The office is large and impeccably decorated. Awards and picture frames line the shelves like bookends. Paperweights carved into abstract shapes from stone add to a sophisticated vibe. The walls are lined with awards, diplomas, certificates, and framed pictures of the dean shaking hands with various people, posing in front of various buildings. There’s not much in here besides bookshelves, filing cabinets, and a large wooden desk that’s pristinely organized.

Jake sits in one of the dark green plush chairs across the desk from the dean, watching as the old man talks. He has a friendly face, with wrinkles in his forehead and laughter lines around his eyes. His smile has always been warm and welcoming, and Jake remembers the distinct pride he felt the first time he was in this room. He remembers feeling nearly lightheaded with it, giddy, as the dean congratulated him on his first winning home game and told them they made a good decision when they offered him a full ride scholarship.

Now he sits here, dread feeling like lead in his gut, as the dean tells him that due to changes in the system, he’s in danger of losing that scholarship.

“Two points may seem like a daunting task,” the dean says, not unkind and not without sympathy as he leans back in his chair, elbows perched on the arms, and fingers steepled in front of him. “But it doesn’t need to be immediate. If we see you’re making steady progress, we can give you the time it takes to raise your GPA. You’re a smart kid, Jake. If you simply apply yourself, spend time studying, and perhaps look into some tutoring options, you’ll find yourself excelling in no time.”

Despite the dread coiling through his chest, Jake manages a tight-lipped smile. “Thanks, Dr. Harrison. I’ll do my best.”

The man’s smile widens a fraction. “I know you will, Jake. Our team needs you, and I know you won’t let us down.”

He stands to leave and shakes the deans hand, feeling robotic and stiff as they go through the pleasantries of saying goodbye. His smile feels painted on poorly, cracking at the edges. His voice sounds hollow and distant.

He leaves the dean’s office, closing the door gently behind him, and he pauses there, glancing around the empty hallway. His eyes linger on the white cinderblock walls and the way the artificial lights reflects on the cheap linoleum floors. He feels numb and hollowed out. A pit has formed in his stomach, and it’s making him nauseous. There’s a buzz across his skin, an itch that crawls beneath it, making him feel restless and anxious. His fingers curl into fists before relaxing, over and over.

How the hell is he supposed to raise his GPA by two points? No matter what the dean said, two points is a lot. A lot more than Jake ever thought he’d be capable of. And he has to make immediate progress or risk his scholarship being pulled. That can’t happen. He can’t afford to be here without it. His family doesn’t have the money, and the idea of applying for loans large enough to cover tuition and living, when he should be getting a full ride, makes him dizzy with dread.

All he wanted to do was play baseball on one of the most well renowned teams in the region, get discovered professionally, and leave college with a passing GPA that barely matters in the long run. He’s not an academic. He never has been. School has never been his thing. It’s just a means to an end. A necessary evil if he wants to play ball.

Pace brisk, body anxious and running on far too much chaotic energy without an outlet, he goes down the stairs two at a time, leaping over the last three before every landing.

Whatever. He’ll deal with this later. He’ll think about it tonight. Or tomorrow. Or... something. For now, he’s just gotta get through the rest of his classes. Get through practice without his teammates knowing anything’s wrong. He can deal with the rest later.

As he steps out of the building, the rush of crisp, autumn air cools his heated skin. He breathes it in deep, letting it fill his lungs and calm the ache. They’re well into the first semester, and autumn brings the promise of winter. From winter, spring will come. He hopes he’s still on the team when the official season starts.

His phone buzzes in his pocket, snapping him back to the present. He digs it out and glances at the lock screen. It’s a text from his girlfriend. Once upon a time, that mere fact might’ve given him a little thrill. A little giddy shiver down his spine. Now he feels nothing. He wonders when it happened, but he’s not surprised that it has. It always seems to happen with his relationships, and he’s never been able to figure out why.

Unlocking his phone, he reads the message.

Cindi

> Where are you?

It takes a moment for context to sink in. For memory to dredge up remnants of what he’s forgotten with everything that’s happened this morning.

Right. He’s supposed to meet her before their next class, and he’s late. Great.

Shoving his phone back in his pocket, he jogs down the steps in front of the administration building and starts off across campus.

He finds her in their usual meeting spot on the quad. She’s sitting on the crest of the small hill that rises to the sidewalk that leads to the student union. It’s a rise that overlooks the rest of the quad, stretching across the length of it, giving students a good spot to sit, relax, and be out of the way from both the activities on the quad and the foot traffic on the sidewalk above it.

She has her back to him as he approaches, one hand holding a coffee cup and the other holding her phone. Despite the slight chill in the air, she wears shorts, long, smooth legs stretched out in front of her and crossed at the ankles. The back of her shirt dips, giving him just a teasing view of her shoulders and spine. He remembers a time when a glimpse of her skin would’ve made heat rise beneath his skin and a hunger fill his gut. Now he simply feels numb.

He wonders how long it’s been like this without him noticing. When did she go from a successful conquest, the nabbing of a beautiful girlfriend, into just... someone he was obligated to see. He used to feel pride having her on his arm, reveling in the looks others gave him, and he used to feel lust rumbling in his chest whenever she was around. She used to get such a rise out of him, but the novelty of it had worn off so quickly. Quicker than his last girlfriend, and the one before that.

How long had they even been dating?

“Hey, babe,” he says as he sits down beside her. She hums her greeting, not even bothering to look up from her phone as she leans toward him, presenting her cheek. He hesitates, but she doesn’t look at him, and he eventually gives into the routine and pecks her lightly on the cheek.

“You’re late,” she says as she leans away from him once more.

He leans back on his hands, not even bothering to put an arm around her like he usually does. He’s normally a touchy guy in relationships, but that diminishes when he’s in a funk. She doesn’t even seem to notice the change. “I was in the dean’s office.”

