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Chapter 1

Weston

T he sun is brutal today. It’s pretty damn brutal every day, but today especially. There’s sweat dripping into my eyes, but I’m forcing myself to ignore it. Benson is my priority right now anyway.

“Dammit, Ben. You’re drifting inside too early. Stick to the route!” I shout across the field.

Benson nods, irritation clear on his face as he jogs in my direction. “Alright, let’s run it again.”

I step behind the line, getting into position. I pull in a deep slow breath, until it doesn’t feel like my lungs can hold any more air, and then I exhale slowly through pursed lips, letting my shoulders relax as I do.

Out here? Nothing matters. Not my dad’s constant pressure. Not my stress about my grades and keeping my scholarship. Not my lack of true connection with people. Nothing. It’s just me, the ball, and my team.

“Set.” The ball flies into my hands and I step back, bouncing on my toes as I scan the field. Benson’s sprinting, his feet pounding as he runs the route. For a second, I think he’s going to cut short again, but he doesn’t.

I let the ball fly from my hand, and this time when it spirals through the air, it lands directly in his outstretched hands, and he pulls it into his chest with a whoop before diving into the end zone. He spikes the ball into the ground and turns to me with a triumphant grin.

“See!” I shout, running after him to tap his helmet. “I told you.”

He flashes me a sheepish grin. “Yeah, yeah. You know it all.”

Plays like this remind me why I love this game. It’s about building someone up, showing them they can do the hard things. They can work it out and come out victorious. Even when we don’t win, we still leave it all on the field. Being the one who helps these guys believe in themselves? Seeing their happiness when everything falls into place? When all the hard work and practice culminates in us winning or plays like that one going off without a hitch? That’s why I love this.

Before we can line up, Coach’s whistle pierces the air. “Bring it in, boys.” We all jog over to him, standing in a circle around him. “Good practice today. We still have work to do, but things are shaping up nicely. Hale, I need to see you in my office after you’ve showered.”

My stomach drops out, but I nod. We all break apart and head into the locker room together. There’s conversation happening all around me, but I can’t really focus on any of it. It’s likely that Coach doesn’t need anything important. Maybe he wants to go over plays with me. Maybe he wants to talk about our first game.

I’m still trying to convince myself of that when I strip off my sweaty gear and step into the showers. It’s not exactly working out for me. Mostly because I know the most plausible reason for him to be calling me into his office is that I’m not doing… great in my history class. And by that, I mean, I’m failing.

I have no idea why, but I just don’t understand it. My brain can’t seem to figure out the timelines. It can’t seem to make sense of the complexities of it. The dates and names and events. It all just turns to mush in my brain and I can’t make it stick the way I need it to.

The hot water beats down on my shoulders, but it does nothing to calm the tension radiating through me. It’s not like I’m not trying. I am. Half the time I’m exhausted from staying up late and studying. Or, well, trying to.

It’s not even like I’m all that interested in my history class. It’s a means to an end. A requirement of my degree. But that’s the thing. I need it. Without this class, I don’t have football. Without football, I lose my scholarship.

My dad would just love that. I can already picture his contempt—his disappointment. He always swore I’d never be anything more than an employee and eventual owner of his mechanic shop, but I’m more than that. Not that there’s anything wrong with what he does, but it’s just not for me.

Which brings me to how important passing this class is.

I know I’m struggling. It’s frustrating too. To work and work and work for something and for the pieces to not fall into place. I hate it. It’s the worst. To spend an entire week studying my ass off, only to get my test back and not pass. I really don’t understand why my brain won’t just grasp the concepts.

Standing here isn’t going to help me. Dragging it out won’t make it not suck when the time comes. So I quickly clean up and step out, dressing in a pair of shorts and a t-shirt .

I sneak out of the locker room before anyone can stop me, and knock on Coach’s office door. His gruff, “Come in,” has me opening the door and stepping inside.

He looks up from the notes he’s working on in front of him and points his pen toward the door. “Close that.”

I do. Stepping closer to him, I sit down across from him at his desk. My spine is ramrod straight and any tension I managed to get out of my system has come back with a vengeance.

Coach sighs. “History.”

