The Play Maker (Colton U Playbook #2)

1. Austin

AUSTIN

I ’ve made a lot of bad decisions in my life, but thinking I could wing this class might be the dumbest one yet.

“You gave me an F?”

Professor Carlisle peers up at me over his thick-rimmed glasses, one bushy brow already halfway to his hairline.

“You left the last three pages completely blank,” he says, his brow climbing even higher. It freaks me out—looks like a baby caterpillar trying to crawl off his face. “You’re lucky you even got a grade.”

I scrub a hand down my face. “C’mon, sir. You know if I fail, I’ll get benched.”

He lets out a sigh, his fingers hovering over the keyboard for a second, before he starts typing again. “I’m sorry, Mr. Rhodes, but I don’t give special treatment to anyone.” He stops typing. Squints at me. “And that includes you and every other athlete on this campus.”

My mind spins faster than my skates on the ice. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck . This can’t be happening. If I get suspended from the team, my life is basically over. Hockey is the only thing I’m good at, the one thing that keeps my brain from spiraling into overthinking hell.

“Please,” I beg, leaning over his desk, trying not to sound desperate, even though I totally am. “I’ll do extra credit. I’ll take the test again or?—”

He removes his glasses, sets them down, and lets out another long sigh. “I told you already, Mr. Rhodes. No special treatment. You can’t take the test again, though I’ll be honest, I doubt it would make a difference.”

He shakes his head, his disappointment practically radiating off him. Yeah, I’m disappointed in myself too… trust me .

“Look,” he says, leaning back in his chair, arms folding over the worn tweed of his jacket. “The only thing you can do now is study. Actually study the material, and I have no doubt that you’ll pass next time. But that’s up to you and whether you’re willing to put in the work or not.”

Fuck . I run a hand through my hair, tugging at the strands in frustration. He doesn’t fucking get it. I try. I try every single day to make sense of the stupid fucking words on the paper. And I can’t. No matter what I do, it just doesn’t click.

My jaw tightens. My body locks up. My chest feels like it’s about to explode. Blood’s pumping in my ears, making my head spin. I hate myself so much right now.

“So, there’s nothing I can do?” I ask again, trying to stay calm, but the desperation creeps in my tone. I don’t want special treatment. I just want… a chance. A shot to prove myself. To stay on the team. To keep my scholarship. To not blow the one thing I’m good at.

Professor Carlisle presses his lips together. “You could get a tutor,” he suggests. “Maybe working with someone else will help you actually understand the material, instead of spending your weekends at the bar.”

I slump. Yeah, he’s right. I don’t study nearly as much as I should. Instead, I party. Because studying is boring as hell, and my brain refuses to do anything that doesn’t involve a puck or a shot of whiskey.

“A tutor?” I repeat.

He nods, keeping his eyes on his desk as he packs his stuff away.

“Head down to the tutoring center and have a look. Maybe one of them will be able to help you.” He finally glances up at me, pushing his glasses up his nose.

“Though personally, I suggest Maisie Wilson. She’s got a solid track record and happens to have a spot available. ”

He stands up, grabbing his bag and giving me a pointed look. “Now, if that’s all, you can go. Class was dismissed ten minutes ago.”

I blow out a breath, and turn around, heading up the stairs. I push the door open and step out into the hallway, feeling like I just got kicked in the nuts.

Great. Now I’ve got to track down this Maisie person. I’ve never heard of her, and I know a lot of women on campus.

Fuck, I hate asking for help. It’s about as comfortable as walking naked into a lecture hall. It’s humiliating. Embarrassing. It’s?—

I dig my phone out of my jeans and fire off a quick text.

Me:

Confession. I fucking hate asking for help.

I hit send, leaning against the wall, my thumb hovering as I wait for the dots to pop up, though she might not answer right away. No clue what she’s doing right now. Is she in bed? In class? Out with her friends? With a boyfriend?

I know next to nothing about her. Not her real name, not what school she goes to, not even what she looks like. And yet, somehow, we’ve been texting every day since that first message she sent me.

I scroll up, finding it easily.

Unknown:

I’m going to kill someone.

I remember blinking at my screen like an idiot when I first read it.

Me:

I’m scared to ask who this is.

But also very curious.

Unknown:

Bailey?

Me:

Wrong number.

That should have been the end of it. A normal person would have said “oops, my bad” and moved on. But not her.

Unknown:

Oh. I guess you won’t help me hide the body then.

Me:

Are you joking or should I be concerned right now?

Unknown:

Relax. It’s a hypothetical murder.

Me:

Good. For a second I thought I was gonna have to turn you in.

