Dane scoffs, glancing at my tears. “Dylan has everything to do with this. Look at you. That’s not nothing.”
I hold my breath, feeling my body tremble. If I breathe, I’m going to break down.
I let out a breath the moment Dane walks down the stairs and doesn’t look back.
I walk into my apartment, confused. Dylan’s gone, and I don’t know what I did. I grab my phone, wipe my face, and realize I can’t sit here waiting for someone who won’t give me answers. I text Marina.
Me: Hey, girl! I just sent over the promised PDF. But things have changed, and I’m down to train you and your two friends if you’re up for it.
Marina: Yes! Let’s do it.
Me: Perfect. Want to start this afternoon?
25
Dylan
I’m failing.
Fucking failing.
And with hockey, that’s a problem.
If I’m not in academic standing, I get benched—no ice time. No games. No exceptions. I thought I turned this shit around. I took the week–– ignored Cecily, ignored everything that wasn’t homework–– trying to play catch-up on the shit I missed while I let her train me. But it didn’t matter.
The academic advisor I just spoke with made that very clear. I’m still failing. I’ll need a fucking tutor at this point. Probably more than one.
And the icing on top? I have days––not weeks––to fix it, or I’m benched.
Fuck.
When I pull into my driveway, I search for available tutors. As I search, my frustration builds. I can’t believe it’s gotten thisbad. This is why I don’t do relationships. The moment I care, everything else falls apart.
Tutor listings blur together as I scroll. Everyone’s booked. Everyone’s expensive. Everyone sounds like they’re about to judge the hell out of me.
Advanced calculus. Essay structure. Academic recovery.
Academic recovery.
Jesus.
I shut the truck off and rest my forehead against the steering wheel. I don’t fail. I don’t get left behind like this. Hockey is the one thing I know how to do without overthinking it.
Everything else?
Apparently, I’m shit at.
I scroll again and finally pick one at random, because sitting here spiraling isn’t fixing anything. I sent an email.
Hey, I need help ASAP. College athlete. Academic probation risk.
That last part twists my stomach. I don’t even know if it’s officially probation yet, but it feels close enough to be real.
I get out of the truck and head inside. The house is quiet.
My phone buzzes, and for a second, I think it might be Cecily.
I exhale when it’s not her.
