Trevor

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Honestly? I can't believe my stupid gamble worked.

Stephanie was way too smart for that. She probably saw right through me, and just gave me what I wanted because it's what she wanted to.

That made her sexy as hell.

Looking out the window, I saw the twilight of the early morning. The sun was on the horizon. I didn't feel like moving. She was in my arms, and more than anything, I wanted to fuck her again.

Then again.

Then probably more after that.

Life's a bit of an asshole though. It gets in the way, makes demands of you, and sometimes you wonder if it's worth it if it tears you away from people like Stephanie.

I didn't need my phone to know that practice was soon. This year was vital, so I couldn't just skip out.

With great willpower, I pulled myself away from Stephanie. I let her sleep. Seeing her naked and sprawled out on the sofa like that, it was so fucking cute. This is what anyone should dream of waking up to.

I found her bedroom easily enough, and grabbed her pillow and blanket, then returned to the sofa. Subtly, I slid the pillow under her head, and the blanket over her body. She was sleeping pretty deep, and I guess after what I did to her last night, she needed her rest.

Finding my clothes, I slid them on. They were moist and kinda miserable to wear. I could cope for the fifteen minutes it took to get to the locker room and put on my gear.

I head for the door. I look back on her. I realize that this could be bad. I never got her number and my phone was going to be out of commission for a while anyway. I knew where she lived, though. I could just pop by later and explain myself. She might hate me for a bit, but I had complete faith in my ability to win her back over.

I figured after a night like last night, she'd be able to forgive a whole lot.

Making sure the door locked behind me, I departed, yearning for when I would be able to smell, taste, feel, just enjoy Stephanie again.

The school had a damn fine field. It wasn't a full-blown stadium, but it wasn't exactly just a set of bleachers either. There was an array of seating, a scoreboard with some sort of screen on it, a concession area, and everything else. Our games were a big deal, and I think being in the small town of Aaronsville was the only thing stopping the school from throwing the money at a full stadium outright.

This was my office, where I did my business.

I hit the field, charging down. Dustin had hit the stopwatch, and I was seeing if I could beat my sprint time. I was the guy they gave the ball to when they wanted a swift touchdown play. Usually people in my role are more of sprinters, but I was able to keep up despite having more weight than most of them.

Fast, hard-hitting and powerful. The Train nickname was never more apt.

I couldn't help feel distracted though. All while I was running, something stuck to my mind. Stephanie.

One-night stands were my life. I hadn't had a normal girlfriend since the senior year in high school. I figured it was for the best. When you're offered as much poon as I was, temptation was high and I honestly didn't want to break anybody's heart.

With Stephanie though, I really had to fight myself not to run off the field and back to her apartment to try to catch her before she woke up. Even football players have to be adults sometimes.

Darting back to Dustin, I heaved out my breath.

"Three seconds slow, man. You're losing your touch."

"That's still like, four seconds faster than the league average." The cold air took some time to get used to breathing heavily. You'd think I'd get used to it, what with the sport primarily played in the fall and winter, but I guess humans were never meant to run a hundred yards down the field carrying a ball in a snowstorm.

"When are you one not to embrace sheer overkill?"

I slapped my thighs and stood up straight. "Maybe I'm just preoccupied. Maybe there's more to winning by a mile, and winning by three-quarters of a mile is sometimes okay?"

"You sick man? Do I need to take you to the hospital?" His grin told me that his concern wasn't all that serious.

"Nah, nah, maybe I just didn't get a whole lot of sleep. You know how it is." Yeah. While the first time we fell asleep was pretty early in the night, but the other times we went at it? I didn't really look at the clock, but I knew I didn't get the recommended eight hours, and neither did she. I figured she'd probably thank me when she got into work a little bit more rested than she should be.

What did she do again? I forgot, and that made me feel a little like an asshole. I guess talking about careers and what you do for a living isn't what non-college girls want to talk about all the time anyway.

"I know how it is? I guess you scored pretty big last night, huh?"

"Dude, you really have no idea. It's... it's something."

"Yeah. I guess I did myself too." He had that big smug look on his face.

"Did you really get all four?"

