Page 3 of Dirty Hit
“Don’t give me that look,” he snaps. “You know exactly what I’m talking about.”
“I’ve been busy,” I say evenly.
“Busy?” He laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “You’ve been busy every year you’ve been here. You’re not suddenly too busy to pass fucking Sociology.”
My jaw tightens. “It’s not exactly my priority.”
He steps around the desk and walks closer, lowering his voice. “That’s the problem. You’re projected to be a first-round pick; I know that. Hell, half the league knows that. But if you’re academically ineligible, you’re not stepping on that field for us again. And if you’re not stepping on that field, draft projections don’t mean shit.”
The words land hard, even if I don’t show it. I straighten up from the door and push off it slowly.
“I’m not gonna be ineligible,” I say.
“You are right now,” he shoots back. “Midterm reports came in this morning, and you’ve got mostly D’s. One more dip and you’re under the threshold.”
I drag a hand through my hair, damp strands sticking to my fingers. “I’ll pull it up.”
“With what time?” he asks sharply. “You’re already juggling practice, press, workouts, the peewee coaching, and sponsorship meetings. You think you’re gonna magically wake up one morning and give a shit about case law?”
I don’t like the way he says that, as if I don’t give a shit about anything. I just give a shit about the right things.
“I know what I’m doing,” I say, my voice going colder.
“No, you don’t,” he replies, and now he’s right in front of me. “You think, because you’re a six-four draft pick who can throw a fifty-yard pass on the run, that the rules don’t apply to you. But they do. And if you fail, it reflects on this program. It reflects onme.”
There it is. It’s not just about me; it’s abouthisreputation when the university’s golden boy starts screwing up.
“I’m not gonna be ineligible,” I repeat.
“You are if you don’t fix it.” He exhales and rubs his forehead. “Look, I’m not trying to fuck you over. I’m trying to protect you. You’ve worked too hard to let some academic bullshit derail this.”
I hold his gaze, saying nothing.
“I’m assigning you a TA,” he continues. “Top of the class. Kid’s a machine. I’ve seen him drag two other players from borderline probation to solid B averages in a couple of months. He’ll meet with you three times a week, go over assignments, and keep you on track. You’ll listen to him, and you’ll do the damn work.”
I let out a short breath through my nose—a fucking babysitter.
“I don’t need a handler, Coach,” I say.
“You need something, because whatever you’re doing right now isn’t working.”
Irritation flares in my chest. I hate being cornered. I hate it when someone tells me I can’t handle my own shit. “I’ve gotscouts flying in next week, you think I’m worried about a fucking term paper?”
“You should be,” he snaps. “Because if you’re not eligible, they’re not flying in for you. They’re flying in for someone else.”
I know he’s right, and that’s what pisses me off the most. I’ve been coasting, because I know what’s coming. I know my numbers. I know my arm. I know what I’m worth. School has always been background noise—a box to check. I didn’t come to Lakehaven for the degree. I came for the field.
“You want to go pro? Then act like it. Pros handle their business. All of it.”
I stare at the wall behind him, then back at his face. “Fine,” I say finally. “Set it up.”
His shoulders drop a fraction. “Good.”
“What’s his name?” I ask.
“Brendon Lane.”
The name doesn’t mean anything to me.
