“I got the grades for the finals you’ve taken so far.”
I still have a final exam left to take. I hadn’t bothered looking at my grades, but if Coach has them, it means something is wrong.
“Relatively speaking, you’re doing well.” Thank God. The last thing I need is… “However, you failed biology,” he adds.
“I did what?” I ask in disbelief. Biology was one of the hardest classes I had to take, but I never thought I’d fail it.
“You failed the final exam, son,” he repeats, his voice holding a little sympathy.
He feels bad for me and he’s not the only one.
“Can I look?” I ask, wanting to confirm it with my own eyes. He nods and hands over the folder. “C, B…” my eyes skim down the paper until I find what he’s talking about. Written there, mocking me, is a giant “F” next to my biology class. Professor Stein failed me.
“You know you can’t play if you fail a class.” His words hit me like a train at full speed.
“I have to play,” I tell him, getting up from my chair.
He gets up too and rounds his desk. “Considering we have the most important game of the season coming up, I think you need to play too.”
I feel a headache forming and I run my hands through my hair. “So, can I play?”
He shakes his head. “Rules are rules. Players are expected to maintain their grades if they want to remain on the field.” He regurgitates the same rules he’s given us at the start of every season—the same thing I’ve complied with for the last two years.
“Is there anything you can do?” I’m not opposed to begging. I need to be out on the field if I want professional teams to notice me. I need to play this year if I want to make sure my parents never want for anything.
This is supposed to be my last year. I’m not going to wait until graduation; I’m applying for the draft in a couple of months. If I don’t play now, I might have to do yet another year of college, another year of working every single day to make ends meet.
I can’t do that.
I need this.
“I need to play,” I say, knowing Coach won’t understand just how much.
“You should’ve been focusing on school,” he shouts. “Your focus should be football and class. Why can’t you boys understand that?”
“I have been doing both.”
“Clearly not well.”
“Coach, you know I was going to declare my intentions to register for the draft after the NCAA Championship Game.”
After we win.
Coach returns to his desk and takes a seat. I take a deep breath and do the same.
“I know,” he says, resigned. “The team needs you out there.”
My parents need me out there too.
“So, what can we do?” I pray there’s a way out of this.
“I’ve talked to Professor Stein. He’s letting you retake the final exam on January 8th.”
“Okay, I’ll do that.”
“This is the only shot you’re getting.”
“I won’t let you down, Coach. I promise.” I don’t know how the hell I’m going to get the information through my head, but I’ll get it done. I have to.
“No, you won’t. I’ll be making sure of that.”
“Thank you so much, Coach.” The man is heavy handed and can sometimes be out of line, but he fights for his players. He wants wins on his record too and he can’t do that without his best players on the field. Luckily for me, I’m one of them.
“Don’t thank me yet. Starting tomorrow, you’ll be meeting with a tutor as well.”
“A tutor?”
Coach looks at me and I can see the determination in his eyes. “We need to make sure you don’t fail again. You’ll be meeting with a tutor twice a week to help you learn what you need to for the exam.”
“I don’t think that’s necessary, sir,” I argue. I know I shouldn’t be looking a gift horse in the mouth, but I have so much on my plate already. Tutoring requires time.
“By the look of that F, I think it is.”
Coach doesn’t say anything else, which is my cue to leave. I get up from the chair and extend my hand out to him.
“Thank you again, sir.”
He brings his hand to my own. “I’ll have the tutor send you an email. And Zack?”
“Yes, Coach?”
“I know you have a final this week. Don’t fail that one too.”
With those parting words, I leave Coach Wilson’s office and head straight home for a shower before going to the exam prep session for my last ongoing class.
8
EMMA
I wake up a little later than normal the next day, thankful I have an afternoon final rather than a morning one like Zoe. I’m glad she’s not here though; it gives me the privacy I need to have the dreaded conversation with my mom.
Rolling out of bed, I go through my morning routine—brush teeth, shower, get dressed—all the while mentally preparing myself. I stare at my phone charging on my desk, my stomach twisting in painful knots. As soon as I’m ready, I take a seat at my desk, let out a breath and pull up my mom’s contact details.
I can’t believe she didn’t tell me. Why would she let my insensitive father break the news to me?
I’m livid at the memory of his words—at his oh, by the way, your mom moved out crap that he pulled on me after forcing me to tutor one of his precious football players.
I’m disappointed I didn’t put up a bigger fight. Then again, he’s the reason I go to Bragan for free. Being debt free at twenty is one of the perks—perhaps the only one—of being the coach’s daughter.
I force myself to tap on Mom’s name; I can’t delay this any longer.
She picks up after the first ring. “Emma?”
I hesitate, caught a little off guard since I thought I had a solid four seconds before she picked up.
