Page 3 of Call the Shots (For The Arena #1)
JUNE
YOU CONNIVING LITTLE FUCK WEASEL
There was something ironic about being summoned for a behavioral meeting in the same room I designed to be ‘nonthreatening.’ While three student workers shuffled papers across the desk, I could see the effort we put in to make this room a safe place.
Soft pastel colors, fluffy pillows on the couches, and a poster on the wall with a kitten hanging off a tree branch— hang in there, buddy!
I resisted the urge to dig my nails into my palm.
“I know I haven’t been myself,” I said when no one else said anything.
The three of them nodded awkwardly, which wasn't something they were supposed to nod to. I would know, I trained them.
“I’m sorry,” I continued. “I’ve been going through a—um—mental health crisis, and I didn’t mean to crash the golf cart?—”
“That’s not why you’re here, June,” Brammhi admitted. “You’ve been brought in to talk about your…academic performance.”
My stomach dropped. Summer classes hadn’t started yet, but once they did, I was determined to do well in them.
I had to. They were the classes I’d failed spring semester.
Me, June Basil, known for checking off every extra credit opportunity, who showed up early to class, who made treat bags for the professors who preemptively wrote me recommendation letters on the off chance I needed them…
Now, June Basil, class-failer. Semester-failer.
I skipped class constantly, hiding from Xavier, and holed myself up in my sanctuary, my beloved house. But my ex wouldn’t be around for my retake classes, because he still had his name on the dean’s list—I didn’t.
“Okay.” I sighed. “I’m ready to create a plan of action.”
The three of them winced.
“A plan of action?” I repeated. “The paperwork’s in the file cabinet?—”
“June,” Allyson said softly. “Your GPA was a one-point-two.”
I flushed, embarrassed. “For one semester. The rest of the time, I’ve been a four-point-oh student?—”
“I’m sorry—um—” Brammhi could barely look me in the eye. “The department is only looking at the previous semester’s grades.”
“For what?”
“Students need to have a two-point-five to…continue in the housing department. The rules have changed.”
“ What? It’s always been cumulative!”
“We’re just as surprised as you are,” Ineye blurted out. “It was an emergency measure, we don’t know what’s going on. But…that means you’ll be relinquishing your badge, your office, and?—”
“My house? ” I choked out.
More flinches. More nods.
“You—you don’t understand.” I fought to keep the tremor out of my voice. “I’ve had that house since freshman year, that’s where my friends hang out, it’s our favorite place—you three have been to my parties! You can’t take my house!”
Apologies were whispered, but none of them looked at me anymore.
I shoved myself out of my chair, heart racing. “Residential directors decided this. Xavier did this.”
Ineye bit her lip. “Erm…he was the one to suggest it to the board…”
I stormed out to the main room, busy with the end of spring semester.
Corkboards lined the walls with Marrs flags, huge white tables were structured in the middle of the room, covered in craft projects.
Every student worker stalled over their laptops and glittery posters.
Eyes watched me as I stalked towards Xavier’s office.
“You conniving little fuck weasel!” I snapped, slamming the door behind me.
He didn’t even bother to stop typing. “Hey, June.”
“You’re taking away my house?! ”
“Think of it as payback for my car.”
“I had nothing to do with that!”
Really, I didn’t, two of my best friends smashed Xavier’s cherry red Clemenza after they caught him cheating on me.
It was a whole thing, and I didn’t know until after.
If they would’ve told me before, I would’ve stopped them.
My friends could’ve gotten into so much trouble, I’d never ask them to take risks like that for me.
“You know who did,” Xavier pushed. “I want a name.”
I glared.
“You want your house? Give me a name. ”
“You slippery fuck, I did everything for you. I put you in that chair!” I ripped open the door, raising my voice loud enough for everyone to hear.
“I paid for everything in this office, this stuff is mine! You don’t win those fundraising weeks, your grandpa writes you a check!
All those recommendation letters, I got those for you! Nobody wanted to sign off on them!”
