“Right.” I sigh. That geology class is known as Rocks for Jocks. I’m wary of easy classes people ‘like me’ take. They’re boring—well, except for the dance one—and don’t require complex thinking. I can analyze content—once I’ve digested it.

“You don’t have enough hours toward graduation and still haven’t declared a major. At this point, I can maybe pull you a general studies major next year,” he muses as he stares at my transcript. He tilts the computer toward me, and I blink, the small words running together. I can’t make sense of it, not in this light. I glance away, an empty feeling in my stomach. Why can’t I just be normal?

“I’m majoring in football and everyone knows it,” I say grimly. “I want a degree—for my mom.”

What would I even do with a degree?

Mom sold Dad’s Mercedes dealership to retire, so I can’t sell cars. My freshman year, I entertained the idea of being a sports announcer, but if you can’t follow the prompter on TV, who would hire you? Sure, the NFL is an option, but after this last season…

“My dad didn’t graduate college and regretted it,” I add. “I wanted to take that lit class to challenge myself.”

Half lie. There’s another reason.

“It’s challenging you alright—that’s apparent. If you fail, we’ll have to put you on the academically ineligible list for next semester. That means no spring practice. Death sentence for you if you can’t play in the fall.”

Not play in the fall?

Shit. Shit.

It’s worse than I thought. Sure, I knew I was doing bad, but I was holding out hope that my last paper was decent. Until Whitman slapped that F on my desk.

What’s the point of staying at Braxton if I can’t play?

My hands shake and I stuff them under my seat. “I get it.”

He takes a sip of coffee. “What’s your plan to get this up?”

“Whitman says I need an A on my paper to pass the class,” I mutter, recalling our conversation.

He winces. “Damn. At this point, is that even possible?”

Thanks for the support, man.

“Is it done yet?” he asks

“Haven’t started,” I mutter.

“In the past, I had athletic tutors in the study center, but those days are over.”

I exhale. Before I came to Braxton, they had a group of ‘tutors’ in the athletic department—until a few were caught fixing test questions, writing essays, and even showing up to class for superstars. The NCAA fined us; ESPN wrote countless articles about it. Maybe Whitman’s prejudice toward athletes is justified, somewhat. Since that happened, athletes use the same tutoring center as the rest of the student body.

I get it. Several of my high school teachers pushed me through just to appease my coaches. Did I like it? Hell no. It was degrading, but I was helpless to stop it. Accommodations were made for my difficulties, extra time on tests and oral reports, and I did try, but when you just can’t get the written word, most of them let you slide by. I’m not dogging teachers. Our world needs good people who love kids—and they did care about me—but when you have a classroom of rowdy students and there’s that one kid who can’t focus, sit still, or read well, you do what you have to do.

“Ever consider a reading coach? I’ve heard of those before.” He scrolls on his laptop.

I can fucking read. It just takes me being in a quiet place with no distractions—and time. My finger spins the ring on my hand faster and faster. “I listen to the books on audio, but I…” I pause, again bemoaning the fact that I took this class. My eyes go to the window in his office as a bird flies by. A red cardinal. Do they mate for life? I wonder where that hawk is now…

“Your ADHD takes over, right? There are drugs.”

The meds make me dizzy. My parents tried them all. “They mess with my equilibrium. Not good for football,” I say curtly. He and I have been down this road before, and it ticks me off that I have to refresh him.

“Right. I knew that.” He leans back and considers me. “Let’s nix the student learning center. It’s a busy place, lots of people coming and going. You need quiet. No other people around to distract you. I suggest a private tutor. We have a list of students who do one-on-ones. They won’t do your work, but they’ll help. Take a look.” He prints out a list of names and slides it over to me.

Dread inches up my spine that I have to read this in front of him. My throat tightens, and the paper shakes as panic claws at me. Fuck. Focus. I inhale a deep breath and glance through the names, not really reading, then stop. The A at the beginning is branded in my brain. I trace my fingers over it. “I know this girl. Anastasia.”

“Excellent. She helped one of the tennis players last year when he was flunking biology. Also helped a volleyball player with algebra. She’s a natural.”

“She isn’t a fan of mine.”

He huffs out a laugh. “I thought everyone was a fan of yours.”

He hasn’t seen us…together. It’s like throwing water on a grease fire.

“I don’t want her to know about…” my issues.

He shrugs. “You want me to email her?”

My face flattens.

He exhales. “River, if you can’t get this grade up, you won’t be eligible to play next year. You need help with this class. And next time, take the classes I pick out for you.”

I sit there quietly, my jaw popping. Me and Anastasia. Working together. Probably in the library in one of those private rooms.

Alone.

Fuck no.

“Sound like a plan?” he says, extending a fist in my direction.

Edward says the same thing at the end of all his meetings. It’s his polite way of saying, ‘Now get the hell out of my office. I’m busy.’

“I’ll talk to her,” I say as I stand and return his fist bump.

But I know I won’t.

Can’t.

Mustn’t.

Shouldn’t.

6

“My brothers, your king has arrived!” I yell as I walk in the back door of the Kappa house a few hours later. I’ve decompressed from my meeting with Edward and I’ve talked to Mom. I’m loose and feeling good, especially after a workout with my guys and my second shower.

Music thumps from the speakers overhead, and I hear pledges yelling from various parts of the house as they greet me in the way they’ve been taught. “Welcome home, Mr. President! May we get you anything?”

“I’m good!” I shout back, smiling. Damn, I love pledges and the bonding experiences. Last week I gave them an exercise. You have twenty-four hours to bring a stick to the house. Whoever brings the smallest stick is fucked. Parker rolled in with a log on a tractor trailer. We gave him his own special recliner in the basement.

My freshman year, I was the “backpack pledge” and had to carry a kid’s SpongeBob Squarepants bag to class for an entire semester. It had to remain unzipped at all times. My brothers packed it full of condoms, KY jelly, and leaflets about safe sex. When I walked into class, people swarmed me. I probably saved hundreds from STDs and dry intercourse.