Not that I blame the kid. It’s not his fault I’m walking a tightrope.
Not his fault that one misstep—one mistake—could cost me everything.
“We done here?” Reid asks, standing and collecting his tray. “I promised Coach I’d review Iowa’s game tape before practice.”
Relief washes over me and I climb to my feet, hauling my bag up from the floor and slinging it over my shoulder. “I could stand to watch some tape.”
Reid nods and turns to the others, who follow suit.
I’m ninety percent sure he only said it to take the heat off me, and I appreciate the hell out of him for it. Reid never probes, but he’s not stupid. There’s no way he hasn’t noticed that in all the games we’ve played together, my family hasn’t been in the stands once.
Not like his father, who makes almost every home game and would never miss Parents’ Weekend.
Bitterness rises in my throat, but I choke it back down.
It’s not Reid’s fault my father is an asshole. Or that I’ll be standing alone on the field during Senior Day.
It doesn’t matter.
I just need to keep my eye on the prize. It’llall be worth it in the end.
With any luck, I’ll be drafted to a west coast team, beyond my father’s reach. Once I have that NFL contract in hand, I won’t hesitate to sever ties with that piece of shit. I just hope my mom has the courage to do the same.
17
QUINN
Call-Me-David is a Sadist.That’s the only explanation for the term project he assigned today.
Happy Hump Day, my ass.
A twenty-page essay on a lesson or experience that shaped our lives and made us who we are today. Twenty. Pages. It’s practically a freaking memoir. What am I supposed to write about, anyway? I’m nineteen years old.Idon’t even know who I am.
You could write about your virgin quest.
Yeah, no.
Way too personal. Then again, according to Professor Bates, my last essay was lacking vulnerability, despite the re-write. The jerk gave me a C on it. A freakingC! Thankfully, the weekly essays are only thirty percent of our final grade. The term project, however, is fifty percent.
I can’t afford to screw it up.
Which means I need to start early so I have time to swap with Priya for critique.
“Did you need something else?” the barista asks, cutting her eyes at the line behind me. There’s an impatient edge to his words that suggests it’s not the first time he’s asked.
Get it together, Quinntastrophe.
“Sorry.” I was so caught up in my mental rant, I didn’t even notice him return with my order. I fumble for my card and swipe it, offering him an apologetic smile. He wordlessly hands me a receipt and I grab my order, making a beeline for the corner booth.
Daily Grind is packed, but I’m determined to brainstorm ideas for my term project. No way am I going to let it sit until the last minute. Sure, nine weeks sounds like a lot of time, but it’s so not.
Not when it’ll determine if I pass or fail.
I drop my bag on the bench and slide in next to it, settling the tray with my muffin and latte on the table.
My precious.
I wrap my hands around the mug, letting the warmth seep into my chilled fingers. The heatwave has finally broken and cool, crisp days have descended on College Park. Not that I’m complaining.
