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“Sta—” he starts, cutting himself off when Director Skinner finally strolls onto the stage, squinting under the spotlights. Ryan sits back up straight and rests his hand on my thigh, squeezing softly. “Maybe we will need a bat later.”
The high-pitched squeal of the microphone turning on echoes around the room, causing everyone to wince. Skinner has taken his place behind the podium but hasn’t managed to force a smile yet.
He’s aged a lot in the time I’ve studied at UCMH. He previously looked approachable and eager, but now, with the disdain he’s sporting deepening the lines on his forehead, he looks anything but.
“Good afternoon, everyone. Thank you for taking the time to come here on such short notice. I’m sure you’re all wondering why you’re here.”
I don’t know why he’s pretending like the email didn’t have the wordcompulsoryin bold, capital letters.
Skinner shrugs off his suit jacket, hanging it over the chair behind him, sighing as he turns to face us all again. He drags a hand over his thinning, gray hair, which I swear was thick and black when I was a freshman.
“There’s a certain expectation when dealing with college students. It’s a given there will be some level of chaos as you begin your lives as adults away from home.” He sighs again, his exhaustion clear. “When you add competitive sport into the mix, the balance changes as you try to manage your skill against the authentic college experience.”
Well, this is patronizing. It feels like he made his secretary write this little speech, and he practiced it in the mirror a few times. If Brin were here, she’d be highly critical of his performance.
“Some of you have been enjoying the college experience a little too much.”
Here. We. Go.
“In the five years I’ve been Director of Sport, I have dealt with countless avoidable situations. Out of control parties, medical expenses due to students behaving recklessly on campus, more pranks than I can count, unplanned pregnancy, an—”
The noise of Michael Fletcher’s chair scraping across the floor rings out as he springs to his feet.
“Mr. Fletcher, please take a seat.”
Fletch ignores him, bending to grab his bag from the floor instead. He stomps toward the exit, pushing both doors open forcefully and leaving the room.
I don’t know a lot about football, but everyone says Fletch is the best linebacker this college has ever seen and is practically guaranteed a spot in the NFL when he graduates.
More importantly, he’s an incredibly proud father to his little girl Diya, who he had with his girlfriend, Prishi, last year.
Prishi was on the skate team with me before she accidentally fell pregnant at the start of her junior year. When I asked her if she’d be returning, she said her bladder isn’t what it used to be after pushing out a nine-pound baby, and she didn’t fancy peeing on the ice in front of an audience.
They live together with their friends, and everyone takes turns looking after the baby to allow Fletch and Prishi to go to class. The fact Skinner is using them as an example in his delinquent student–bashing exercise is shitty of him.
Twenty minutes pass and he’s still going. I rest my head against Ryan’s shoulder and close my eyes, accepting the cookie he sneaks into the palm of my hand.
“…To summarize.”
Finally.
“Going forward, there will be a zero-tolerance approach to misappropriation of your status on this campus.”
I feel like I’m missing a huge part of the puzzle here because—despite his long-ass, still-not-over speech—I have zero idea what prompted this rude interruption to my schedule.
“For the seniors hoping to join professional teams at the end of this school year, it would be prevalent for you to take note of this message.”
Beside me Ryan snorts, shoving another cookie in his mouth. When I open my mouth to ask what’s so funny, he shoves one into mine, grinning like a fool because I have no choice but to eat it.
Skinner finally runs out of energy. He leans against the podium and his shoulders sag. “I don’t care what your potential is. If you don’t fall in line, you will be benched. I’d like the skating and hockey team to stay behind, but the rest of you are dismissed.”
Ryan grabs his bag from the floor and stands, stretching and letting out an overexaggerated yawn. “I’ll wait for you outside. Food?”
I give him a nod, creeping onto my tiptoes to wipe the cookie crumbs from the corner of his mouth with my thumb. “Hopefully I won’t be long.”
Everyone, bar the fifty-ish of us, filter out of the room. Ironically, about five times quicker than they filtered in.
Brady and Faulkner, the ice hockey team coach, join Director Skinner on the stage. “Come closer everyone, I’m tired of this microphone.”