My stomach twists. I knew that’s what this was about. I knew it was, and yet, I was still unprepared for the gut punch of hearing it out loud. “Yes, sir,” I force myself to say. “I know I’m not doing the best in there.”

He lets out a barking laugh. “Not doing the best? Kid, you’re failing.”

I swallow hard against my nerves and nod. “Yeah. I’m working really hard, but I’m not sure what else I can do.” It sounds so flimsy. But it’s the truth. I have a lot riding on this. My entire future. The approval of my dad, if that’s something I can even get. And more importantly, I can’t let Mrs. Jackson down. She’s the only reason I’m here. “I’m studying non-stop. I’m just not grasping it, I guess.”

He drums his fingers on the desk. “I know you are, Hale. You’re a good kid. Driven. A leader. Have you talked to Professor Sinclair about your struggles?”

I can’t say that I have. He’s withdrawn and quiet. A little standoffish. I haven’t even really considered talking to him. Not in any real way. Maybe I should have. I wonder if he would offer extra credit or something. “No, sir. But I will. ”

I stand, ready to take on just about anything to keep myself on this team and keep my future aspirations alive. “Hale!” Coach barks, so I turn to look at him. “Don’t let me down. I need you on the field.”

My heart stutters in my chest. I need to be on the field too. But not for the reasons he needs me out there. I just hope I can figure it out. I’ll say one thing. The weight of everyone’s expectations is heavy. I can only hope they don’t crush me.

Stepping into Professor Sinclair’s office is nerve-wracking, and I have to swallow down the ball of anxiety building in my throat. I want to do well. I want to succeed. I’m not sure why I didn’t think about doing this before. It would have made things easier on myself.

Maybe if I had stopped in sooner—asked for help sooner—I wouldn’t be so far behind. “Mr. Hale, come have a seat,” Professor Sinclair says, gesturing to the chair across from his desk. When I sit down, I wipe my hands on my thighs, trying to clear the anxious sweat from my skin. “What can I do for you today?”

I clear my throat. “Well, I was wondering if there was any way I could do some extra credit in your class to get my grade up.”

He eyes me over the tops of his glasses. He’s younger than most of my professors. There’s an almost boyish look to him, even though he’s clearly an adult. He’s intense, but he doesn’t seem unkind, and I really need that right now. “What are you struggling with?”

I force a long deep breath into my lungs, exhaling slowly like I do on the field. “Well… everything? I think. ”

The corners of his lips tilt up in the barest of smiles. “Everything? All of history?”

I almost laugh. I don’t, but I want to because yeah… basically. “Yes, sir,” I say with a resolute nod. “I study. Every night, but I feel like the concepts aren’t sticking. As soon as I sit down to take the test, they all disappear.”

He nods slowly like he’s considering my words, then sits back in his chair and crosses his leg over his knee. “I don’t offer extra credit.”

The words slam into my chest and almost take my breath away. This was my lifeline. I thought maybe I could stop drowning, and instead, I feel like I’m even worse off than I was before. “I understand,” I force myself to say, trying not to let my disappointment seep into my voice. “I’ll um—I’ll try to figure something else out. Thank you for your time.”

He chuckles lightly. “Now hang on. I don’t offer extra credit, but I think I may be able to provide a solution. I’ve spoken with your other professors. They’re all very impressed with you. You’re an exemplary student. You’re hardworking, and it seems my class is the only one you’re having trouble with.”

I nod because my throat feels a little tight, but he’s not wrong. I’m not having issues in any other classes. I’m not sure why I’m struggling so much with his. I had the same issues with history in high school too, so it’s not even like this is new for me.

He watches me for a second. I feel a bit like a bug under a microscope. It’s unnerving. “I don’t think your issues are a lack of commitment or intellect. It’s clear you are very intelligent. My opinion is that the information is not being presented to you in a way you understand.”

I squeeze my hands into fists before releasing them slowly, embarrassment swirling through me. I glance down at my lap, unable to keep my eyes on his anymore. “I’ve tried so many things. Flashcards, making timelines. I’ve even tried to make stupid rhymes to remember the dates and people. It just doesn’t work. It doesn’t stick.”

I force my eyes to his.

“Have you considered asking for help?”

