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“I mean, I couldn’t argue it. I did fail the class.”
“But it’s your senior year. You came here to play football.”
“And graduate.”
Seb sighs. “Yeah. There’s that.”
My parents are amazingly supportive of my football ambitions, in part because Dad played. He knows the grind better than anyone. It was his dream at first, that one of his boys would follow in his footsteps, but it became mine too long ago. Without a shot at playing in the league, my life would feel incomplete. End of story. But we’ve been taught that education is important too, so as much as I’m focused on football, I know I need to get my degree. As talented as Cooper is at hockey, Dad didn’t even let him enter the NHL draft because he was afraid that he’d leave college for the league and never graduate. Following Seb’s dad’s wishes, he entered the MLB draft after high school, but in the end, he committed to playing at McKee and re-entering the draft when he’s eligible after junior year. “You can’t ask your new coach to intervene? He practically stole you from LSU, he wants you here.”
“And be the entitled athlete the dean thinks I am?”
Seb shrugs, running his fingers through the mop of blond hair on his head. “Maybe you won’t fail this time. Maybe it’ll be easier. Or you’ll just know more since you’ve been taking college classes for a while now.” He grimaces as we hear another crash from upstairs. “And there’s always Cooper.”
“The last time I asked him for help with school, I almost stabbed him. He’s impossible.”
“With a pen.”
“I stand by my actions. It was an attempted stabbing and I’m not sorry.”
Seb sighs. “Well, maybe someone else can tutor you. You can’t fail this.”
“No.” I finish the beer in a few gulps and set it in the sink. The panicky feeling I’ve been fighting since the dean’s is threatening to make a reappearance. I’m not good at writing. Never have been. Throwing a wrench this big into the year that’s supposed to catapult me into a starting quarterback position is almost as bad as an injury. But an injury I could play through. Grit it out through the season. This? This is out of my depth.
Coop saunters into the kitchen, sweaty and wiping his face with his T-shirt. “Finally got the desk put together. Only took four fucking hours.”
“Aw, look at you,” Seb says sweetly. “Waylaid by a crappy desk.”
He flips Seb the bird without wasting a beat. “So, I have a proposition.”
He stops as he takes in our expressions. Whatever he’s thinking, it probably involves a party, and I don’t know if I have the energy for that right now.
Instead of launching into his speech, his eyes narrow. “Okay, who are we fighting?”
Chapter 2
Bex
One of the benefits of being a senior in college is first dibs on the dorms, which is how Laura and I got this awesome two-bedroom suite. Kitchenette, living area, private bathroom, bedrooms that aren’t closets... it’s almost enough to make a girl forget that when this year is over, she’ll be back to living over the family diner and spending her days wading through small business hell.
It’s me. I’m the girl.
But currently I’m on the couch, arm dangling almost to the floor, sandals precariously close to falling off. My shift at the Purple Kettle, the on-campus coffee shop, ended a little while ago, and after being on my feet for the stampede of students back for the semester and ready to arm themselves with lattes and cold brew, I’m beat. I’d prefer to be in bed, but Laura insisted on a fashion show. Apparently, the lighting is better in the living room.
“Oh, and I got this cute mini dress,” she calls from her bedroom. “I was thinking about it for tonight.”
“What’s tonight?” I say. I already sort of know the answer, because it has to be a party, but the question is where. A frat? Sorority? Frat-slash-sorority? An off-campus house that’s full of frat bros anyway?
“A party!” Laura crows as she comes out of her room. She’s in high heels that show off her tanned legs to perfection, and herlittle black dress clings to her curves like tape. For some reason, she has on devil ears and is carrying a little pitchfork. “And before you say you’re not coming, you’re coming.”
Sometimes I think about the fact we’re best friends and... it doesn’t stun me, exactly, but it does leave me wondering. Laura is smart as hell, don’t get me wrong, but college has been a series of social functions for her, and as for me, when I’m not working on school or at the Purple Kettle, I’m at Abby’s Place, putting out fires and generally trying to contain the chaos. Laura’s father is a fancy lawyer, and her mom is an equally fancy doctor, and she spent half the summer in Italy and the other half in St. Barts. I spent it nursing a broken heart, arguing with suppliers, and slinging hash browns for locals.
I love her, but our lives are totally different. She’s been at McKee since freshman year, and this is only my second since I transferred in as a junior. Two years at McKee instead of the local community college is the absolute maximum amount of time I can be away from the business, sort of, and the money is the amount of loans, while still astronomical, that I feel comfortable taking out. Maybe one day I’ll do something with this business degree and the portfolio of photography that quietly keeps growing, but for now, the plan is the same as ever. Home. Diner. Take over the business so my mother can quit pretending she’s well enough to do it herself.
She hasn’t been anywhere near that since the moment Dad walked out of our lives.
“Earth to Bex,” Laura says. “Do you like it?”
She’s holding out a dress, a shimmery white thing with a thigh slit and a plunging neckline.
