The Revenge Pact (Kings of Football, #1)(17)

He gives me a thumbs-up as they leave. “Will do.”

Miss Janie pulls at her little cardigan, her feathers clearly ruffled.

“You okay?”

She shakes her head. “It’s been a while since someone busted in here. I need a margarita. I’m glad you were here, River.”

Ah. Yeah. The question is, will I be here for long…





Later, I stand outside Edward’s office. He’s my student-athlete academic advisor.

Just get it over with.

I finally knock on the doorframe.

“Come on in, River. How are you doing?”

I reply with a noncommittal answer. He’s not Miss Janie. I’m just a number to him.

“Good, good, have a seat,” he murmurs as he opens up a thick folder with my name on it. “We have a few things to talk about. Most importantly, we need to know if you have made your decision about the draft or if you want to return to Braxton next semester?”

Cement lands on my chest. “My mind changes every day, sir. One minute I want to stay, and the next I want to take my chances as a low draft pick.”

He frowns. “You don’t know?”

“No.”

He laughs a little under his breath as he shakes his head. Dude doesn’t get how my brain works. “I see. What are you thinking today?”

A long sigh comes from me. “Let’s say I want to come back. Are my grades okay, or am I in trouble?”

He types some more on the computer, his expression hardening as he furrows his brow. “Your grades suck in this lit class.”

No shit.

“You’re cool in Dances of North America, Beginning Improv, and Modern Art.” He looks at me. “I told you not to take this literature class. I had that geology one lined up. Much less reading.”

“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…