Page 11 of The Save

“And,” Kowalski added dryly, “an increase in excuses, extensions, and emails written by coaches instead of students.”

Coach Bryan exhaled. “Listen, we’re expecting these students to perform two jobs at once. We can’t expect them to make both things their number one priority.”

“It shouldn’t even be a question,” Kowalski rebutted. “None of these students are going to play professionally?—”

“That’s not true.” Chase leaned over the table. “One of our players, as you know, had the opportunity to go to Juniors and is now out in Fredericton. I’m all for high academic expectations, but we’re doing these students a disservice if we don’t foster athletic potential.”

“I agree.” Coach Bryan nodded. “I think they need more support, and not because we’re babying them.” He held up a hand to stem what was sure to be an argument by Kowalski.

“If we want this to succeed, we have to be honest about the optics.” April crossed one leg over the other, smoothing her pencil skirt. “This isn’t just about helping students pass their classes—it’s about creating a framework that feels credibleto faculty, scalable for administration, and legitimate to the athletes themselves.

”Support is only effective if it’s paired with standards. The second it feels like special treatment, you lose the academic side of the room. And the second it feels like punishment, the players disengage. You’ve got to sell the idea that academic performance is part of their brand as student-athletes—part of the deal they signed up for.”

Damn.As I worked to pick apart all the facets of that comment, Lamont turned to me. “You’re probably wondering why you’re here.”

No, I wasn’t wondering. I‘d assumed since my GPA had to be one of the highest on campus, and because I’d already offered to help with student athletes, I was there to offer a student perspective on success. The piece that didn’t make sense was that I didn’t play a sport here at Douglas. “Actually, I was wondering why you chose me instead of a high-performing student athlete.” There had to be plenty of them. Wouldn’t they have a better perspective on this topic?

“That’s a great question.” Lamont’s eyes flicked to Kowalski. “We discussed different possibilities and decided it would be best not to add more to our athletes’ plates. And some of us preferred inviting a student who prioritized academics over other pursuits.”

Ah. So Kowalski put up a fuss about having an athlete here. Got it. I was still dying to know how he’d heard about my tutoring offer.

“This committee’s goal is to create a pilot program for compliance and student athlete support,” Lamont continued. “And as Coach Wilson already touched on, we have a situation with the men’s hockey team that seems ripe for attention. So, we’d like to brainstorm together and start with one team–Outlaws hockey. If the program works, we scale to other sports.”

Coach Bryan exhaled in relief.

I perked up. That was perfect. But, I reminded myself, this wasn’t only about getting Rory and Axel back out on the ice. My interest was piqued. Could there be a way to help student athletes excel in both their sport and academics? Could we optimize their experience to maximize potential on either side? What were the factors that impacted their ability to perform? Time, obviously. Physical stamina. We didn’t have control over their diet, genetics, or?—

“Is that acceptable to you, Miss Taylor?”

I looked up. Everyone at the table had their eyes trained on me. I pursed my lips as my cheeks flushed with heat. “Sorry, I was thinking. I missed the question.”

Mr. Lamont smiled. “I was suggesting that, as our student liaison and with your offer to provide tutoring hours, you meet directly with Coach Wilson to create a plan for the at-risk players on the Outlaws team. We’ll continue to meet as a group as well. You two can report on what’s working and what’s not, and we’ll collaborate. Does that work?”

It took everything in me not to reply with something like, “I think Coach Wilson already has some plans in the works,” or, “That depends on whether Coach Wilson knows how to use his email.” I gripped the edge of my seat and said, “I’d be happy to.”

The meeting dragged on for another fifteen minutes, outlining progress metrics, shared calendars, then devolved when the subject of playing privileges was breached. Chase and I were assigned to present an initial schedule and proposed expectations by Monday in order to reach a consensus and implement the strategy before the next home game. So much for my sleepy weekend.

I succeeded in keeping the knowledge that I’d be meeting with Chase at surface level. It would be fine. Professional. Since he didn’t think we had any kind of relationship anyway, it wouldbe easy to keep our conversations focused. He was a different person now, and so was I. I could compartmentalize old Chase. Seal him up in a little box I could pull out every once in a while to admire when we weren’t working on a project together. If I could do it with my past boyfriends, I could do it with an old high school crush.

It was past five when Lamont finally stood to dismiss us. I needed to bolt to get over to Crystal’s place and then Shar’s on time for trivia at six. I grabbed my bag and stood too fast, my thighs catching the bottom of the table as my chair legs caught on the carpet.

I winced, then smiled and thanked Lamont and Kowalski for the invitation, then slid past the others who were still seated and swept out of the room. My heel clicks felt even more abrasive now that the building was completely empty. The receptionist no longer sat at the desk, but thankfully, I had no trouble exiting through the locked doors.

I wrapped my arms around myself against the wind and hurried to the car. I yanked open the driver’s door of the Rabbit and tossed my bag into the passenger seat with enough force to knock over an old coffee cup. Empty, thankfully.

I slid into the seat, shoved the key into the ignition, and turned.

Click.

I paused, then tried again.

Click.

I groaned, dropping my forehead to the steering wheel. Why? The building was closed, so I had no way to phone Crystal or Shar. Not unless I wanted to walk back up there and press myself to the glass in the hope that someone from the committee walked past and took pity on me.

“Come on,” I muttered, turning the key again. And again.

Then a knock on the window nearly sent my soul into orbit. I shot up with a gasp to find Chase standing next to the car, hands in his coat pockets, the collar of his shirt popped up against the wind like he was starring in some CBC cop drama. His brows lifted. A silent question.

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