Chapter 4
ETHAN
There is one thing I didn’t expect to find in my inbox this morning.
I read it twice. Then a third time.
Mandatory.
Apparently, when you’re hovering on the edge of “academically acceptable,” and your professors know you have a functioning brain somewhere beneath the trauma and game dev, they decide to reward you with extra credit assignments. In my case, tutoring a struggling student.
Which is funny. Because if anyone needs tutoring, it’s me.
Freddie leans over the kitchen counter as I groan into my cereal. “You okay?”
“No,” I mutter. “I’ve been drafted.”
“Into what? War? Jury duty? The Bachelor?”
“Dude, I would love to see Eth handing out roses. He’d probably cry more than the chicks.” Troy snickers.
I ignore his jab. “Worse,” I say, shoving the email toward him. “Academic mentoring.”
He squints. “Wait, you have to tutor someone?”
“Yes.”
“Are they trying to get you both to fail?”
“Apparently not. Apparently, I’m ‘creative and empathetic’ and ‘relate well to struggling students.’” I pause. “I think they meant that as an insult.”
Freddie grins. “You are relatable. Like a lost puppy who wandered into the wrong lecture.”
“I hate everything.”
That’s when Delilah appears at the bottom of the stairs, dressed like she’s about to audition for a black-and-white film noir.
Cropped black bob, oversized hoodie with a gothic architecture logo on.
She’s Troy’s new girlfriend and honestly, at first, I was kind of scared of her.
But now that I’ve gotten to know her pretty well. .. I actually like her.
Maybe even more than I like Troy.
She clocks my sad face instantly.
“What’s up?” she asks, heading for the coffee machine.
“Me,” I say, lifting my spoon. “I died. Academically. Spiritually. Emotionally.”
“At least you’re not dramatic,” she deadpans. “Seriously, what’s up, Eth?”
She gives me a look. A look I’ve come to recognize as—‘We all know you got cheated on and spiraled for a while—do you wanna talk, buddy?’
It’s a look I both despise and love my friends for giving me often.
“I’ve gotta tutor some struggling junior in storytelling.”
“Oh, well... to be fair, that sounds like hell,” she says, not even looking at me as she pours her coffee.
“Yes, thank you, Delilah. So insightful.”
Freddie snorts.
“I mean, is it at least going to get you some extra credit?” she asks, ignoring the sarcasm.
“Yeah. My grades aren’t great, and some professors still hold the plagiarism thing against me,” I mutter.
Junior year I got accused of plagiarizing.
Essays have never been my strong suit—I didn’t do it on purpose or anything—but the school’s rules are so strict they basically decided I was guilty until proven innocent.
All the guys helped bail me out, but some of the old-school profs still look at me like I faked my way in.
I’m pretty sure they’re still marking me down just to prove a point.
“Wait, that again?” Delilah says, finally turning to face me. “You do know that no one actually thinks you cheated, right? Your case is legendary. Half the school still talks about how Freddie turned into a CSI agent to clear your name.”
Freddie bows dramatically. “Thank you.”
“I just...” I trail off, poking at the soggy remnants in my cereal bowl. “I need this to go right. Martinez is watching me like a hawk.”
Delilah softens—slightly. Which, for her, is basically a warm hug.
“Then don’t screw it up,” she says. “You’re better than you think.”
“Thanks.” I smile. “That was weirdly comforting.”
She shrugs. “Look, it’s one semester. You play mentor. They learn something. You get your credibility back and maybe stop looking like a sad ex-jock who talks to plants.”
That’s more like the Delilah I know.
Freddie raises a hand. “Greg is thriving, thank you. I watered him this morning.”
I look at Freddie with complete earnestness. “It means the world to me that you’re taking your role as Greg’s godmother seriously.”
He narrows his eyes. “You’re insane, you know that?” Then he pauses. “And if I’m anything—I’m his fucking uncle, okay?”
By midday, I’m outside Professor Long’s office, holding a folder labeled Mentorship Pairing and trying not to bolt like a spooked horse.
He waves me in. “Ethan. Nice to see you. Have a seat.”
I drop into the uncomfortable chair that every professor seems to own. Same scratchy fabric, same weird smell.
“Ah good, you’ve got the program. So, you’ll be working with someone quite bright, but she’s... stuck. She’s a sophomore, and she needs someone who can meet her where she’s at, so to speak.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Another game dev major?”
“Computer Science, actually.”
Oh, fantastic. Comp sci students think we’re just finger-painting with pixels and calling it a degree. This should be fun.
