4. Van

4

Van

T he chairs in Coach's office are hard as shit. They're old metal folding chairs that were probably made half a century ago. The one I'm sitting in right now is wobbly as fuck and probably straining under my hundred-and-ninety-pound weight. I get this chair because I'm one of the leaner guys on the team. Pete Santos, our alt-captain and my best friend, who tops out at 265, would snap my chair in half.

And right now, I'm pretty sure Coach is about to snap his clipboard in half, and it's my fault.

I feel like I'm in elementary school in the principal's office again. I can vividly remember sitting around a big table with all these adults staring at me waiting for an answer I didn't have.

And I don't have it now, either.

Because the problem isn't that I got in trouble. I didn't act up or get caught doing something I shouldn't have been. Not then and not now.

Nope, I'm just dumb.

I can hear my mom's voice in my ear, telling me not to use that word. My whole life, my mom's been my biggest cheerleader and I love her for it. But no matter what she thinks, right now, I feel pretty fucking stupid.

"Out of the five courses you're taking right now, you're on the brink of failing two. Dr. Schoenbauer has agreed to let you resubmit your paper for Contemporary Lit, but you only have a week to do it. If your work doesn't improve, that grade will dip below passing."

Coach lets his words trail off, but it doesn't matter. We can fill in the blanks. If I don't ace this paper (and by ace, I mean get a C), I won't be eligible to play. If I can't play, scouts can't see me. And if I'm not getting looks from scouts, then my chances of getting picked up as a free agent after I graduate this spring are pretty much the same as my understanding of Contemporary Lit—nonexistent.

After letting the weight of his pronouncement sink in, Coach looks at Booker, then Santos, then me. My team captains are here to support me, and I'm grateful. But I'm also embarrassed as shit. Booker's as smart as they come, and Santos is studying to be a teacher. Me? I'm trying like hell to pass my classes. Some guys ride the bench for low grades because they focus too much on parties and not enough on coursework. And I'll admit, I've had more than my fair share of fun at Bainbridge these past few years. My grades have never been stellar—not since kindergarten. Grade school was pretty much my version of hell. But when I hit middle school and it became clear that my only real skill in life was putting the puck into the net, school got easier. Or, I should say, everybody went easy on me. Teachers looked the other way when I was late on an assignment or failed to turn it in altogether. I rarely finished tests because I was always leaving early for games and practices. And group work is a gift from the heavens for a kid like me. As bad as it sounds, I'd smile, ask for more time, and magically, it would be granted. And I have no doubt that some people passed me because I'm a nice fucking guy. That's part of it, you know—part of pulling it all off so no one knows what's really going on. If you're good to people, they'll be good to you. I learned that early. So, I made it through high school on good manners and athletic ability. I figured college would be more of the same, but I couldn't have been more wrong.

The one saving grace I had here was Kevin Rodriguez. He was my tutor and one of the only reasons I'm still at this school. But Kevin graduated last spring. And, like the dumbass that I am, I figured I could make it through one final year on my own. Turns out that like every other open-ended question I've come across, I was wrong.

It's the middle of October, our season has just started, and this needs to be my year. All I've ever wanted is to play professional hockey and my dream is so close I can almost taste it. But instead of working on my slapshot, I'm going to be hitting the books and riding the pine for the foreseeable future, unless we can come up with a solution.

I know Pete Santos would do just about anything to help me, and he already has. He's part of the reason I managed to eke out passing grades for my math and science courses, and he's helping me with Stats this semester. Booker's good at everything, so he probably aces all his classes. I know he's willing to pitch in. The problem is I need more help than these guys can offer.

I don't just need a study buddy or someone to help me make flashcards or remind me to do my homework. I need someone who understands my learning disability and gets that reading and writing aren't just my least favorite things to do—they're damn near impossible.

Kevin got that, and he never treated me differently. He was chill about it and respectful and just awesome. Then the douchebag had to go and graduate.

Thanks a lot, Kevin.

"There's got to be someone available at the tutoring center," Booker says, his face full of optimism.

"There's not," I answer matter-of-factly. I checked. Several times. "Face it—we're pretty much fucked. Scratch that, I'm pretty much fucked."

"The hell you are," Santos says, pinning me with his best teacher look.

"Actually," Coach says, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his desk, "we might have some recourse. You're a hell of a hockey player, Van, and I know what this season means to you. I'm not giving you up without a fight, which is why I spent half my morning in the dean's office. You're right that the tutoring schedule is full right now. But the dean is especially proud of the strides we've made here in the last few years, and he was more than willing to call in a favor. It seems we have a student on campus who's perfect for the job. Apparently, she's finishing her undergrad while also taking some credits towards her graduate degree. According to the dean, she needs to take on some tutoring hours to fulfill a class requirement. And that's where you come in. The arrangement is that if she tutors you, she can count the hours toward a credit. It's a win-win, right? You need her and she needs you."

This is perfect. A little too perfect. Like, too good to be true. And it must be, because I get an uneasy feeling before Coach starts talking again.

"You'll have to be tutored at the library after practice several nights a week since she works there. She has family commitments, according to Dean Mercer, and her schedule is pretty tight, but we can make it work. We'll need to reconcile her hours with yours, but from what I'm told, this girl is the best BU has to offer. So, report to the main desk at 8:00 p.m. tomorrow. And ask for?—"

Before the words are out of his mouth, I know what they're going to be. "Josie Reynolds," I say in chorus with Coach. He doesn't notice though. He's in problem-solving mode. And now that my situation's been dealt with, he can move to the next crisis on the list.

