Time Play (WMU #2)

CHAPTER ONE NICK

CHAPTER ONE

NICK

White Mountain University

Graniton, New Hampshire

OCTOBER

Even though being a varsity baseball player might make me feel a tiny bit pretentious sometimes, I’ve gotta admit—the perks are freaking sweet.

For one, there’s the exclusive common room. Technically, it’s for the Kinesiology program, not athletics, but let’s be real—there’s a huge overlap between the two, to the point where the common room is almost always empty when both football and hockey are on the road.

As usual, when I swipe in through the sleek electronic gates at the entrance, the place is deserted, save for my teammate Ian. Tiptoeing toward him, I lock eyes with his boyfriend Callum, who simply smiles when he catches me. That lets me stay hidden, sneak up, and—

“Sup, fucker!” I yell next to Ian, making him jump with surprise, instinctively swinging at me and backhanding my stomach. Messing with my buddy who has killer aim might not be the smartest way for me to have fun, but it’s how the two of us bond.

“Hey there, shithead,” he mutters, suppressing a chuckle and returning his attention to the laptop in front of him. “How was class?”

I plop myself down onto the leather couch opposite him, spreading out and relaxing. “Fine. I got my Advanced Ethics test back. Aced the thing.”

Another perk of being a varsity athlete is that the professors here tend to give us a little more slack, not that I’ve ever needed to make use of that, at least consciously.

After almost four years here, I haven’t been dragged into Coach Ramirez’s office ever for one of his desperate “get your ass in gear” lectures, which is more than can be said for the rest of the baseball team.

Or the shitshow that our hockey team is turning into. But they aren’t super important.

“That’s nice,” Ian says with a smile. “I’m hoping I’ll do as well on my French test.”

Ah, French—the default language elective for anyone who plays a sport. A couple of sneaky backroom deals between the athletics department and the trio of tenured professors who run French mean every student athlete is all but guaranteed a passing mark.

And that just doesn’t sit right with me. Don’t get me wrong, classes definitely get in the way of me doing what I actually want to do, but I want to graduate on my own merit, not because of some shady pact.

Hence why I chose Introductory Chinese.

I definitely don’t think I’m a genius or anything, but for some reason, every single class I’ve taken since coming to college hasn’t pushed me the way I’d hoped.

Even the intermediate algebra class in my sophomore year was just a reheated version of what I took in twelfth grade, so if math that uses more letters than numbers wasn’t enough to push me, maybe a language without any letters at all will do the trick.

Speaking of that class, I should be getting my first midterm back today, too. Sure enough, when I pull my phone out, there’s a student portal notification waiting for me.

I click on it, and my blood fucking runs cold.

Oh, shit.

This is bad.

I freeze, my eyes glued to the damn student portal.

There’s a first time for everything, and today, it’s my first time failing a test. Scratch that, I didn’t just fail—I bombed this.

Thirty-seven percent in Chinese 107.

Blinking, my mind swirls with a plan—I need to make one, and fast.

The weekly quizzes weren’t anything to write home about, not that I have one of those, and there was no reason for me to transfer classes before the deadline last week.

I need three language credits to graduate, and I’m a senior. I’m gonna have to start studying for real unless I tack on a fifth year to this degree I don’t even like too much.

Besides, the baseball draft came and went in July, and I missed out by the skin of my teeth; it isn’t like I have a definite out, either.

Studying it is.

Callum narrows his eyes at me. “You good, Nick?”

Ian looks up. “Sheesh, yeah. What’s up?”

I smack a hand against my forehead. “I flunked my Chinese midterm.”

Ian winces. He catches himself, but not before my stomach drops like lead. “You know our test results get sent to the team, right?”

“I'm very aware,” I mutter. “It's only a matter of time before”—my phone chimes—“Coach emails me.”

None of us say a word as I scan the email.

Hi Nick,

Just got your Chinese 107 Test 1 result back. See me in my office today or tomorrow when you have a minute.

Thanks,

Rob Ramirez

Head Coach - Varsity Baseball

“He doesn’t sound mad,” I say, “but he isn’t being overly nice, either.”

“That’s a start.” Ian claps a hand onto my shoulder. “Hey, even if you don’t think you’ll need it, you should look into tutoring. Just in case you’re asked.”

“Good idea.” I offer a strained smile. “Let me check it out.”

It takes all of thirty seconds and a few clicks on the course website to find out that tutoring slots are booked up.

“Look, I’ll be fine,” I tell Ian after showing him my screen. “I’m on Coach’s good side. He’ll be understanding.”

I hope.

Coach Ramirez isn’t known for a temper. Or emotions at all, for the most part.

That doesn’t make his plain, unreadable expression any less unsettling.

His office is a bright, airy glass box in the corner of the athletics center, and while the sunlight streaming in makes this feel less like an interrogation, I don’t like how the rest of the building can see in through the glass behind me.

Seriously, why are three out of the four walls here transparent?

“Thirty-seven percent,” Coach Ramirez says after regarding me for way too long. “Tell me how to say that in Chinese.”

My mind goes blank since we’ve only covered numbers up to twenty-nine so far, and he slaps his palm to his forehead.

“Why didn’t you choose French like every other guy on this team?” he asks. “We have a lot more pull there, than with…something unknown.”

That’s certainly underselling the strange French agreement.

I shrug. “I wanted to do something different.”

“Okay. That’s commendable, but only if you’re different and you do well.” Coach rubs the bridge of his nose. “You’ve never been on my radar for dipping below the academic requirements to stay on the team, so the fact I’ve had to haul you into my office is nothing short of an unpleasant surprise.”

“Shoot. I’m sorry—”

He waves me off. “Don’t be. It isn’t like I’m not used to all this, but you still need to pass the class. Have you looked into tutoring?”

“Yes, that’s the first thing I did when I got my grade back.”

Coach’s face softens into something resembling sympathy. “At least you can pull yourself together when needed. Have you signed up?”

I shake my head. “There’s a waitlist a hundred students deep.”

“Shit.” He drags a hand across his face, screwing his mouth into a firm line. “Okay, I’ll do what I hate doing, which is wrangling up a tutor out of thin air. I’m sure we can find someone on campus who speaks Chinese.”

Raising an eyebrow, I decide to be bold and press back on what sounds like a flimsy plan. “Are you going to find a random Chinese person and ask them to be my tutor?”

Coach gives me a grim, resigned nod, and an intrusive chuckle rises from my throat. It surfaces in a strangled bark.

“That’s kind of…”

“Kind of what, Russell?”

“Kind of random. Just because someone might speak a language doesn’t mean they’ll be any good at teaching it.”

He grits his teeth. “Look, there’s no way I’m losing you during your last season here with us. The team needs you, and if I can make sure you’re with us come February, I’m gonna do what it takes. Got it?”

“Got it. Thank you.”