Xavier paled, gaping like a fish.
“The only reason it’s not me in that chair is because I was stupid enough to listen to you!”
“June—”
“Maybe I was naive but at least I kept my receipts! You don’t know what’s coming to you, Xavier!”
I whirled around to see Bear Moreau, smoothie in hand. The only one who didn’t shy away from looking at me, the rest were red with embarrassment.
“You really are a stalker,” he scoffed.
‘Xavier’ was written on the smoothie. After everything, he’d get a smoothie. A fucking smoothie . Without a word, I moved to pass Bear slamming my fist to the top of the cup, knocking it to the floor in a brilliant orange explosion.
Fuck him too.
I didn’t stop walking until I hit the golden lion statues outside. Then, and only then, did I allow myself to cry.
None of this made a difference.
They were empty threats. I couldn’t do anything that’d land my family in the news, and getting even wouldn’t solve anything. I wouldn’t get my house back.
I sank to the ground and wrapped my arms around my knees, hugging myself as tight as I could. Nobody knew how bad everything was, and the thought of breaking open that Pandora’s box made me squeeze myself tighter.
Burying my head, I sobbed.
I didn’t recognize myself anymore.
The June before, homecoming queen, highlighted planner, preppy football girl with a clear face and two sizes smaller, would’ve never fallen this far and smashed to pieces. I would’ve given anything to be that June again.
I needed my house back. I needed my old life back.
The tears eased, and I brushed the last of them away. What I needed was a chance.
And I knew who to go to.
The training center was buzzing with activity, everyone either preparing for summer training or their trips outside of Houston.
I fixed my makeup in the bathroom, trying my best to smile, like my insides weren’t crumbling to dust. Upstairs, I found the familiar War Room where Cleo Bennight, a no-nonsense redhead who always had her bluetooth headset in her ear, turned fires to fireworks.
“Cleo?” I called, my voice shaky.
She was packing everything into boxes, which was…weird? Cleo just graduated and was promoted from head intern to PR director. Why would they take her office away?
“June?” She picked up a tape runner. “What is it?”
Swearing her to secrecy, I told her all of the sticky, terrible details no one else knew. Every time a tear fell, I quickly wiped it away. I didn’t want to cry, I wanted a solution.
Cleo’s frown deepened until she had her head in her hands.
“ June . Why didn’t you come to me months ago?”
“I thought I could handle it.” The lump in my throat wouldn’t go down. It hurt to swallow. “I need my house. I’ll do anything for the Romans.”
She checked something on her phone and sighed. “Athletics only has so much influence. A signed lease, tied with the housing department? That’s outside of our jurisdiction. We can’t touch that.”
I sank into the only chair left. “There has to be something I can do. Anything. ”
“Get your grades up. Apologize. Reapply to the housing department in the fall.”
“I have summer classes. I don’t know where I’m going to stay.”
“You could always…”
Her question trailed off where I didn’t want to go. I worked hard on campus to prove myself as a dedicated, imperative cog in the machine. I didn’t only want to be June Basil, daughter of Freddie Basil, one of the loudest city council members.
Besides, I couldn’t imagine how that conversation would go. My family had no idea I ruined my life.
Going to them, homeless, was unthinkable.
“I can’t,” I whispered.
Cleo kneeled next to me. “June, I can’t get your house back, but I can get you a place on campus.”
“Summer housing closed the?—”
“Not through the housing department.”
“Oh.” I knew where this was going. “What am I doing for the Romans?”
“Not football. They’re transferring me.”
“ What? ” I stared in shock. Cleo Bennight was engaged to a wide receiver on the Texan Hounds.
She spent her entire college career dedicated to the program.
The only time I ever saw her without her usual professional blouse and pencil skirt combination was when she donned her fiancé’s jersey. “You’re leaving football?”
“They’re moving me to another sport. I don’t know anyone there. Or…anybody I like. It’d mean so much if you came aboard. It’d be free housing, a meal plan, a small but steady paycheck?—”
I hesitated. “What sport?”