Page 1 of The Play Maker

1

AUSTIN

I’ve made a lot of bad decisions in my life, but thinking I could wing this class might be the dumbest one yet.

“You gave me an F?”

Professor Carlisle peers up at me over his thick-rimmed glasses, one bushy brow already halfway to his hairline.

“You left the last three pages completely blank,” he says, his brow climbing even higher. It freaks me out—looks like a baby caterpillar trying to crawl off his face. “You’re lucky you even got a grade.”

I scrub a hand down my face. “C’mon, sir. You know if I fail, I’ll get benched.”

He lets out a sigh, his fingers hovering over the keyboard for a second, before he starts typing again. “I’m sorry, Mr. Rhodes, but I don’t give special treatment to anyone.” He stops typing. Squints at me. “And that includes you and every other athlete on this campus.”

My mind spins faster than my skates on the ice. Fuck. Fuck.Fuck. This can’t be happening. If I get suspended from the team, my life is basically over. Hockey is the only thing I’m good at, theone thing that keeps my brain from spiraling into overthinking hell.

“Please,” I beg, leaning over his desk, trying not to sound desperate, even though I totally am. “I’ll do extra credit. I’ll take the test again or?—”

He removes his glasses, sets them down, and lets out another long sigh. “I told you already, Mr. Rhodes. No special treatment. You can’t take the test again, though I’ll be honest, I doubt it would make a difference.”

He shakes his head, his disappointment practically radiating off him. Yeah, I’m disappointed in myself too…trust me.

“Look,” he says, leaning back in his chair, arms folding over the worn tweed of his jacket. “The only thing you can do now is study. Actually study the material, and I have no doubt that you’ll pass next time. But that’s up to you and whether you’re willing to put in the work or not.”

Fuck. I run a hand through my hair, tugging at the strands in frustration. He doesn’t fucking get it. I try. I try every single day to make sense of the stupid fucking words on the paper. And I can’t. No matter what I do, it just doesn’t click.

My jaw tightens. My body locks up. My chest feels like it’s about to explode. Blood’s pumping in my ears, making my head spin. I hate myself so much right now.

“So, there’s nothing I can do?” I ask again, trying to stay calm, but the desperation creeps in my tone. I don’t want special treatment. I just want… a chance. A shot to prove myself. To stay on the team. To keep my scholarship. To not blow the one thing I’m good at.

Professor Carlisle presses his lips together. “You could get a tutor,” he suggests. “Maybe working with someone else will help you actually understand the material, instead of spending your weekends at the bar.”

I slump. Yeah, he’s right. I don’t study nearly as much as I should. Instead, I party. Because studying is boring as hell, and my brain refuses to do anything that doesn’t involve a puck or a shot of whiskey.

“A tutor?” I repeat.

He nods, keeping his eyes on his desk as he packs his stuff away. “Head down to the tutoring center and have a look. Maybe one of them will be able to help you.” He finally glances up at me, pushing his glasses up his nose. “Though personally, I suggest Maisie Wilson. She’s got a solid track record and happens to have a spot available.”

He stands up, grabbing his bag and giving me a pointed look. “Now, if that’s all, you can go. Class was dismissed ten minutes ago.”

I blow out a breath, and turn around, heading up the stairs. I push the door open and step out into the hallway, feeling like I just got kicked in the nuts.

Great. Now I’ve got to track down this Maisie person. I’ve never heard of her, and I know a lot of women on campus.

Fuck, I hate asking for help. It’s about as comfortable as walking naked into a lecture hall. It’s humiliating. Embarrassing. It’s?—

I dig my phone out of my jeans and fire off a quick text.

Me:

Confession. I fucking hate asking for help.

I hit send, leaning against the wall, my thumb hovering as I wait for the dots to pop up, though she might not answer right away. No clue what she’s doing right now. Is she in bed? In class? Out with her friends? With a boyfriend?

I know next to nothing about her. Not her real name, not what school she goes to, not even what she looks like. And yet, somehow, we’ve been texting every day since that first message she sent me.

I scroll up, finding it easily.