Playing Hard to Get(5)

Specifically with women. Not that I’ve been “socializing” much lately anyway.

Coach nods, grabbing a notepad and scribbling something across it with a pen he snagged from his polo shirt pocket. “Definitely. I’ll make it happen, and you make sure to coordinate with your schedule, so it doesn’t interfere with your classes.”

“Okay.” I nod, hating the idea of adding one more thing to my plate.

I handle a lot of shit, day in and day out. I’m exhausted. And school has only barely begun.

“How’s class going?”

“Fine.” My tone is clipped, and he lifts his head, noting it. I’m defensive when it comes to school.

I’m not that good at certain subjects, and he knows it.

“You finally in that English class?” He raises his brows.

The one subject that gives me trouble, the class I’ve been avoiding until I can’t avoid it any longer. It’s a first-year level class that my academic counselor pushed back for me, doing me a favor, until finally, I was forced to take it this semester.

I’m not great at writing papers, spelling, reading. In fact, I suck at it. I was diagnosed with a mild case of dyslexia in elementary school, and I’ve been struggling with it ever since. My father told me he wasn’t much good at English either and needed a tutor when he was in college.

His tutor just so happened to be my mother. That’s how they met.

“Yeah. I am.”

“How’s it going?”

“I’ve only had the class twice.” I shrug, wanting to avoid this subject. “That math class I have is going to be a bitch.”

And I actually like math, so that’s saying something.

“Is it going to give you trouble?” The concern in his voice is obvious. He doesn’t want any of his seniors on the team struggling with classes. And whenever risks pop up, he wants to take care of them, including our class load.

I shake my head. “I’m good at numbers.” Comfortable with them even.

The English language though? Forget it. I can’t spell. I can’t write. Well, I can write a bunch of nonsense. I have trouble reading sometimes, and that’s just embarrassing. I make sure and take home the various playbooks every season, so I can pore over them. Memorize them. That way, no one on the team can figure out that I’m not good at this reading thing.

“If you need any help, don’t hesitate to tell me, okay? We want to keep you sharp, on all fronts.” His expression is dead serious. “This is an important time for you. We can’t fuck anything up. All eyes are on you now through the rest of the season.”

I break out into a literal sweat at his words, and the ominous meaning behind them. No big deal. I’m not intimidated or anything.

“Right.” I nod. “I’ve got this.”

My voice is firm, as is my resolve. I’ve definitely got this. I can’t slip and mess anything up.

“Good to hear.” Mattson leans back in his chair. “Get on out of here. I’m sure you have homework to do.”

“I do.” I rise to my feet, relieved to be dismissed. “See you tomorrow, Coach.”

“Later, Maguire.” He picks up his phone and makes a call before I’m barely even out of his office.

“What the hell was that about?” is how I’m greeted by my best friend, our QB, Camden Fields.

“Nothing. He’s just checking on me.” We exit the locker room together, and I’m grateful it’s mostly empty. That no one else is questioning me about why Coach wanted to talk to me.

Cam is the only one I tell everything to. We’ve grown close over the years, to the point that we also live together at one of the apartment buildings near campus. Most of our team is in that building, all on the same floor, which means we are together constantly. And most of the time, I like it.

Right now, I’m wanting to retreat. To hide away for a few hours and nurse my wounds. I don’t like the twinge I’m currently feeling in my knee. Or the fact that I have to take that damn English class this semester. Physical therapy on top of that is going to really eat into my study time, something I can’t afford to lose.

“Something’s bothering you,” Cam says as we head for the parking lot. While we do live near campus, said campus is fucking huge, which means we drive over to the field every afternoon for practice. Today, we took Cam’s car. “You look ready to chew through steel.”

A ragged exhale leaves me. “Coach ordered PT for me.”

He’s quiet for a moment, absorbing what I said. “For your knee?”

I nod.

“I’m sure it’ll be good for you.”

“I’m sure it will,” I agree as we both climb into his Dodge Challenger. “But I need every spare minute I can get to do homework.”

“You’re worried about that English class, huh?” Cam fires up the engine, giving it gas, making it roar.

Show off.

“I’m going to fail.”

“With that kind of attitude, hell yeah, you will.”

I glare at him. “Thanks for the encouragement.”

“I’m just speaking the truth. You’re so negative lately. Where did our happy, go-lucky Knox go? I miss him.” Cam throws the gear into reverse and glances over his shoulder before backing out of the parking space, the engine rumbling. “It’s our senior year, man. We should be on top of the world. Having a good time.”