Page 9 of The Save

He tilted his head. “Well, I hope they do because, frankly, we need more students like you involved in the mess that is athletics right now.”

Mess? He spat the words with enough passion that I almost believed he cared about something other than differential equations.

He adjusted his glasses. “Douglas is putting together a small academic-athletic oversight committee. It’s in partnership with the registrar’s office. We’re looking at building a pilot program to support at-risk athletes academically.” He muttered something under his breath, shook his head, and then the dam broke. “This is exactly the problem, Madelyn. We’ve got administrators bending over backward to keep players eligible like we’re running some junior version of the NCAA. It used to be that if you couldn’t keep up academically, you didn’t play. Simple. Consequence. Accountability. But now? Now we’re talking about ‘retention support’ and ‘performance optimization’ like these kids are fragile little glass dolls who’ll break if they open a textbook.”

He was heating up now, pacing a few steps in front of the projector cart. “You know what this is? It’s American rot. That’s what it is. Booster culture. Grade inflation. God help us, there’s talk of corporate sponsorship on jerseys next year. Jerseys! Can you imagine? ‘Douglas Outlaws brought to you by Tim Hortons.’”

He snapped a cap back on his pen like he was sealing a bomb. “This is academia, not a farm team. We’re supposed to educatethese students, not groom them for TSN highlight reels. But no—now we need committees to make sure our delicate athletes don’t fall behind while they’re off skipping class for a game in Moose Jaw.”

He stopped suddenly, narrowed his eyes at a speck on the transparency, and scraped it off with his thumbnail. Then, like nothing had happened, he straightened. “I’d like you on it.”

I blinked, trying to rewind and remember what we were talking about before the decline of University athletics. “On the committee?”

“You’d be the only student,” he said. “Everyone else will be staff or faculty. It’s not a casual ask.”

“No, I—yes. I mean, absolutely. Yes.”

Kowalski nodded once, satisfied. “Perfect. The first meeting is this afternoon. Four o'clock sharp."

Well. Nothing like spur of the moment. I tried to play it cool. But inside, I was already writing the scholarship essay paragraph in my head.Demonstrated leadership and creative initiative in a revolutionary collaboration with administration for the support of student athletes?—

"Miss Taylor?"

My head snapped up.

Professor Kowalski looked amused. "I'd like to begin class now if it's alright with you."

"Yes. Of course. Sorry. And thank you so much for thinking of me."

He nodded once and turned to the projector as I found my seat. Four o'clock. That was fine. I would have just enough time to drive back to my apartment and change for trivia night, then come back for the meeting. That would save me the drive back again to pick up Shar and Crystal.

I pulled out my text, notebook, and pencil. So. Chase may not have emailed me, but obviously he'd been working behind thescenes. Did he know that something like this would be far more impressive than a simple paragraph about tutoring?

I grinned to myself, then turned my attention to the projector.

_____

When my last class ended, I jogged to the parking lot and headed home, ignoring the way my Rabbit made a grinding noise every time I turned left. I would have exactly forty-three minutes to shower, change, and emotionally prepare myself for a faculty-led committee meeting. Kowalski had given me his thoughts on the athlete/academic situation, but I was beyond curious about what the other administrators and professors would bring to the table. Why would they start a committee if they didn't want to help? And why was the situation dire enough to require this kind of organization?

By the time I slammed the apartment door behind me, I’d already stripped off my jacket and pulled the scrunchie out of my hair. Tash looked up from her perch on the couch, a half-painted toe propped on the coffee table and a European cinema book open on her lap like Sailor Moon reruns weren't playing on the TV behind her on loop.

“Hot guy or crisis?” She raised one perfectly sculpted brow. "Never mind. A hot guy would be a crisis for you."

I snorted, kicking off my shoes and heading toward my room. “Trivia at the Den. Want to come?”

“To celebrate intellectual hedonism?"

“So that's a no?” I called over my shoulder. I darted into my room, yanked open my closet, and stared, faced with an instantconundrum. I pulled out my satin halter top. Definitely not appropriate for a committee meeting, but perfect for trivia night. I flicked through my blouses.

Tash appeared in the doorway. "Do you want to look like a librarian at trivia night?"

"Librarians here are all white."

Tash chortled. "You like math. You're the whitest girl I know."

I channelled all my attitude and flipped her the bird, but she wasn't wrong. Not having my dad around meant I grew up solely with my mom and her side of the family. As a kid, it wasn't until someone tried to touch my hair that I remembered I didn't look like everyone else.

Tash smirked and sat on my bed. She pointed at a black tank top—scoop-necked, fitted. “Your boobs look great in that.”

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