“Hi, Mom.” I haven’t talked to her in a couple of weeks, and I blame myself for that. When I moved to college, I distanced myself from her, too.
“Is everything okay?” she asks.
“Yup,” I lie. “How are you?”
She utters something to someone in the background before saying, “Everything’s good. I’m over at your aunt’s house.” She doesn’t tell me she’s there permanently, and I realize she won’t tell me anything until I push her.
“I saw Dad.”
“Really?” she says, clearly surprised.
“Hmm.”
“Well that’s good! It’s not like he’s far from you, Emma. You should be seeing him more often; you’re both at Bragan together.” There she goes again with the same spiel. Defending him. Telling me to reach out to him.
“He ordered me to his office.” I choose my words carefully, showing her I wasn’t a willing participant in the reunion with my father.
“You’re both so stubborn.” She says this like she’s reminiscing about the qualities my father and I share.
I rub my hand over my face, unable to believe this conversation is taking so long to get to its point. “He told me you moved out,” I blurt out, unable to hold back any longer.
“Oh!” she says.
“Yeah. He said you were going to be spending some time away.”
“You know your father exaggerates things.”
I know Dad sometimes blows things out of proportion, but Mom tends to do the complete opposite. “What happened?”
“We got into a small fight.” A fight? I didn’t even think they did that.
“About what?” I pry. It’s technically none of my business, but it sort of is. My relationship with my parents isn’t the greatest, but their relationship with each other has always been good.
“Nothing important.”
“It was important enough for you to move out,” I retort.
“We had a difference of opinions. I’m glad to know he reached out to you.”
The moment she utters those words, my eyes widen in understanding.
“Was the fight about me?” I
hope it wasn’t, but I know I’m the only point of disagreement in their marriage—me and being a girl.
“How’s school?” she asks, trying to change the direction of the conversation.
“So it was about me. What happened this time?”
She sighs in resignation. “I just told him he doesn’t spend enough time with you.”
“You moved out because of that?” Dad not spending time with me isn’t something new. It’s, tragically, something I’m used to.
“I wanted to prove a point.”
I straighten a pen on my desk. “And what point was that?”
“If he keeps pushing people away, he’s going to end up alone.”
“Is he pushing you away?”
“He’s pushing me away by pushing you away,” my mother says, exasperated. Her statement surprises me. I’ve heard her stand up for me every once in a while, but I didn’t think things were bothering her this much.
“You didn’t have to.”
“It should’ve happened a long time ago. Clearly, he needed the wake up call seeing as you both finally saw each other.”
Oh.
“So you think you leaving got him to beckon me to his office?”
“Yes. I mean, how long has it been since the two of you have seen each other? Emma Lynn Wilson, I’m pretty sure I’ve seen you more times than he has and you’re about an hour from me and five minutes from him.”
Well, that’s true. “It’s just…”
“You both need to start spending more time with each other, and I think your father is finally starting to realize that. What did y’all talk about, I mean, aside from me moving out temporarily?”
Oh, Mom, nothing much. He’s forcing me to tutor one of his football players. Those are the words I want to say, but I don’t. I don’t want to be the reason for their marriage falling apart or for her to become even madder at him because I know she loves him.
Instead, I tell her, “Not a lot,”
“Come on, give me more details. My sacrifice has to be worth it. Spending so much time with your aunt isn’t all it’s cracked up to be,” she whines.
What could I tell her to give her hope that her efforts are worth something, even though I don’t think they are? “Well, we talked about school. He had a look at my grades and saw I was doing really well…” And is now using that against me.
“Yes!” my mom exclaims, and I can imagine the satisfied look in her eyes. It’s sad that my father doing so little would get this reaction from her. If only he actually cared.
“Yup,” I tell her, and because I don’t want to keep lying to her, or pretending my father and I are mending a relationship that’s been broken since the day I was born, I say my goodbyes.
“Good luck with school. Keep me posted, and remember to give your old man a chance. He’s clearly trying.”
Yup. Clearly.
I get home from school to an empty dorm room. That’s to be expected because the semester is ending and there’s not much else left to do.
Dropping my bag on top of my desk, I remove the bun from my head and plop down onto my bed. Today has been emotionally exhausting. I finished my last exam though, so that’s a positive. I’ve also discovered one decent thing about Mom and Dad taking a temporary hiatus from each other: I don’t think I’ll be expected to go home for the break, which is a good thing for me. It means I get to sit right in this dorm and fall in love with so many different book boyfriends.
Speaking of going home for the break, I grab my phone and send a text to Zoe.
Me: Want to go out for ice cream later? Let me know when you’re coming home.
Zoe: It should be no more than 2 hours.
Me: Plenty of time for me to finish reading!
Zoe: Have fun…with your sexy books.
Me: Bye, Zoe.