"Maybe not. One is all you need sometimes, though."

"I can hear that." I wasn't going to get Stephanie out of my head talking to Dustin, sadly. Not if he wanted to keep talking about chicks, and Dustin fucking loved talking about chicks. I think it gave him affirmation. I wondered if he was a nerd in high school or something. "I'm not breathing like I'm smoking four packs a day anymore. Let's get me blowing out that time with another sprint."

"Richards!" I turned to look for the coach. He's the only one who actually called me that. Even my professors called me Trev or Train at this point. "Richards, get your lazy ass in here!"

"Guess I'm sprinting over there to get yelled at instead."

"Oooh, someone's in trouble."

"Shut up, Dustin."

I rushed over the field to the office. Coach Boggs didn't do much to make you not think of him as a coach. He was a mostly in shape fifty-something, but with some pudge here and there, likely age just finally catching up with him. He had the school's baseball cap on, a red polo shirt, and white shorts.

Never mind we've been out of shorts weather for a few months now, I guess he just liked the cold.

"Come in, sit down. There's some shit, Richards."

He led the way, coming to where he kept track of things. There were still file cabinets everywhere, but he had a ten-year-old laptop on the desk too. He plopped himself down behind the desk.

"What's the problem, Coach?" I said, sitting across from him. God, it was cold outside but this chair was even colder.

"You're the problem, Richards."

I raised an eyebrow. "Me? What the hell did I do?"

"You know why you're in college, boy?"

"To prepare to become a national football star?"

"You ain't gonna be the star of nothing if your grades keep being utter shit."

My eyebrow stayed raised. "When do you care about my grades?"

"When it keeps you off the fucking field, you moron." There was a fine line between abusive and affectionate, and Coach Hatch all too often tip-toed along it.

"I've been doing as well as I've ever done. I don't know what the problem is."

"Dumbass," he raised a hand, and I knew he would slap me across the head if he was still allowed to do that. "The only reason you've been barely passing with Cs is because your teachers know better than to fail the school's star player."

"What, are you saying I should be failing?"

"You should be. And now you are."

I looked at him in silence for a moment. "I'm not following."

"There's been pressure down from the accreditation boards. That certain people's grades aren't one-hundred percent authentic if you know what I mean. They're going to randomly audit some files of students, and now the fucking administration isn't going to be taking any chances, so no more treating playing football as a pass all your classes free card."

I stared for a time, trying to put this together. I didn't think myself an idiot by any means. "So you're saying my grades have been fixed all these years?"

"Wow, you can see the obvious."

A sense of dread hit me. I knew I was privileged. I knew that I got special treatment. I just thought I was doing the bare minimum in my classes, and that was enough for me to not fail. "All of them?"

"Luckily for you, no. You're only badly failing in one class. You're a star D-average student elsewhere. That's shit, but it's passing."

"What class?"

"English. You know. The thing that's technically your major."

I grimaced. I thought it would be easy. I mean, I know how to speak English already, so how hard could it be? Apparently it's about literature and a general launching ground for creative writing and journalism and whatever else. "So it's just one class, it shouldn't cause any issues. I can fix that now that I know it's a problem."

"You better. Cause that one class is a problem. The dean has ruled that if a player isn't passing on their own merits in all classes, I can't put them on the field. Your stupid ass can't seem to speak English, and that's enough to torpedo the team."

I figured that Coach Boggs had to have been in college once, but I have no idea what academic major he had himself. Maybe the score fixing was more prevalent than I thought. "Fine, I'll talk to the professor, see what I need to do, and get back on the field, Coach. This is my last season here, so I can't afford to not be playing."

"Damn right you can't." He took a breath. "I know you're smarter than your dumbass appears to be. Just fix this, Richards. You can be back on the field in time for the New Year’s game and you won't hurt your chances."

"I will, Coach. Thanks for the heads up. I'll go talk to Professor Hatch now."

"You better, Richards. You're the key cog that makes our fucking machine work."

I pushed myself up, nodded at him, and left the office. I meant every word that I said.

Professor Hatch seemed like a reasonable sort. I'll just bust my ass for him, and everything should be fine.

I was nothing if I wasn't persistent.