“Cool,” is all she says, sounding indifferent and robotic. She never once stops scrolling through her phone.

He frowns. “He said if I don’t raise my GPA by two points, I’ll lose my scholarship. I’ll be kicked off the team.”

“That sucks,” she finally puts her phone away, slipping it into her backpack. She turns to him, and for a second, he thinks he’s finally about to get some sympathy. Anything, really. Instead she turns to him with half-lidded eyes and a coy smile on her lips. “Wanna have a quickie before class?”

His brows furrow, and he leans away as she leans into him. “I just told you that I might lose my scholarship.”

She shrugs, dragging painted nails lightly down his arm. “You’ll figure it out. So... about that quickie...” Despite his frustration, his body reacts to the touch. Goosebumps rise on his skin and he shutters, a spark of interest running southward, betraying him. He can’t deny that she is hot, and she does know how to get what she wants. She smiles at him, knowing and triumphant.

He’s really not in the mood, but...

His phone rings in his pocket, the incessant vibrations offering the excuse he needs.

He digs it out, glancing at it for only a second before holding it out, disentangling himself from Cindi’s hold. Just moments before she could attach her lips to his neck and slide her hands beneath his shirt. He may not be in the mood, but he’s a weak man. Instead, he pushes himself to his feet, holding his phone out for her to see. “Sorry, it’s my mom.”

She pouts, clearly disgruntled but still playing coy. “You never answer calls from your mom.”

He shrugs, grabbing his bag that had fallen to the ground. “Yeah, well, you know. Better late than never.”

She huffs, gathering her things and pushing herself to her feet. Her coy look is gone, as is the lust in her eyes, replaced only by a cold but subtle fury. “Whatever.” She turns on her heel, stalking the rest of the way up the hill toward the sidewalk.

“I’ll see you later?” He calls out after her, but all he gets is a vague wave in response. He sighs. Just another thing to fix later. Maybe he’ll bring her flowers. She’s always been weak to flowers. Or... was that the last one? He can’t remember. His relationships come and go so quickly that he’s stopped learning much about them. None of them try to learn much about him either.

He answers the call, turning to walk in the direction of his next class. “Hey, mom.”

“Jake! You actually answered.”

There’s a disbelief in her voice, along with a tease and a joy. He finds himself smiling. “It was bound to happen eventually.”

He talks to her as he makes his way to the business building. She carries most of the conversation, and he supplements it with muttered sounds and one-word responses. She tells him how she and his dad have been doing. How the dogs are. What the neighborhood gossip is. And when she asks how he’s doing, he just gives her short and vague responses, keeping a tight-lipped smile on his face in the hopes that it’ll make him sound more genuine.

Then she tells him that they’re proud of him, and that his dad will be driving up to watch the first home game.

He feels like he’s been kicked in the chest, all the air rushing out of him and leaving an ache in its wake. He doesn’t have the heart to tell them. Not when it’s not certain yet, and not when all it’ll do is make them worry. He doesn’t want them to think he’s a failure. So instead he just gives her a strained response. Something vague and positive that he barely hears past the panicked ringing in his ears.

“Jake...” Her voice goes soft, concerned, in that way it does when she knows something’s wrong. “Is everything alright.”

“Fine, Mom, I just gotta go to class now. Love you, bye!” He barely gives her time to say her own goodbyes before ending the call, breathing out a sigh of relief and feeling guilt rush into his lungs.

Just... another thing to deal with later.

It’s not until the call fades, phone returning to his home screen, that he realizes he’s late.

“Fuck!” He shoves his phone away and rushes inside, climbing the stairs two at a time.

His economics class is in a large lecture hall in the Business Building. He rushes through the door right as the professor is about to begin and receives an annoyed glare for it. He smiles sheepishly, pushing the door shut as quietly as he can before rushing to take the first available seat. Backpack thrown to the floor at his feet, he leans back in his chair, hands on the empty table top in front of him.

He never brings his textbook, and he never takes notes. He realizes, with the same rolling of dread in his stomach that he’s going to need to start doing both of those things. Just as he should start paying attention.

He tries, he really does, and he gives it a valiant effort for all of ten minutes. It doesn’t take long for his mind to wander though. The subject is boring. A lot of words and a lot of numbers. The professor’s voice drones on, talking about business practices or something like that. He doesn’t really care about business, it just seemed like an easy major to pick. He’s here for baseball, anyway.

As his mind begins to wander, so do his eyes. He sits at the end of a row, and if he turns in his chair, he gets a good view of the whole room. So, leaning an elbow on the desk and resting his cheek against it, he lets his gaze look over his classmates. A lot of them look like him. Jocks who thought business would be an easy way to pass through college. There are a lot of girls as well, and most of them fit the definition of his type.

He doesn’t really realize that he’s looking for tutoring material until his attention settles on a boy in the back. He looks younger, and he’s definitely smaller. Small frame. Small build. Delicate features. Glasses perched on his nose. None of the fresh-from-Greek-life the rest of his classmates seem to exude. He looks almost bored, but despite that, he’s scribbling quickly across his notebook, occasionally glancing up at the professor.

To be completely honest, he looks like an absolute nerd. The typical, cliché smart kid who listens and writes down everything in class. Jake thinks he’d make for a good tutor.

As he watches, the boy lifts a hand to scratch his face. The sleeves of his hoodie envelop most of his hand, leaving just his fingertips visible. His eyes are focused intently on his notebook, brows pinched and nose wrinkling slightly in thought. As he scratches his cheek, he doesn’t seem to notice the pen in his hand leaving a streak of black along his jaw. It’s cute. Really cute. Adorable, even.

Despite the tightness in his chest and the anxiousness crawling beneath his skin, Jake finds himself smiling.