“Do it.Don’t fail.Devon hates doing the paperwork when athletes get academic suspensions.”
She gave a little wave and headed for the door.I watched her go, the word suspensionringing in my ears louder than the dismissal bell.
I hoisted my bag and headed for the faculty wing, the dread in my stomach growing heavier with every step.
The hallway outside Professor Delvecchio’s office was lined with still photos of last year’s case-study champions—three deep rows of smiling undergrads in tailored blazers clutching fake oversize checks.
I resisted the urge to tug my Frost Demons hoodie lower.The Carver School of Business always made me feel like I’d walked into the wrong locker room: wrong gear, wrong game.
Eight of us waited on the bisected leather couch.Nobody spoke.Pages rustled; highlighters squeaked.A kid in a charcoal suit scrolled his phone, lips moving like he was rehearsing a pitch deck.Office hours, fifteen-minute slots, first-come first-served.The paper sign-up sheet on the door showed my name fourth.I checked my watch—3:07.Practice started at six.Plenty of time
The first kid was in and out in five minutes, almost in tears.
Suit Kid slid inside when Dr.Delvecchio called “next.”I tried not to eavesdrop, but the walls weren’t thick.Balance-sheet ratios, discounted cash flow, language I recognized but never heard from a goalie crease.My backpack felt heavier with every acronym.
Fifteen minutes, then the door cracked.Suit Kid emerged looking victorious, thanked the professor twice, and strode off like he’d closed seed funding.Delvecchio’s voice followed: “Next.”
I stood, shoulders doing an involuntary pre-game roll.The bruise protested, still purple under compression but manageable.
Dr.Delvecchio wore a tie patterned with tiny dollar signs, sleeves rolled.“Come in.”He gestured to the chair opposite his desk, the kind that swallowed you lower than the interviewer.Power displacement in furniture form.
I sat in the hard plastic chair, my knee bouncing a nervous rhythm against the leg of the desk.I had the speech memorized in my head already: ‘Student-athletes need to prioritize… maybe this major isn’t a good fit… academic probation is looming.’
Dr.Delvecchio didn’t look up.He was grading, his red pen slashing through someone’s work with violent efficiency.
Finally, he capped the pen.“Mr.Carter.”
“Professor.”I straightened up, bracing myself.“I know the midterm is coming up, and I know that sixty-eight last week was… below standard.”
“It was,” Delvecchio agreed, opening a folder.“It was lower than the average.Which is why I was surprised by this.”
He slid a paper across the desk.Face down.
My stomach dropped.I reached out, expecting to see a fifty.Maybe a forty.I turned it over.
Eighty-two.
I stared at the number.Then I looked at Delvecchio.Then back at the number.
“Eighty-two?”I said.
“You got the entire section on adjusting entries correct,” Delvecchio said, leaning back in his chair.“Last week, you didn’t know a debit from a hole in the ground.This week, you balanced the ledger on the first try.That is a statistical anomaly.”
“I… studied,” I said, the word feeling inadequate.
“You didn’t just study.You changed your method.”He tapped the paper.“I see scratch work in the margins here.You’re drawing out the flow of cash before you journalize it.You didn’t do that before.”
I looked at the margins.There were tiny, faint arrows drawn next to the accounts—Austen’s “water flow” method.Cash flows down, equity builds up.I hadn’t even realized I was drawing them until now.
“I found an excellent tutor,” I admitted.“He… explains things differently.He makes it about logic, not just rules.”
Delvecchio hummed, a low sound of approval.“Well, whatever he’s charging you, pay it.I haven’t seen a turnaround this clear in my section in a few years.”
He pulled the quiz back to log the grade in the computer system.
“You’re not out of the woods, Carter.One quiz doesn’t erase a month of struggle.But this?”He gestured to the grade as he handed it back.“This keeps you on the ice.”
“That’s the plan, sir.”
