NO FUCKING WAY
Adam’s pov
The alarm clock rang at 5:00 AM sharp. I shut it off, cursing under my breath as i turned over onto my back. My body groaned in agony from the practice the day before, but there was no complaining. Football did not care for weakness, and I cared for football so I didn’t care for weakness either.
I flung my sheets off and sat up, straightening my arms out and wiping my face. The room was black, but just bright enough that I could see Emerson's side of the room. A complete havoc, drum sticks, clothes and cigarettes littered the ground.
Whilst he slept soundly, his back exposed in the dim light reflecting all his tattoos. But I didn’t spare him more than a glance. Emerson was the last person I would ever want to associate with and I had better things to worry about than my new roommate.
I rose, put on my compression kit, and laced my cleats. My duffel was already full from the night before— habits. Drills began at six, and being even a second behind was not an option. Not for me, at least.
Slipping out of the room, I stepped into the cold of the morning air and sprinted toward the field. My breath billowed out as I pushed my body harder, trying to drown out the frustration roiling inside me. School. My dad. Even Emerson. Everything was crashing down around me, but football was the only thing that did make sense. The only thing that felt right.
Practice was ruthless, just the way I liked it. Sprint drills. Endurance training. Weight work. My whole body hurt from every muscle, but I kept going. Sweat dripped from my forehead, but I didn't stop. Stopping wasn't allowed. If I was going to be the best, I had to work harder than everyone else.
When practice finished, I was crouched over, hands on my knees, gasping for air when Coach yelled out my name.
"Adam, a word."
I stood up, wiping sweat from my face with my shirt before running over. The moment I saw his expression, my stomach dropped. I wouldn’t like this.
"Listen, kid," Coach began, massaging the ball of his neck, further adding to my anxiety. I really wouldn’t like this. "We need to discuss your grades."
I let out a sharp breath, already sensing what direction this was headed. I was really hoping he’d just kind of let it slide with how good I was doing on the pitch.
"You didn't get a single distinction last year. Hell, Adam, you barely passed some of your courses. This isn't football— it's your life. If you don't get your grades up this semester, I have no option but to sit you out."
"Coach—"
"I mean it. No arguments. And trust me it hurts because you're one of the best I have on my team, so benching you is going to make us bleed. But I mean it, you get your grades in shape, or you're off the team."
I gulped hard. Football was my life. Sitting on the bench filled me with terror and constricted my fucking airway. And what would I tell my father? I couldn’t even think about it. "I understand, Coach. I'll do better."
Coach nodded curtly, but his face eased. "I hope so, kid. You've got something special, but talent doesn't mean anything if you fritter it away."
I left practice with my shoulders set stiff and tense, readying myself for what would be next, yet hoping it wouldn't come. My father, always watching, had been waiting. And soon as I exited the field, he attacked.
"Adam!" His tone was crisp, and it shot through my fragile control. Everything was getting worse by the minute and I turned back, knowing that I was in for it.
"You find this amusing? You think this is some kind of joke? Do you have any idea of what is on the line?"
What? I wasn’t laughing. I might be kicked off the team, of course I didn’t think anything was funny. "Dad, I—"
"No! Listen to me." He took a step closer, his huge body towering over me. He’d always been that way, his presence always seeming so grandiose. "Make this right, and make it right now. I won't have my son— my inheritance— spending his future on some crap courses."
My teeth clenched. He sometimes acted like I was just playing in the field, like he didn't know I wanted this, even more than he did. "I said I'll make it right."
"Good. Because if you don't, you're done. You won't just be benched— you'll be out of the running. Do you hear me?"
I stiffly nodded. My dad did not do second chances. My dad did not do failure. And if I failed, I knew what would ensue. Crazy to think about it, but I not only might be out of the NFL running, I might be out of his house.
My head was a scattered mess as I shuffled to class. I was so exhausted, my body felt rolled over, but I forced myself to focus. I couldn't screw this up. Or at least, I tried to focus.
After class, I talked to Professor Mitchell, the professor whose class I had flunked the previous semester. She was one of the few people who actually cared about me beyond football.
"Adam," she said, leaning on the edge of her desk. "I don't like to see you doing so poorly. You were such a good student when you first started. What happened?"
I grunted softly, raking a hand through my damp hair. "I don't know, Teach. My head's been all over the place. Football, my dad, everything. It's just a little much."
She gazed at me for a moment before agreeing. "I think you need a tutor."
"I need one like I need oxygen."
She chuckled and nodded. "I have a few students who might be able to help. Let me check." She went through her file, reading names under her breath. "Most of them are taken. Everybody's already busy this semester. Exam prep, extracurriculars, the like."
I slumped back, already sensing the frustration pouring in. Just my luck. Ready to learn, no one to teach me.
Then, she paused head cocked looking at her computer. "Well there is— no.”
I leaned up slightly. “Yes?
“I didn't want to bother him any more. He's already got four students, but he's wonderful. And I think he'd be a wonderful fit for you."
I was fully leaning into her desk now. "Who?"
She smiled and nodded to herself. "You know what, I'll ask him."
I didn't know who 'him' was but if he could raise my grades then I didn't care. "Don’t worry, Adam. I’ll get him for you. You’re going to pass this time."
I breathed a sigh of relief. "Thanks, Teach. I really owe you one."
She nodded, pulling out her cellphone. "He's one of our best students. He’s never flunked a test, always on top of his schoolwork. If anyone can get you back on track, it's Emerson Beckett."
I coughed out an automatic reply. "What?"
I sat there, agog, as the I fully processed what she’d just said. Emerson. Fucking. Beckett? Did the dude know how to spell pencil? Could he even use one? What the hell?
But apparently he did. And of all the people in this son of a bi
tch school, he was going to teach me.
But no, of course, it just had to be him.