Chapter 40 – Wesley
I knock on the open door of Coach Thompson’s office after practice, and he motions me in, without looking up from his desk and says, “Just come in, Reynolds. You don’t have to knock. Have a seat.”
He looks ragged, and I realize that maybe his anger was a cover for something else. Peering into his face, I guess disappointment maybe. Sadness?
I take a seat on the opposite side of his desk and he slides over the piece of paper he had been looking at.
“Reynolds, I took a big risk on you, when I agreed to let your dad pull some strings to allow you to come here. And quite frankly, so did the director of athletics, and even the dean of the school. Our division funding could depend on this. You told me you would behave, and keep your grades up.”
“I have been, Coach! I swear.”
“Well, this letter says otherwise,” he says, nodding down at it, silently instructing me to read it.
I look at the letter. It’s from the dean.
This correspondence officially notifies you that Wesley Reynolds failed his algebra exam and is currently failing the class. Further, he’s been absent from class…
“What the—?” I sigh, and shake my head. I push the paper back to him as if it’s on fire. “This can’t be true.”
“Well, are they making this up?” he asks. “Your algebra professor? The dean?”
“I mean, I guess not,” I tell him, my head swirling in disbelief. “But I studied hard for that test. Sure, I didn’t understand the concepts at first and I had missed one class that covered them. But that was the only class I’d missed all semester.”
And it was to chase your daughter around the cafeteria when she didn’t want to talk to me, I almost add.
I had been so distraught that Chelsea wasn’t returning my texts or calls, or coming to meet me at our spot, that I’d skipped class to catch her off guard at the cafeteria, where I knew she always ate with Taylor on Mondays before her philosophy class.
A lot of good my persistence did me. Apparently she thinks I’m a stalker, creep, and player. And now I’m in further trouble for trying to prove her wrong.
“But, anyway, I worked hard to learn the concepts and I did learn them,” I continue. “You can ask Christian. He helped me learn the method. I’m sure I aced the test, based on how he taught me a way to solve the problems that I had never known before. He said the professor taught it on the one day I was absent. And that way was simpler than I’d ever imagined.”
“Hmmm,” says Coach Thompson, rubbing the stubble on his chin. He’s usually always clean-shaven, so it must have be bothering him. In fact, he looks rough— like he’s gone one too many nights without sleep. “Maybe that’s because it was too simple.”
“I’m sorry, what?”
“Oh, Reynolds,” he says, with a long sigh and then a tsk-tsk-tsk of his tongue against the roof of his mouth, as if I’m a kindergartner he’s scolding. “Did you ever hear the saying, ‘If it’s too good to be true, it probably is?”
“Yes,” I tell him. “Of course…”
“And did you ever stop to think that certain people might be jealous of you? That they might want to destroy your success?”
“Are you saying that Christian…?”
“…is purposefully trying to sabotage you?” Coach asks.
I look at him, bug-eyed. He shrugs.
“I can’t say for sure,” he continues. “But I just think it’s mighty convenient that he supposedly taught you an easy way to ace a test that you apparently failed very badly.”
“But, why would he be jealous of me? He plays a different position, so it’s not like he’s missed out on opportunities by my presence, unlike some of the other quarterbacks. And I’ve been helping the team win games, which would just boost his prestige, I would think…”
“Reynolds, for someone who comes off as a tough badass, deep down you’re actually way too nice.”
I just look at him and blink, not sure what exactly he means or what to say back.
“You give everyone the benefit of the doubt,” he says. “There doesn’t have to be a specific reason someone is jealous of you. Maybe they just don’t like people who do better in life than they do. Maybe it doesn’t matter if the star player helps their team win— they still want to take that star player down, just for being a star.”
I nod. It makes sense, when he puts it that way.
“Sure, Christian wasn’t the quarterback, but he was the star player on the team before your arrival,” Coach Thompson continues. “I don’t want to disparage any of my players, but suffice it to say we both know the former quarterback sucked. So Christian was really the only one to shine, before you showed up.”
“Hrmph.”
I have nothing to say. I’m dumbfounded. Coach Thompson is making some good points that I can’t argue against.
“And maybe it’s not even related to football,” Coach continues. “There could be something— or someone— else that Christian is jealous about.”
I meet his gaze, and he’s looking at me with an expression that says he knows more than he’s letting on.
“I wasn’t born yesterday,” he says. “And I have put a lot of trust in you, in more ways than one. I feel like you’re letting me down left and right, never mind whether Christian is behind it or not. You have to be smarter than this.”
I just gulp, and I don’t say anything to confirm or deny what I think he’s hinting at— that he knows that Chelsea and I were dating, and now we’re not. I wish I could explain, and even ask him what he thinks happened, to try to gain some insight into what’s going on in Chelsea’s head.
But I don’t want to confirm it if it’s just a suspicion he has. Maybe it’s a test, which could get me, or, worse— Chelsea— into trouble if I admit that it’s true.
And besides, that’s not even the most pressing matter at hand. I need to figure out what’s happening in Algebra and if there’s any way to save my ass.
I’m so overwhelmed at the possibility that Christian would do this to me that I can’t think too clearly about how to fix the problem of my failing grades. I don’t want to think that my only friend would shit on me like this, on top of everything else that’s gone wrong. The only thing going right is football, and that might be in jeopardy.
“So what exactly does this letter mean, Coach?”
“Well, I’m not quite sure. It’s just one exam, and even though it was a doozy of a failure, it’s not the end of the semester yet, so I think you might still have time to turn this around.”
“I understand, and I know I can do that,” I tell him.
“I’ve been looking around for a good tutor,” Coach says. “And I think that if I tell the dean you’re putting extra time and effort into this class, and that if you can really learn the right method— and not whatever crap Christian Lewis intentionally or unintentionally taught you— then we might have some hope.”
Whew.
“Okay good. Thank you, Coach.”
“I’m going to try to talk to your professor and see if you can retake the test. If not, even if you can manage to get a good grade on your next test, so that it would pull up your final grade, then I think you might still be okay to keep playing.”
“Okay Coach, I can do that.”
“I hope so. Because you know what’s on the line here.”
He stares at me. I sure do know.
Our championship games and any postseason games, if we make it that far, don’t happen until the beginning of next semester. So if I get benched for bad grades or kicked off the team for bad conduct and therefore, breach of my contract, there’s no way I can play in the games that matter the most.
And if that happens then there’s no way I can get back to Huningdale, where now I want to be more than ever. I don’t have any friends here— only enemies pretending to be friends. I don’t have Chelsea. And if I don’t have football, I don’t have anything.
I also get the sense that Coach Thompson isn’t just talking about football. Although I heard Chelsea very clearly say to leave her alone, her father’s hints reveal that something further might still be able to exist between us. And I don’t want to screw that up, either.
Looks like it’s Operation Relearn Algebra for me. Whether or not anything can work out with Chelsea, I’d better do the best I can for Coach Thompson. And for my last chance to keep playing football. If I have any chances left.