But me? I can't move on. Not when it comes to Josie. And that's a problem.

Coach dismissed us half an hour ago and we're sitting in a booth at Wolfie's waiting for the freshmen, Franconetti and Deano, to join us. Santos and Booker say it's team bonding, and I'm all for that. When we connect off the ice, we play better on it. But the truth is, the freshmen are growing on me. Franconetti is a ball of energy and Deano is his super chill opposite, but they're good guys.

The door opens and a stream of sunlight illuminates the darkened bar as the two new members of our team walk in. Wolfie's is one of those hole-in-the-wall type places. It's got greasy food, cold beer, vinyl booths, and pool tables. It's been around for decades and I'm pretty sure it looks the same now as when it opened back in the ‘70s. But it's a staple here at Bainbridge, and since I just found out my hockey career is probably over before it even starts, I'm about to drown my sorrows in a greasy cheeseburger.

"It'll be fine," Santos says as the freshmen slide into the booth we're occupying. They don't bother grabbing menus because Wolfie's isn't known for variety. There are only a few things to choose from, but they're all fried, and they're all good.

"It won't be fine," I say, but before I can explain why Coach's ‘solution' is basically a death sentence for my hockey career, our server arrives to take our orders. After we order half the menu, she leaves with a promise to bring our drinks out.

"I'm with Santos," Booker says, always the peacemaker. "It's gonna work out."

I look at both my friends, my captains. "Are you crazy? It's gonna be a goddamned disaster. That's assuming she even shows up, once she finds out who she's tutoring. I'll bet you she walks out the minute she spots me."

"I'll take that bet," Santos says. "That's not Josie's style, and you know it."

"Um…what'd we miss?" Deano asks.

"Nothing much. Just the fiery death of my hockey career," I answer.

Santos rolls his eyes. "No one's career is over."

"Easy for you to say," I reply because I'm in a pissy mood. "This is never gonna work. I'm telling you that right now."

Our server stops by with drinks just as Franconetti looks at me, a question in his eyes. "Still totally lost here, my guy."

I sigh, because I do not feel like rehashing the last hour of my life. But considering that I crash every mandatory study hall the freshmen have to go to, it's not exactly a surprise to them that my grades are less than stellar. Booker and Santos look at me, gauging my comfort level, but I just nod. These guys have only been on the team for two months, but they've both earned their spots—and my trust. "Alright, here's the deal: I'm barely skating by in my courses. If I don't pick my grades up ASAP, my ass is gonna be sitting out for the next few weeks."

Franconetti's jaw nearly hits the table and Deano mutters, "Shit."

"Right," I agree. "And hockey is my life, no joke. It's literally the only thing I'm good at," I say, talking even while Santos tries to interrupt. "I'm serious. It's my thing. My passion, whatever. It's also my future. I fucked up my knee freshman year and skipped the draft. But I worked my ass off to get back on the ice, and I'm even faster now than I was before. I need to play, guys. I have to or there's no chance of me getting picked up after graduation. And that means I'm working at my uncles' construction business for the rest of my life, and just—no. I have to figure this out. I've got to. But the tutor Coach found? It's never gonna work."

"What's wrong with the tutor Coach found?" Deano asks as our server drops off our food. We dig in, and in between bites, I explain.

"She's my ex-girlfriend."

"Shit," Deano repeats.

Santos shakes his head. "But she's also a total sweetheart. She's literally one of the nicest people I've ever met. And smart as hell. I know it's not ideal. And it might be awkward at first, but I'm telling you, Josie knows you. She's kind of perfect for the job."

"The hell have you been?" I ask my best friend. "The other week at Drip, I walked in and she walked right out. The woman can't stand to be in the same freaking coffee shop as me, so it's a solid bet she's not going to want to tutor me."

"Josie? As in, Mel's friend Josie?" Franconetti's eyes practically turn into hearts when he talks about his girlfriend.

"Yep," I say, stabbing a fry into the little cup of ranch on my plate.

"Josie from the library? Short, with long brown hair and glasses? She's awesome," Deano says. "Wait… she's your ex?"

"Yep," I repeat, trying not to picture her, but it's impossible. Josie is forever branded on my memory: the way she looks, the way she laughs, the way she talks, the way she sounds when she falls apart in my arms. We weren't together all that long, not even by college standards, but she meant more to me than any other person I've dated, before or since. Josie is my ideal in every way.

But I'm sure as hell not hers.

"I'm telling you, this is not going to go well," I say, taking another bite of my burger.

"Alright," Santos concedes. "Then what's plan B? You're holding your own in Stats, but if I recall, the rest of your schedule this semester is…"

"Shitty," I say. I've saved as many of my English and humanities classes for senior year as possible, mostly out of sheer dread. "I've got Intro to Philosophy, Feminist Studies, Contemporary Lit, and Medieval History."

"That doesn't sound so bad," Franconetti says, but that's because the man doesn't break out into a cold sweat at the prospect of reading a chapter or writing a paper–I do.

Santos looks at me because he knows something no one else does. "Listen to me, you're gonna show up tonight. And I'm ninety-nine percent sure Josie's gonna show up and be a professional. But if she's not there, that's on her."

"Then what?" I ask Santos, since he seems to have all the answers.

He's unfazed. "Then we go back to Coach and make another plan. But one thing's for sure, you're not giving up. Not on hockey."

I nod because he's right. Hockey is the one thing I can do. It's what I love, and I'm not letting anything get in the way of me and a pro career. My classes might be hard, and facing my ex might be damn near impossible, but with hockey on the line, I have no other choice.