Chapter 1
Benson
ThechairinCoachFuller’s office is the kind that’s punishing on purpose. I’m pretty sure he ordered them specifically for sitting players down at 7:47 in the morning and watching them squirm before he opens his mouth.
He’s looking at a sheet of paper on his desk, reading it for what feels like the third time, while I sit across from him and try not to look at the framed photo of the ‘08 team on his wall. I’ve been in this office maybe forty times in three years and I still can’t tell if the silence is a tactic or if he genuinely just forgets I’m here sometimes.
“Reeve.”
“Coach.”
He turns the paper around and slides it across the desk. I look down.
It’s my projected midterm grade for STAT 215.
Sixty-seven percent.
There is a feeling that happens to me sometimes — not often, but sometimes — where my chest gets a little tight, and my brain immediately starts negotiating with itself like it’s in a hostage situation. I’m having one of those right now.Sixty-seven percent.That is academically a D-plus. It’s not good.
“That’s projected,” I say, but it sounds like a question.
“That’s projected as of last Thursday.”
“It’s the first week of classes.”
“It’s the third week of summer-semester carryover, the syllabus quiz, and one homework set, and you’re at sixty-seven.”
“I had two-a-days.”
“Everyone had two-a-days.”
I shut my mouth.
Coach leans back. He’s wearing the navy quarter-zip he wears on Mondays. The man has six quarter-zips and rotates them like a uniform, and I know this because Stanley made a spreadsheet about it in our sophomore year. It’s genuinely one of the funniest documents I’ve ever seen.
“You’re a senior,” he says. “You’re my captain. You are projected first round in seven months. You know what NHL teams ask about?”
“Coach—”
“They ask about academics, Reeve. Not because they care if you can do a t-test. Because they want to know if you can sit in a room and learn something that’s hard for you and not quit.”
“I’m not quitting.”
“You’re atsixty-seven.” His eyes catch mine, so I nod.
There is no good answer to this.
He pulls a second piece of paper out from under the first and slides that one across too. It’s a flyer. Athletic Tutoring Center,phone number, hours, the Camden logo embossed in the corner like it’s a wedding invitation.
“Call them today,” he says. “Get matched. First session within forty-eight hours.”
“Coach, the guys can help me. Percy took Stats last year, he—”
“Percy is a goalie with a four-point-oh and his own problems. I’m not asking you to study with your roommates. I’m telling you to get a tutor.”
“My sister—”
“Reeve.” He doesn’t raise his voice. “If you don’t have arealtutor by Friday, you sit the home opener.”
