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"I guess not," I said. What could I say? Life was fucking busy. At least I read the book. Half the class probably hadn't even done that.
"So, in order to avoid having this conversation again, I'm going to organise a tutor for you." His tone suggested he wasn't going to listen to any arguments, but I had to try.
"I don't need a fu… a tutor," I argued. "I need to, I don't know… I'll figure something out." I could sleep less or something.
"You said the same thing last time," he reminded me. "But here we are, still having the same problem. You're a smart kid. You know you need something to fall back on just in case football doesn't work out."
It was hard not to bristle at that. Football was my plan A, B and C. Maybe it was stupid to pin my entire future on one thing, but it was all I wanted. If it didn't work out then… I had no idea what I'd do. Break kneecaps for the Brantley family, or something. How hard could that be?
"It won't be English literature," I said finally. Maybe I'd become a carpenter, or an electrician. Something with my hands.
"Maybe not," he said with a half smile. "But you should give yourself some options. You might decide you want to go into law, or become a manager for star football players. Or run a chain of burger restaurants."
I frowned. That suggestion was random as fuck, but I kinda liked it. Who didn't like burgers?
I shook my head. If I did that, it would be after my football career was over. Not in place of it.
He crossed his arms. "I'm well aware that in order to become a professional athlete, you need to be driven and single-minded. I appreciate that. But not at the expense of your future. What if you get injured?"
"I won't," I said. At least not badly enough to have to stop playing. It was something I couldn't afford to think about. Playing pro ball wasn't just about the game, it was about what I could do for my family. I had to make it happen, for their sake.
"You might." He lowered his arms. "I'm not trying to be your father—"
"Good," I snapped. "I have a father." I looked away from Mr Leggit.
Even without looking directly at him, I knew his eyes bore into the side of my face.
"Is everything okay at home?"
"It's fine," I snapped again. I found my hands curled into tight fists.
He hesitated for a minute or two. "Okay. I won't pry, but I will be organising a tutor for you. I don't want to see you fail, and I know you don't want that either."
I knew he was trying to be nice, but my defences were up. I drew my shoulders in and responded with a sulky shrug.
"Whatever," I said. "You'll look bad if I fail."
"That might be true," he conceded. "But that's not why I'm doing this. I don't want to see you flush your life down the toilet. I don't think you want that, do you?"
"No," I admitted. "I need the scholarship…"
"Then you'll work with the tutor and bring up your grades. Who knows, you might even enjoy it."
I responded with a bitter laugh. "I'll probably piss them off. I do my best work at three o'clock in the morning."
He smiled wryly. "Like most boys your age. But you—" He waved his finger under my nose. "You have the potential to do so much with your life. You just need to believe in yourself."
"I believe in myself," I said. "I believe I'll be the best quarterback this country has ever seen." I managed to grin. "The world." Gridiron was a growing sport. I hadn't ruled out thethought of moving to America to play for the NFL, but if I could help to grow the game here… that would be huge.
He rolled his eyes and shook his head. "You certainly are single-minded. And yes, you are very talented on the field. But you also need to pass English. Without it, it won't matter how good you are at scoring touchdowns and leading the offensive side. You need the help of a uni level team to get where you want. Otherwise, you'll be flipping burgers or cleaning toilets for the rest of your life."
There was nothing wrong with doing either of those things, but I worked in a burger place over summer and I didn't want to work the grill for the rest of my life.
"Fine, I'll work with your tutor but I'm not going to enjoy it." He'd probably pick some pimply, nerdy guy with thick glasses who'd prefer to be gaming, than helping me.
Chapter Three
BEC