“Right. And you’re absolutely sure I’m the guy for this? Because I feel like there might be some more qualified people—”
Long adjusts his glasses in that way professors do when they’re about to drop life-changing information. “She’s exceptional at anything technical and mathematical. Brilliant even. But she’s lost her way a bit and is struggling to understand Creative Writing.” He makes a vague gesture.
“So I’m supposed to teach a robot how to feel things? Cool. Love a challenge.”
“We’ve had two other tutors attempt this assignment.
Both requested transfers.” He pauses, leaning back in his chair.
“However, your Creative Writing scores have been consistently among the highest in the department of Computer Science. I’m not entirely sure how, given your.
.. other academic adventures, but the numbers don’t lie. ”
Academic adventures. That’s definitely going on my resume under “Special Skills.”
“What’s in it for me? Besides the warm fuzzy feeling of potentially getting murdered by a frustrated CS major who thinks I’m a dumbass?”
Professor Long studies me for a moment, then his expression shifts to something more serious. The kind of serious that makes you sit up and pay attention.
“You know, Ethan, I’ve been watching your work for over three years now.
Your narrative instincts are some of the best I’ve seen in a student, and you’re engaged.
I can tell you love game design and the whole industry.
I don’t just pay attention to students with top scores, but also to those with a spark. ”
My chest does this weird fluttery thing that might be hope trying not to get crushed.
“You know my brother works at Nebula Arcade. I get calls from studios fairly regularly, asking for student recommendations. Good students. Students who can handle responsibility, work with difficult personalities, teach and collaborate.” He pauses, and I swear the air in the room gets thicker.
“I’d like to be able to put your name forward. ”
Holy. Fucking. Shit.
My mouth hangs open for a second. I had no idea Long had any connections. Studios. Actual game studios. Maybe even Nebula Arcade. The creators of Galaxynth: Open Horizons—my favorite open world game ever.
Imagine them calling Professor Long. Asking about me. Potentially.
Holy shit, this could actually prove to Dad that game design isn’t just me pissing away my future now that NFL is off the cards.
“This tutoring assignment isn’t just about helping Ms. Renner pass my class,” he continues. “It’s about showing me—and potentially showing the industry—that despite your grade average, you can take your skills and help others develop theirs. That you’re leadership material.”
I sit up so fast I nearly launch myself out of the chair—almost take the desk with me.
“Professor Long, I will not let you down. I will be the best damn tutor you’ve ever seen.
I will turn this Comp Sci girl into a literary genius, if that’s what it takes.
Or like, whatever the game design equivalent of Shakespeare is.
Miyamoto? Yeah, I’ll make her Miyamoto!”
He chuckles. “I don’t think you will let me down. That’s why I’m trusting you with this.” A small smile. “Of course, if you can raise her Creative Writing grade to 68 or above, I’ll also count it as completed academic rehabilitation credit, which will help your GPA too.”
Extra credit AND industry connections? This is like Christmas and my birthday had a baby and that baby was made of pure opportunity for Ethan Prescott. Maybe Dad will finally stop looking at me like I personally murdered his dreams.
Professor Long’s industry connections could actually launch my career. Like, for real, launch it. Not just “maybe someday if I’m lucky” but actual phone calls to actual studios.
“Just get her to 68?”
“Minimum. Though I suspect if anyone can help her understand that storytelling isn’t merely decorative but functional, it’s you.” He slides the folder across. “Her name is—”
I flip it open.
Piper Renner.
Sharp tongue, thick glasses, the girl who roasted me and my plant in under thirty seconds. The waitress who made me laugh properly for the first time in months when I thought I’d forgotten to do that.
“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me,” I blurt out, then immediately panic because professors probably don’t appreciate that kind of reaction. “I mean—I know her! Sort of. She works at Dora’s. She’s, uh, very nice. Has opinions and stuff.”
Oh fuck, is he going to take back his offer?
Long’s eyebrows do that interested professor thing. “Excellent. Existing familiarity should help establish trust. She’s... resistant to new people.”
Trust. Right. Because nothing says ‘trust me with your academic future’ like ‘remember when you watched me have a full conversation with a houseplant?’
But holy shit, this is real. Professor Long—who knows people, like KNOWS knows people—is trusting me with this. Me! The guy who cried over a bird and once got his head stuck in a porch railing (OK, twice).
But, I do fucking love video games. And a small part of me really wants to prove to everyone that I’m not just a fuck up.
I can do this. I have to do this.
“When do we start?”