Academic adventures. That’s definitely going on my resume under “Special Skills.”
“What’s in it for me? Besides the warm fuzzy feeling ofpotentially getting murdered by a frustrated CS major who thinks I’m a dumbass?”
Professor Long studies me for a moment, then his expression shifts to something more serious. The kind of serious that makes you sit up and pay attention.
“You know, Ethan, I’ve been watching your work for over three years now. Your narrative instincts are some of the best I’ve seen in a student, and you’re engaged. I can tell you love game design and the whole industry. I don’t just pay attention to students with top scores, but also to those with a spark.”
My chest does this weird fluttery thing that might be hope trying not to get crushed.
“You know my brother works at Nebula Arcade. I get calls from studios fairly regularly, asking for student recommendations. Good students. Students who can handle responsibility, work with difficult personalities, teach and collaborate.” He pauses, and I swear the air in the room gets thicker. “I’d like to be able to put your name forward.”
Holy. Fucking. Shit.
My mouth hangs open for a second. I had no idea Long had any connections. Studios. Actual game studios. Maybe even Nebula Arcade. The creators ofGalaxynth:?Open?Horizons—my favorite open world gameever.
Imagine them calling Professor Long. Asking about me. Potentially.
Holy shit, this could actually prove to Dad that game design isn’t just me pissing away my future now that NFL is off the cards.
“This tutoring assignment isn’t just about helping Ms. Renner pass my class,” he continues. “It’s about showing me—and potentially showing the industry—that despite your grade average, you can take your skills and help others develop theirs. That you’re leadership material.”
I sit up so fast I nearly launch myself out of the chair—almost take the desk with me. “Professor Long, I will not let you down. I will be the best damn tutor you’ve ever seen. I will turn this Comp Sci girl into a literary genius, if that’s what it takes. Or like, whatever the game design equivalent of Shakespeare is. Miyamoto? Yeah, I’ll make her Miyamoto!”
He chuckles. “I don’t think you will let me down. That’s why I’m trusting you with this.” A small smile. “Of course, if you can raise her Creative Writing grade to 68 or above, I’ll also count it as completed academic rehabilitation credit, which will help your GPA too.”
Extra credit AND industry connections? This is like Christmas and my birthday had a baby and that baby was made of pure opportunity for Ethan Prescott. Maybe Dad will finally stop looking at me like I personally murdered his dreams.
Professor Long’s industry connections could actually launch my career. Like, for real, launch it. Not just “maybe someday if I’m lucky” but actual phone calls to actual studios.
“Just get her to 68?”
“Minimum. Though I suspect if anyone can help her understand that storytelling isn’t merely decorative but functional, it’s you.” He slides the folder across. “Her name is?—”
I flip it open.
Piper Renner.
Sharp tongue, thick glasses, the girl who roasted me and my plant in under thirty seconds. The waitress who made me laugh properly for the first time in months when I thought I’d forgotten to do that.
“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me,” I blurt out, then immediately panic because professors probably don’t appreciate that kind of reaction. “I mean—I know her! Sort of. She works at Dora’s. She’s, uh, very nice. Has opinions and stuff.”
Oh fuck, is he going to take back his offer?
Long’s eyebrows do that interested professor thing. “Excellent. Existing familiarity should help establish trust. She’s... resistant to new people.”
Trust. Right. Because nothing says ‘trust me with your academic future’ like ‘remember when you watched me have a full conversation with a houseplant?’
But holy shit, this is real. Professor Long—who knows people, like KNOWS knows people—is trusting me with this. Me! The guy who cried over a bird and once got his head stuck in a porch railing (OK, twice).
But, I do fucking love video games. And a small part of me really wants to prove to everyone that I’m not just a fuck up.
I can do this. I have to do this.
“When do we start?”
“Tuesday, 3 PM. She prefers to meet in the basement computer lab. Back right corner, usually.
Of course, she has a favorite corner. And it has to be in the basement like some code goblin.
