Page 15 of The Trade

She glances up from her spot at the podium, readjusting her glasses before giving me a tight smile. “What can I do for you, Theodore?”

I clear my throat, nervously stuffing my hands into my front pockets. “I had a question about the grade I received on my paper.”

“You know, all students must earn their grade in my class. Athletes aren’t given any special permissions or leeway. Now that it’s the off-season, you should be able to put in a little more effort.”

Well, goddamn, that was mighty presumptuous of her. I’ve certainly never asked anyone for special treatment. My 2.3 GPA should be more than enough proof of that.

Besides, I worked my ass off on this paper. My tutor and I spent countless hours analyzing and discussing the assigned text. We worked on it until late into the night, making sure every point was well articulated, and the structure was sound.

I normally wouldn’t be shocked by a shitty grade, but this time around, it just feels like a slap to the fucking face.

“I completely understand.” I gulp back my frustration. “I’m not asking for leeway, but is there any other feedback you could give me?”

“Yes.” She nods, tidying her papers into a neat stack. “Properly cite your sources, and check for grammatical errors.”

“That’s fair. I did have my tutor look over—”

“Theodore, if you have any further questions, you’ll need to schedule a time to meet with me during my office hours.” She slams her folder closed, clearly indicating my dismissal.

“Of course,” I say through gritted teeth. “Thank you for your time, Professor.”

“Very well, Theodore. Remember, my office hours are posted on the syllabus. Make sure to email me in advance to set up an appointment,” she says dismissively, her gaze already shifting to the exit.

Biting back a harsh retort, I turn on my heel and stalk out of the lecture hall before her. It’s one thing to be struggling; it’s another entirely to be dismissed so easily by the person who’s supposed to help you learn.

I run a ragged hand through my hair in frustration. If I’m going to pass this class, I need to figure out what the hell I’m doing wrong. I’ve got the drive; I just need the direction.

And it’s clear as day that I’m not going to get that from Professor Hartman.

“I need a fucking beer,” I mutter to myself, making a beeline for my favorite off-campus bar. If I’m going to spend the rest of my day staring at a red-inked English paper, I might as well have a cold one in my hand.

* * *

I trudge backto my off-campus house, a dark cloud of frustration and dread following me like a bad omen. The potential implications of failing another assignment crawl through my mind, threatening my dreams—scholarship, football, first-round draft pick—they all hang in the balance.

“Hey, man.” Cam’s deep voice cuts through my brooding.

The two of us have been sharing this house since last year, along with Daniel Moreno, another linebacker for the team. Danny is good company, but he spends most of his time at his girlfriend’s place these days.

My gaze finds Cam lounged on our living room couch, legs nonchalantly thrown over the coffee table, a laptop balancing precariously on one thigh.

“Hmph.” I return the greeting with a grunt, hardly managing to conceal my irritation.

“Why do you look like someone ran over your cat?” he asks, not looking up from his screen.

Wordlessly, I stride toward him, flinging my marked paper onto his lap, the damning F atop the page all but screaming failure.

“Two weeks into the term, and I’m already tanking,” I grumble, a bitter edge to my voice.

“Easy, man,” he says, his eyes briefly scanning the paper before placing it on the coffee table. “There’s still plenty of time to pull up your grade.”

I scoff. “Right. Maybe if I sit next to you long enough, some of your genius will rub off on me.”

His smirk is instant. “So, you want me to rub off on you?”

Rolling my eyes, I raise my middle finger in response. “Fuck off.”

“Nah, I’m pretty comfortable here, thank you very much,” he drawls, stretching both arms over the back of the couch with a smirk.

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