Zoe: See ya later, Emma. (;
I get up and walk to my bookcase, picking up my latest literary addition, Yours for the Taking by Kally Ash, then head over to my desk so I can devour the rest of it. I open it to the page where I last left off but close it again when my phone alerts me to an incoming email.
When I open the notification, I realize it’s from my father. The subject reads: Tutoring Football Student. Straight to the point as always.
I groan before clicking the email open.
To: Emma Wilson
From: Coach Wilson
Subject: Tutoring Football Student
Emma Lynn,
Today I met with the student you will be tutoring. I told him to expect an email from you today to try and set up time for the sessions. He’ll be retaking the biology final at the end of the break. I figured you weren’t planning on going home anyway, so email him as soon as you can and set it up.
I can’t afford to not have him out on the field. He needs to pass the class. I’m sure a B or C should get him there, but he’s going to need all the help he can get.
Here’s his email: [email protected]. Hayes will be expecting to hear from you.
Best,
Coach Wilson.
As I read his email, I notice a few things. First, he just assumes I’ll be at his disposal during the break. Second, the guy I’m tutoring must be an idiot. How could he fail biology? I mean, that’s the easiest kind of science there is. I can also tell he’s an idiot because even my father’s standards are low—a C? That’s all this guy needs and he couldn’t get that on his own? Something else I notice is the power of football. If I fail a class, I don’t get to retake the final exam at the end of the year. No one cares about me because I’m not on the football team, but this guy gets a do-over. Talk about getting life handed to you.
That’s another thing I’ve learned to hate about sports: athletes seem to get away with everything.
My father didn’t even bother to tell me the guy’s first name. Is that another rule in football, only referring to people by their last names? I’ve been around the Football House enough times to hear them throw around Hunter and Falcon, but I thought that was just them—not the entire football team and coaching staff.
Finally, and my rant will likely end after this, my dad’s signature.
Not ‘Dad.’
Not ‘your father.’
Just ‘Coach Wilson.’
I’ve worked myself up to the point that I no longer feel like reading. Pulling out my laptop, I head over to my email and start typing the first one to the stupid jock.
Dear Over Privileged Idiot,
My sperm donor would like for me to help you get a C because, apparently, you can’t do that.
And neither can I. This email is totally off base and I know I’m just letting off steam, but whoever this football player is, he doesn’t need me to take it all out on him. With the amount of time I spend at the Football House, and at football games with Zoe, I don’t need to make any enemies.
I erase the text and start again, always making sure that the email address is the last thing I add.
To: [email protected]
CC: Coach Wilson
From: [email protected]
Subject: Tutoring Sessions
Mr. Hayes,
I was informed by Coach Wilson that you need a tutor for biology. I’ll be staying on campus during the break and am happy to meet with you to discuss a schedule going forward and reviewing assignments. Please let me know when works for you.
Best,
E.L.W.
I don’t bother to sign with my full name because I don’t want him to realize Coach Wilson is my father. That isn’t something I go around telling people—let alone football players who may try and use it to their advantage. I’ve told only Zoe and have sworn her to secrecy.
Closing out of the mail window, I fire up Netflix and pick a movie to watch.
9
ZACK
I get out of my final class, relief immediately flooding me. I’m so glad I got this final exam over with. I didn’t even need to study for it since I was kicking that clas
s’ butt.
Unlike biology.
I can’t believe Coach knew I failed it before I did. Professor Stein must’ve told him. That, or he keeps an eye on all our grades.
I don’t know if I should be angry at Stein or not. On one hand, failing me just seems like a terrible thing to do, especially when I worked so hard to pass. On the other hand, he’s giving me a second chance to fix it before the grade becomes a permanent blemish on my career.
Zipping up my bag, I step out of class and start walking over to the athletics building for practice. It’s no surprise that Coach still expects me to be here. That alone gives me hope.
Feeling my phone buzz in my pocket, I pull it out to see I have an email from the tutor, an email that they cc’d Coach on also. I read the email, still hurrying toward training. I can’t be late again. Running extra laps sucks.
Two things strike me as I read. The first is the fact that I talked to Coach about a tutor only yesterday morning. This person has already reached out to me, which tells me Coach must’ve told them the importance of me passing this class.
The next part is whoever this is, they’ll be staying on campus during the break to tutor me. That’s a little less shocking though, especially if it’s a girl and a jersey chaser. As long as football players are here, they stay regardless of what holiday it is.
God, I really hope my tutor isn’t a girl.
I keep reading the email, my eyes lingering on a word: assignments? It practically jumps out of the email at me. What assignments is this person talking about? I didn’t hear anything about that when I talked to Professor Stein earlier today. It’s supposed to be an exam.
Bragan Boys (Bragan University Boxset) Page 42
