Page 1 of The Trade

1

WEST

Fall Term

If I’m forced to spend another thirty seconds staring at this blank Word document, I might be tempted to bang my head against my desk. Repeatedly. I’m so sick of pretending like I’m cut out for all of this—my classes, my scholarship, my futile attempts at finishing this godforsaken essay.

I don’t know how much longer I can play the dutiful college student, a D1 athlete who actually has his shit together outside of the locker room. The harsh reality? I’m not that guy, and I never will be.

But for now, this assignment will have to wait. There are only twenty minutes left on the clock before I’m due on the practice field, and I need to switch gears.

I don’t have room to think about Greek mythology right now. Not when I’m meant to be throwing myself into our grueling two-hour practice schedule. And to top it all off, I’m still nursing a hamstring that’s on the brink of tearing.

I tweaked it a few weeks back, and I don’t want Coach to find out about it, especially considering my lackluster grades as of late. Not only would he lay into me about everything, but he could deny me the one thing I truly want—the singular ambition I’ve set my sights on for the past two years.

I plan to declare early for the draft.

It’s becoming increasingly clear that I can’t juggle being a college student and a potential pro athlete at the same time. Barely managing a C-plus average these past two years, hitting just the minimum grade point to hold on to my place on the team and, consequently, my full-ride scholarship.

It may sound like a breeze, but it’s truly been a teeth-gritting struggle, and I’m more than aware that it’s not a good look for anyone. I’m a negligent jock, a careless athlete, a fucking waste of potential.

I’ve heard it all before.

But damn it, I do try. Against all odds, I do. My learning disabilities might throw more hurdles in my way, but ultimately, others’ opinions of me don’t amount to shit. Because sooner rather than later, I’ll be rubbing shoulders with the pros.

That is, provided I can get Coach Rodriguez on board.

By the time I’ve gritted my way through another tormenting round of RB drills and finished off with forty-yard sprints, I’m barely concealing my limp. I pull off my helmet, freeing my hair, now slick with sweat, as I work to shake off the exertion.

“Coach, can I have a minute?”

I struggle to maintain a normal gait as I jog up beside him. It may have been tense before, but now my hamstring’s fucking killing me, cramping and throbbing with every step I take.

Coach Rodriguez pauses, a contrite expression on his face. “Don’t think I didn’t notice your leg out there, West.”

“Just feeling tight.” The lie carelessly slips from my lips as I tug at my clinging jersey, pulling it away from my neck. “I swear.”

He gives me a wary look, eyes scanning my face before he speaks again. “Okay, you better foam roll and stretch tonight. I want you to take it easy.”

“Yeah, of course. I’m planning on it.”

“Did you need something else?”

“I was hoping we could set up a meeting to talk about the draft.”

“No,” he answers immediately.

“No?”

“We don’t need to set up a meeting, son.” He places one firm hand on my shoulder. “I already know my answer. It’s gonna be a no from me.”

His harsh words knock the wind right out of me. Two and half seasons on the field—exhausting myself physically, struggling academically, and always playing by the goddamn books—and yet this is my coach’s response.

“We can’t even discuss this?”

“No, we can’t,” he says. “Give me another good year, get those grades up, and graduate with your scholarship. You can declare once you’ve secured your degree. Just like pretty much every other senior on the team.”

“Sir—”

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