Chapter 4

Bryson's POV

"Yo, Earth to Bryson!" Zack's voice dragged me violently back to the present, and I realized I'd been standing frozen in front of my locker, my practice jersey half-off, staring at nothing. "Dude, you okay? You just completely zoned out."

I blinked, forcing myself back into my body, back into this moment. "Yeah, sorry. Just... thinking."

"Thinking." Zack crossed his arms, leaning against the locker next to mine with that look on his face—the one that said he wasn't buying my bullshit for a second. "Bro, you've been 'just thinking' for the past week. You think I haven't noticed? You're somewhere else, man. Even when we're running plays, even when we're winning, you're not really there."

"I'm fine," I said automatically, reaching for my street clothes.

"Okay, now I know you're lying." Zack stepped closer, lowering his voice even though the locker room was mostly empty now. "Bryson, we've known each other since we were in diapers. You really think you can hide this from me forever? Whatever it is, just tell me. We're friends, man. That means something."

I paused, my shirt halfway over my head, and felt something in my chest crack open just a little. Zack was right—we'd been friends since before I could remember, had grown up together in the same neighborhood, had learned to throw a football in his backyard when we were barely tall enough to see over the fence. If there was anyone I could trust with this...

"It's my dad," I said finally, pulling my shirt down and sitting heavily on the bench. "He's been on my case about my GPA. Says if I don't get it up to 2.5 by midterms, he won't give me one of his recommendation letters. And without that..." I ran a hand through my hair, feeling the weight of it all pressing down on me. "Without that, I'm screwed. The Ivy League schools, the top-tier programs—they're not going to look at me if my grades are shit, no matter how well I play."

Zack sat down next to me, his shoulder bumping against mine in that easy, brotherly way we'd perfected over years of friendship. "Man, your dad is always like this. Putting pressure on you, making threats. You can't take everything he says to heart. Your talent is insane—I mean, did you see that throw today? Forty yards, right into my hands, like you were reading my mind. No way every top program is gonna pass on you just because of some grade points."

"You don't understand." I shook my head, feeling the familiar tightness in my throat. "He brought up my mom. Said she'd be disappointed in me, that I'm disgracing her memory by failing." The words came out rough, jagged. "You know I can't... I can't let her down, Zack. She's the only reason I—"

I couldn't finish. Couldn't say what I really meant: "She's the only reason I survived my childhood. She's the only person who ever made me feel like I was worth something. And now she's gone, and all I have left is the fear that she died disappointed in me."

"Oh, Bryson." Zack's voice went soft in a way it rarely did, and he reached over to squeeze my shoulder, his grip firm and grounding. He didn't say anything else for a long moment, and I was grateful for that—grateful that he understood without me having to explain, grateful that he knew exactly why the mention of my mother hit differently than anything else my father could throw at me.

Because Zack was the only one who knew. The only one who'd been there that summer when I was twelve, when he'd come over unannounced and found me sitting on the front steps with red eyes and bruises I couldn't explain. The only one who'd pieced together the truth from the things I didn't say, from the way I flinched when doors slammed, from the careful way my mother moved some mornings like her ribs hurt.

He'd never pushed me to talk about it. Never demanded details. He'd just been there, a constant presence that said "I see you, I know, and I'm not going anywhere."

"Listen," Zack said finally, giving my shoulder one more squeeze before letting go. "I wish I could help you with the grades thing, I really do. But you've seen my report cards—I'm barely keeping my head above water in most of my classes. If it wasn't for football eligibility requirements, I'd probably be failing half of them."

"Yeah, I know." I managed a weak smile. "You're not exactly scholarship material yourself."

"Hey!" He shoved me playfully, and just like that, some of the tension broke. "I resent that. I'm very smart. I'm just... academically lazy."

"Is that what we're calling it now?"

"It's called prioritizing, Bryson. I prioritize catching your perfect spirals over memorizing dates for history class. It's a valid life choice." He grinned, then his expression shifted to something more thoughtful. "But you know what? I might not be able to help you, but I know someone who can."

I looked at him, waiting.

"Linnet Mellor."

The name meant absolutely nothing to me. I searched my memory and came up blank—no face, no impression, nothing. "Who?"

"The girl with the 4.0 GPA. Ranked first in our entire class. Literally the smartest person at St. Pellan." Zack leaned back against the locker, warming to his pitch. "I've seen her around—always in the library, always studying. She's on the free lunch program, I think, and she definitely doesn't run in our circles. But if you need someone who can actually explain things in a way that makes sense, she's your best bet."

I tried to picture her and couldn't. "I don't think I've ever even seen her."

"That's because she's basically invisible to people like us," Zack said with a shrug. "Different social ecosystem, you know? But here's the thing—if she's struggling financially, she probably needs money. And you..." He gestured at me with a grin that was pure mischief. "You've got money. Lots of it. Plus, let's be real, you've got the whole golden boy thing going on. With your looks and your wallet, I'm pretty sure you could convince her to tutor you."

I rolled my eyes. "Zack, I'm not trying to seduce her. I'm trying to save my academic career."

"Who said anything about seducing?" He waggled his eyebrows. "I'm just saying, you've got assets. Use them strategically. Offer her a good rate, be charming, and boom—problem solved. She gets money, you get a tutor who can actually help, everyone wins."

It was such a Zack solution—straightforward, optimistic, and completely oblivious to all the ways it could go wrong. But as I sat there in the emptying locker room, my father's words still echoing in my head, I realized I didn't have a better option.

"You really think she'd go for it?" I asked.

"Bro, worst case scenario, she says no and you're back where you started. Best case scenario, you get your grades up and your dad gets off your back." Zack stood up, slinging his bag over his shoulder. "But you gotta move fast. Friday's game is in two days, and midterms are coming up faster than you think. The longer you wait, the harder it's gonna be to pull this off."

He was right. I knew he was right.

"Okay," I said, standing up and grabbing my own bag. "I'll talk to her. Tomorrow."

"That's my boy." Zack grinned and punched my shoulder. "And hey—try not to overthink it, yeah? Just be honest with her. Well, mostly honest. Maybe leave out the part about your dad being a controlling asshole. But the rest? Just tell her you need help and you're willing to pay for it. Simple."

"Simple," I echoed, but nothing in my life had ever been simple.

After Zack left, I finished changing in the quiet locker room, my mind already racing ahead to tomorrow. I'd have to find Linnet Mellor—this girl I'd apparently never noticed, this stranger who might be my only shot at fixing the mess I'd made of my academic life.

I tried to imagine what it would be like to approach her. What would I even say?

"Hey, I know we've never spoken and you probably think I'm just another dumb jock, but I'm actually failing out and desperately need your help to avoid my father's wrath and save my entire future?"

Yeah, that would go over great. As if!