8. Van

8

Van

I t's been two days since my tutoring session with Josie. And I didn't spontaneously combust or bang my head off a wall during either of my classes today, so I'm calling it a win.

I just resubmitted the lit paper I bombed last week. Schoenbauer's a stickler, and lucky me, I have her this semester and next. She makes us do all our writing in class since she's convinced we all cheat off each other and use AI generators to crank out papers. She may have a point, but sitting in silence for an hour and writing a whole ass paper is my personal nightmare. The only way I've managed to stay in college so far is by using voice-to-text software to write my papers and then letting GrammarPro clean them up and make them look presentable. But that's not an option in Schoenbauer's class.

I worked hard as hell on that paper. I'm pretty sure I broke a sweat. But I gave it my best, so hopefully, that's enough.

It's a warm fall day and the quad is crowded with people soaking up the last of the decent weather. I scan the crowd to see if Ollie's around, but I don't spot him. Instead, my gaze lands exactly where it shouldn't. Josie's on a bench by the fountain, her long hair pulled up in a bun.

I force myself to look away. Her avoidance the other night made it clear that's what she wants—no discussing the past. Ok, fine, we can just keep going like we have been, splitting campus in half and pretending like the other doesn't exist. Which, really, isn't too difficult. It's not like we hang out in the same groups. Well, ok, now that Mel and Will are together, there's a little crossover, but it's not like Josie would ever tag along to the hockey house to hang out. Hell no. If we can't even have a conversation about the past in a public place, there's no way she'd be willing to hang out at my house.

I stride across the pavement, determined to head for the athletic center when I feel her eyes on me. I look over my shoulder, thinking maybe I'll catch her watching me, but no. My view is blocked by a couple standing in front of the fountain sucking each other's faces off.

Haha. The universe has jokes, but the message is clear: my days of seeing Josie are numbered. Hopefully, I can study hard enough to get by, and even if I can't, Josie felt the awkwardness just as much as I did, so she's probably looking to get out of having to spend four nights a week with me.

Before I know it, I'm halfway across campus at the athletic center. My phone dings with a notification and I figure it's Santos asking where the hell I am, but it's not. My Medieval History test grade just posted. I'm afraid to look, but how bad can it be? I studied my ass off for that test.

That's gotta count for something, right?

I tap the app and look at my score.

It's a D-

Fuck .

It's not the worst grade I've ever gotten, but it's not the grade I need. I push the double doors open with more force than is necessary. I'm pissed and frustrated and I need to burn off some of this extra energy. A grueling hockey practice will do the job.

Thanks to our run for the title last year, we have a new gym facility. The rest of the arena could probably use some upgrades, but the gym is state-of-the-art, so I head there to shake off my bad mood.

Before I reach my locker, I hear Coach calling for me.

"What's up?" I ask, hoping like hell he hasn't heard about the test I bombed.

"Van, have a seat," Coach says, leaning back in his chair. This is not a great sign. If Coach ever wants to shoot the shit with us or casually check in, he comes to the locker room or the weight room. If one of us is in here on the crappy metal chair we like to call the "hot seat," there's a reason. It's not that Coach is a dick or anything. Yeah, he's a bit of a control freak and he can be a total hard ass, but he cares about us. And he's a hell of a hockey coach. I like to think I've got a mind for the game. Figuring out strategy is almost as much fun for me as physically playing, but Coach? That guy sees everything—every play, every possibility. I'm learning from the best, so if he's got news, I'm going to listen.

And maybe it's wishful thinking, but I'm half-convinced he's going to tell me Josie is no longer available to tutor me. That would put me back at square one, which would suck, especially because my test grades prove I can't do this alone.

But it would also be a relief, even if that makes me an asshole.

Coach taps his pen on the hard surface of his desk. "Got a call from Schoenbauer, your lit prof. According to the TA, the paper you resubmitted is ‘still off-prompt and ungradable'. Same with the reading quiz. She knows you're in tutoring and that it just started, so she's offering you the opportunity to rework both assessments. You have a session tonight, right?"

Shit. "Um, yeah."

"Good. Put the work in and fix it, okay?"

"Will do, Coach."

Double Fuck .

Not only did I bomb the test I thought I did okay on, but I bombed the paper I thought I had a chance of passing. And I have to rewrite it. For someone like me, the only thing worse than a bad grade is having to re-do the assignment.

Fuck my fucking life.

I shouldn't even be here at school. I'm not going to use my degree—assuming I can earn one — after graduation. I'll either join the family construction business, or make my way to the minors and work my ass off to get to the pros.

But the only way to play hockey in the future is to get looks from scouts now. And that means it's the college life for me.

Coach's voice cuts through my thoughts. "I don't need to remind you that we're facing Woodcock this weekend. They were good last year and they're better this year. Did you see the tape of their game against Coleridge?"

I did. It was like watching a local Peewee team play against the pros. The difference is that these are both Division I schools. The guys at Coleridge are good players, but Dutton Wagner and his teammates made them look like newbies last weekend. "Yeah. There won't be a repeat of that massacre, Coach. Wagner's good, but nobody gets past our goalie."

Coach nods because we have the best goalie in our conference, if not the league. JT Norris is only a sophomore and he could get called up at any time, but since teams generally like to let goalies get experience before they hit the big-time, Norris is most likely our best weapon for the next season or two.

"You see their defense?" Coach asks. "Bradford was relentless."

That asshole is as big as Santos, but as fast as I am. It's a lethal combination. "They're good, Coach, but we're better."

"With you, Will, and Booker on the first line we sure as hell are. I need you to stay there, Van, and that means rewriting your paper tonight with your tutor. Schoenbauer's giving you a shot. Don't waste it. Something tells me she doesn't dole out second chances very often, so put the work in and get it done."

"Yes, Coach," I answer.

"Good. Now go warm up. If you guys think I'm taking it easy on you before we play the toughest team on our schedule, you're delusional."

I laugh because Coach never takes it easy on us. He expects our best every time, and we give it to him.

"Oh, one more thing," he adds as I turn back to him. "Nice work on that quiz."

"Huh?"

"Your philosophy quiz. You got a C and it brought your grade up. You can do this, Van. Just don't stop grinding."

That figures. The one thing Josie and I worked on together is the only passing grade I got this week.

It looks like my grand plan to pass my classes without Josie's help has failed spectacularly in just over twenty-four hours. There's literally no other option, so I'm going to try my damnedest to deal with it even if it guts me. Seeing Josie again is throwing me for a loop. As if that isn't a big enough hit, I'm not going to the library just to study. I'm not there to hang out. I'm there because every time I open up a textbook to read it or download an article, the letters swim on the page like they sense my weakness and feel like playing a goddamn game of hide and seek.

So, not only do I have to spend hours on end with my ex-girlfriend, I have to do it at my most vulnerable.

Fucking awesome.