Unknown:

Right. Because if I were actually a murderer, I’d totally text a confession to a random number.

I snorted so hard I almost choked on my protein shake. And before I knew it, we were still texting an hour later.

Then the next day.

And the next.

And somehow, two weeks later, I was still texting her.

It wasn’t just jokes anymore. We talked about real shit. Stupid childhood stories. Late-night confessions. Things we’d never admitted to anyone else.

But the one thing she refused to tell me? Her name.

I scroll down a little more, finding the texts.

Me:

We’ve been talking for a whole week now and you still won’t tell me your name?

Unknown:

Nope.

Me:

I feel like I deserve it at this point.

Unknown:

You can call me Cherry.

Me:

Cherry?

Cherry:

Yep. That’s the name I’m going with.

Me:

Any particular reason?

Cherry:

I like cherries.

Me:

Solid reasoning. I feel like I should have a cool nickname too.

Cherry:

You should.

Me:

Alright. Call me Six.

Cherry:

Six?

Me:

Yep. That’s the name I’m going with.

Cherry:

Any particular reason?

Me:

I like the number six.

Cherry:

Wow. Solid reasoning.

I smirked at my phone, having way too much fun with a complete stranger.

Cherry:

Okay, Six. Let’s agree to keep this anonymous, okay? No real names. No details about our lives. No pictures. Just confessions.

I agreed at the time, thinking it was funny. Mysterious. Like something out of a cheesy chick-flick I loved watching every now and again—blame my thirteen-year-old sister for getting me hooked.

But now? Weeks later? I hate it.

I don’t want anonymous. I want to know who the hell she is.

My phone vibrates and I glance down at the screen when I see her reply.

Cherry:

Me too. It makes me feel like I’m a helpless child.

A grin tugs at my lips as I type out a reply.

I rewrite it three times before finally hitting send. Still looks wrong, though.

I hate texting. Always feel like I’m spelling shit wrong. I probably am. Which is why I use voice-to-text half the time whenever I text her. I don’t want her to think I’m stupid like everyone else. So I spend extra time trying to get my words right, the punctuation and all that crap.

Me:

Exactly. I just want to be able to do shit on my own. I don’t want to embarrass myself in front of some stranger I barely know.

Cherry:

Well, as a stranger you kinda know… I would have been more than happy to help you out with whatever it is you needed.

I exhale, rubbing the back of my neck. Because it always comes to this.

I want to meet her. I want to see her.

And she won’t let me.

She thinks anonymity is what makes this work. That once we meet, it’ll lose the charm of not knowing who the other is and we’ll get bored, and eventually stop talking.

I don’t agree.

Not knowing just makes me want to find her.

Me:

Hate that you can’t.

I pocket my phone and head toward the rink, spotting Ryan sucking face with Isabella outside the arena. I shake my head, laughing under my breath. Coach hates catching them making out, so they always get their fill before stepping inside.

The guy’s an idiot for messing around with Coach’s daughter, who also happens to be Nathan’s sister. But I guess when it comes to her, he really doesn’t give a fuck.

As soon as I step inside, the cold air hits me, and I take a deep breath. Smells like home. Like ice, sweat, and the faint, weirdly comforting scent of Zamboni fuel.

I glance toward the ice, watching some of the figure skaters still practicing.

My eyes track a few of them, noticing their moves.

It’s kinda cool. They’re like us in a way, skating in circles, pushing themselves, but they do it with way more grace.

If a hockey player tried that shit, we’d faceplant in two seconds.

Except for me, of course. I’m awesome at tricks.

A hard slap lands on my shoulder, knocking me out of my thoughts.

“You good, buddy?” Nathan smirks down at me.

I groan, turning toward the locker room. “Not fucking good at all.”

I push open the door, spotting the guys already inside gearing up and I put on my playlist, ready to get hyped for practice.

“What’s wrong?” Nathan follows, narrowing his eyes. “Don’t tell me you got someone pregnant.”

“What?” I scoff. “Hell no. I wrap my shit up.”

Ryan snorts from his locker. “Glad to hear it.”

“So, what’s the problem?” Nathan asks.

I drop onto the bench, kicking off my shoes and pulling on my pads. “Failed Anatomy.”

The room goes dead silent.

I glance up. Every single one of them is staring at me like I just admitted to murder.

“You’re fucking with us, right?” Ryan asks. “Please tell me this is one of your weird jokes I don’t get.”

“He’s not kidding,” Cole chimes in, popping his gum. “Look at his face.”

I sigh. “Wish I was.”

Nathan frowns. “Then why the hell are you getting into gear? No way Coach lets you play if he finds out.”