“I’m here now.”

He smiles. “You are, yes. That counts for something. Asking for extra credit will not give you the tools you need to succeed, though. It’s temporary. It doesn’t fix the root of the issue.”

I nod slowly, even though I’m not really sure what he means by that. “Okay.”

“My son is good at breaking things down in ways that are easier for people to understand. He’s helped many of my students. I can get you his contact information if you’d be interested in talking to him.”

I find myself nodding. I really will do anything at this point. I need to do something— anything— to pass this class. I don’t even need an A. I just need to pass. The thought of asking for help from someone who’s obviously much smarter than I am makes my skin itch a little, but I’ll have to get over that. “I’ll take any help I can get.”

Professor Sinclair nods, then jots down an email address and hands it over to me. “Here’s his email. Set up a time with him. If you can pass your mid-term with at least a seventy-five percent, it will bring your grade back into passing range.”

“Thank you,” I say, standing up and clutching the piece of paper in my hand like it’s my lifeline. It kind of is.

I’m almost to the door when his voice stops me. “And Mr. Hale? Next time, don’t wait so long to ask for help. It may surprise you how willing people are to offer a helping hand. Especially to those who will fight for themselves, hmm?”

“Yes, Professor. Thank you again.”

I’m still not convinced that even a tutor will help. I can hope, at least. That’s more than I had when I stepped foot into this office, and that’s something.

I barely even wait until I’m out of the office before I email Professor Sinclair’s son.

Hey, I’m Weston Hale. Your dad gave me your email and said you may be able to tutor me in history. I’d appreciate it if you can get back to me. -Weston

I’ve only taken a couple of steps when my phone dings with an email notification.

Yeah, he reached out to me about you. I can do that. Can you meet me on Wednesday at 6:30 p.m. in the library? We can get a feel for what you need help with. -D. Sinclair

Relief floods me, and it’s so potent and thick it almost brings me to my knees. Maybe everything will be okay after all.

Yes. Thank you. -Weston

I’ve barely made it two steps and my phone rings with my dad’s call. I want to ignore it, but I can’t. He’ll just call again, and the guilt trip will be much worse when he does. I’m not in the mood for that.

With a sigh, I brace myself for the onslaught and answer. “Hey, Dad.”

“Weston.” His voice is gruff—pissed, actually—and I wish I had just let it go to voicemail instead. “Are you coming home this weekend? I need your hands in the shop.”

I pinch the bridge of my nose. “I can’t, Dad. Practice started. I won’t have time to get home for a while.”

He’s quiet. Too quiet. “Football isn’t going to work long term, kid. You need to ditch that pipe dream and come home. Do what you’re meant to be doing.”

Rotting in a dead-end job I hate? In a town I hate? With people I can’t stand? No. “I am doing what I’m meant to be doing, Dad.”

He scoffs. “You think you’re going to make the big leagues? Be some hotshot NFL player?”

Actually, I don’t think that. That’s not what I want for my life at all, and he knows this. I’m not sure why he can’t seem to grasp it, though. I can’t stand constantly having to repeat myself. “I don’t want to be some hotshot football player, Dad. I want to be a teacher. You know this.”

“Teaching.” I can almost feel the contempt dripping from the word. He can’t understand why I don’t want to settle down and get married and have two point five kids and run the shop. He doesn’t understand why coming home covered in motor oil with callused hands doesn’t appeal to me. He never has, and I’m starting to think he never will.

“Yeah, Dad. Teaching. I don’t understand why this is such a big deal to you. It’s been my dream since I was a kid. It’s nothing new.”

“A dream I figured you’d outgrow in time. If I had known this would be how you’d end up, I would have never even let you play football. Not like you could have gotten a scholarship with your grades.”

Ouch. History notwithstanding, I actually have great grades. I always have. “I’m going to go, Dad. I have to study. Besides, I won’t let you talk to me any old way you want to. I’m not a teenager anymore, and I don’t have to put up with it.”

I hang up the phone without another word and shove it in my pocket, ignoring the call when it rings again almost immediately.

I can’t fail. This is my only shot. I need this to go well. I have to prove to him, and more importantly to myself, that I can be more. That I am more.