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I sound calmer than I feel. It’s not great, but it could be worse.
I think.
“Will you still graduate?”
“Dunno. I’ll see how smart Coach’s daughter is. I have to pass a retake at the end of the season.”
Hunter stops walking right in the middle of the parking lot. “What about Coach’s daughter?”
“She’s my tutor,” I tell him. “I guess she’s some kind of freshman math whiz. The professor agreed, so whatever.”
“Coach’s daughter—a freshman—is the tutor who’s going to keep you on the team and help you graduate college?” He shakes his head, then mumbles something that sounds suspiciously likeGod help heras he starts walking again.
“I’m not an idiot, Morgan. I just didn’t think I needed to study for the final.”
Hunter snorts. “That does make you an idiot, Phillips.”
“Just don’t tell anyone, okay?”
“Which part?”
“Any of it. I don’t want the guys thinking I’m about to get kicked off the team, and I don’t want Hart riding my ass about partying less. If I didn’t study for the first final and got an F, a few study sessions should put me firmly in C territory.”
“Like I said, you’re an idiot.”
“Just keep it to yourself.” If anyone will, I trust Hunter to. He’s the thoughtful member of our trio, while Conor and I tend to be more impulsive.
Hunter shakes his head again but agrees. “Fine.”
CHAPTER TWO
RYLAN
The brakes of the old SUV squeak as the tires stop rolling. A definite downside of living in a damp climate—everything rusts.
“You’re sure this is the right place?” my dad asks, turning off the car. He leans over the center compartment to peer at the exterior of the brown house critically, his tone dubious.
“Anthony,” my mom chides, hitting his arm lightly.
“I was just checking.” My dad tugs the keys out of the ignition, then spins them around one finger. “It looks a little…old.”
“It has character,” my mom says, ever the optimist to my dad’s crusty pessimism.
She glances over her shoulder, winking conspiratorially at me crammed in the backseat with all my boxes of belongings.
My chest constricts like it’s being squeezed by a rubber band as I smile back at her.
This is a moment I should have shared with my parents two and a half years ago. Instead, I was selfish and stubborn, insisting that Boston University was my dream school despite beingthousands of miles away from home and lacking the free tuition Holt offers to its employees’ children.
All they could afford was one plane ticket. My mom helped me pack; my dad drove me to the airport. They never got to see my dorm room in person, much less helped me move into campus housing. Only visited Boston once, during sophomore year, and it was an uncomfortable visit thanks to my ex.
But this is a new year and a new semester.
A fresh start, and I’m trying to leave all my regrets in the past.
“This is it,” I say. What little of the exterior I can see through the piled boxes on the seat next to me matches the photos online.
Aside from the fact that those were taken in summer, on a rare sunny day. Today is damp, gray, and cold.
