First Down (Beyond the Play, #1)(2)
“Thank you for coming in on short notice to talk,” she says. “I have some updates about your classes this semester.”
“Are there any problems?”
I only have a couple of major requirements left to fulfill in my senior year. My major is mathematics, so most of the classes I take deal in numbers alone, but I have space for an elective or two. This semester I signed up for marine biology, which is apparently easy and involves no essays, thank fuck. According to Seb, the professor is ancient and spends most of class showing National Geographic documentaries.
Dean Lionetti raises a gray eyebrow. “There is an issue with your writing class.”
Fuck. I have a lot of regrets about last year and letting myself fall off the wagon with schoolwork is a major one. I’m terrible at writing, but it’s still pathetic that I failed a writing class as a junior that I was supposed to take and pass freshman year anyway.
“I thought everything transferred.”
“Primarily, yes. But when we reviewed your records more closely, it revealed that you failed the required writing course the first time around. Perhaps at your old university they made concessions for athletes”—she says athletes like we’re all a fungal disease— “but here, we hold everyone to the same academic standards. The professor was kind enough to open a spot in his class, which you will retake this semester since it’s only offered in the fall.”
I feel that marine bio class slipping away by the second. Dean Lionetti’s tone makes it clear she thinks I’m dumber than a sack of rocks. She probably feels the same about all athletes. Which is total bullshit. What happened last fall was the anomaly; I’ve worked hard for my degree. As Dad constantly reminds us, our athletic careers will only last so long. Even if I have a successful NFL career—which I fully intend—most of my life will take place after I retire.
“I see,” I bite out.
“I’ve updated your schedule accordingly—the class will take your elective spot. If you have any questions, please take it up with my office or the registrar.”
She stands. She’s dismissing me without a discussion.
I swallow down my embarrassment, although my ears feel hot.
Welcome to McKee University.
I take a deep breath and remind myself why I’m here. Degree, then the NFL.
I just have to find a way to get through this class first.
When I arrive at the house, Seb is sitting cross-legged on the floor, untangling a ball of wires. I give him a wave as I set my keys down on the foyer table, then look around the den. Aside from Seb and his mess, there’s not much going on yet, just an L-shaped leather couch, a coffee table, and a TV mounted on the wall. When we decided to rent this place for the year, seeing as all three of us would be at the same university, the listing said it wasn’t furnished. I have a sneaking suspicion about who made this happen.
“Sandra sent it all,” Seb says, gesturing around the room with the ball of wires. “The delivery guys set it up like this, but we could move it if we need to.”
Mom works scary-fast. I’m sure that the moment she heard her boys, the two she carried and the one she adopted, were sharing a house together, she went to Pottery Barn. Lucky for us she has nice taste.
There’s a crash overhead, and we both glance up with a wince.
“He’s doing some redecorating.” Seb says. “How was the meeting?”
I wander into the kitchen. I doubt the fridge is stocked yet, but a guy can hope there’s at least beer. I don’t drink much during the season, but technically we still have a couple days before everything gets in full swing. Lo and behold, there’s a six-pack sitting on one of the shelves next to a container of pineapple and a carton of eggs, and for some reason, a little jar of horseradish.
Seb appears in the doorway as I bring the heel of my hand down on the bottle cap to loosen it. It comes off with a pop. I take a long pull, and I must look as pissed as I feel, because Seb’s brow knits together.
“What happened?”
“The Dean decided to fuck me, that’s what happened. She’s making me retake that writing class.”
“That sounds dumb.”
“It is dumb,” I grumble. “But they looked at my transcripts and saw I failed it at LSU. Back when…”
“Yeah,” Seb says. “I know.”
A twang of hurt runs through me. Last year was a disaster for many reasons, but I miss Sara anyway. I take another sip of my beer, looking around the room. There’s a big dining room table, which reminds me of our home in Port Washington, and the kitchen isn’t half bad. Plenty of space to cook some meals like the athletic trainers suggest. There’s a door to the backyard, which has a fire pit and a couple of Adirondack chairs set up around it. And once Seb has the den set up, we should be able to play some sweet games.
“This is nice,” I say.
“Yeah,” he says. “So, what did you say?”
“I mean, I couldn’t argue it. I did fail the class.”
“But it’s your senior year. You came here to play football.”
“And graduate.”
Seb sighs. “Yeah. There’s that.”
My parents are amazingly supportive of my football ambitions, in part because Dad played. He knows the grind better than anyone. It was his dream at first, that one of his boys would follow in his footsteps, but it became mine too long ago. Without a shot at playing in the league, my life would feel incomplete. End of story. But we’ve been taught that education is important too, so as much as I’m focused on football, I know I need to get my degree. As talented as Cooper is at hockey, Dad didn’t even let him enter the NHL draft because he was afraid that he’d leave college for the league and never graduate. Following Seb’s dad’s wishes, Seb was drafted for baseball back in high school, but he’s committed to playing all four years here at McKee before figuring out his MLB career path. “You can’t ask your new coach to intervene? He practically stole you from LSU, he wants you here.”