you want me to rub off on you?” Rolling my eyes, I raise my middle finger in response. “Fuck off.”
“Nah, I’m pretty comfortable here, thank you very much,” he drawls, stretching both arms over the back of the couch with a smirk.
Sighing, I flop down beside him, trying to brush off my annoyance. “What are you even working on?”
“Coach put me on the planning committee for the Spring Banquet,” he says nonchalantly, still engrossed in his screen.
My brow shoots up. “The fuck? Why did he ask your sorry ass?”
“I have the highest GPA on the team.” He shrugs, scrolling through web pages without a care. “Coach thinks I can handle the extra stress of party planning.”
“That’s gotta suck. What’s the theme this year?”
“Danny wants to go with Vegas.” He rolls his eyes at the absurdity. “I was thinking something simpler. Black and white or . . . fire and ice. That’s kinda sexy, right?”
My laughter escapes before I can manage to hold it back. “Banquets aren’t fucking sexy.”
“Speak for yourself,” he snaps, feigning offense. “And the Trade?”
The Trade’s a sort of tradition for the Dayton football players. Every year, the upperclassmen secretly agree to swap dates at the Spring Banquet.
It’s mostly harmless—guys with girlfriends can opt out, but they must state an “off-limits rule,” or their girls are fair game.
It’s our little secret, a game with only two rules—take someone else’s date home, and don’t speak a word of it to anyone outside the team.
The reward for pulling off a successful trade is well worth the effort. Last year, only eight players managed to score a touchdown, so to say. As underclassmen, Cam and I had the dubious honor of cleaning their gear for an entire season.
This year, it’s finally our turn to step up to the plate.
“Of course Trade’s still on.” He clasps his hands together with an eager grin. “You think Elliot’s gonna lock down his girl before then?”
“Fuck no.”
Our starting quarterback, Noah Elliot, has been chasing after the same girl for the past two years. She’s definitely pulling his chain at this point, but the guy seems blissfully unaware. I’m sure he’ll tell us all she’s off- limits anyway.
He tilts his head, eyes keen. “Do you know who you’re taking?” “Doesn’t really matter, does it?” I murmur, gazing off into space. “She’s
not gonna be mine at the end of the night anyway.”
“Well,” he says smugly. “I was thinking I might help my man out.” “What do you mean?”
“I could ask Shannon for you.” His expression is downright gleeful. “Make it sort of a group thing so she doesn’t feel like shit for going home with you at the end of the night.”
Now that gets my attention. “Not a bad idea.”
“On one condition.” He raises an expectant brow. “You’ve got to take someone good for me. Let’s make it a fair trade.”
“And who do you want?”
“Another cheerleader?” he proposes. “Might make the whole thing a bit easier on Shan.”
“I don’t know, man.” I pause for a beat, contemplating the repercussions. “Those girls already know the score with me. They’d probably get pissed if I asked them to the banquet and then went home with Shan anyway.”
“Makes sense.” He shrugs. “She have any other hot friends?”
My mind immediately drifts to Jade. The first time we met, she didn’t strike me as someone I’d consider hot. After our second run-in in the
library, I’ve seriously re-evaluated that thought.
Jade definitely has a pretty face. She’s funny, too. Witty and sharp.
Hot? Now that’s harder to say, especially with that baggy sweatshirt of hers. The worn-out thing is probably three sizes too big and looks like she snagged it from her dad’s wardrobe or something. I can’t quite make out what she’s hiding beneath it.
But even still, there’s something about her that sparks my curiosity. A mystery I find myself wanting to solve.
“I mean, there’s her new roommate,” I suggest, mulling it over. “Jade something. She’s cute . . . probably single. Plus, I doubt she’d give a shit what I did at the end of the night.”
He shoots me a grin. “Think she’d go for me?”
“Who wouldn’t, man?” I nudge him with my elbow, his broad smile growing even wider. “Brains and brawn combined.”
“Alright.” He chuckles, looking pleased. “I’m game.” “Sounds like the perfect trade.”
I tip my head back, propping my feet up on the coffee table next to Cam’s. If I was waiting for the right opportunity, well . . . I can’t help the fact that this one fell straight into my lap.
And who am I to argue with fate?
