Page 121 of Holding On

"Would you rather I lie to you?" he asks. "Coddle you with undue praise like all the other parents? Why would I do that? That would be setting you up for failure. Instead, I've set you up for success. And for that, you should be grateful."

"You're wrong," I spit out. "I can do more than play football. I'm not stupid. I do well in school."

"You get decent grades," he emphasizes 'grades' like he's making some kind of point.

"Yeah, which proves I'm not stupid."

"Ethan, you can't be serious." He smiles slightly.

"What the fuck's that supposed to mean?" My gut tightens, not liking the sound of his tone.

"You play football."

"Yeah? So?"

"You're the star of the team. You're the reason they win."

"And?" I ask, still not getting his point.

"Your grades are based on your wins on the field, not your efforts in the classroom."

I swallow. That can't be true. I know I'm not stupid. I don't always understand the material but I study and do well on tests. At least I thought I did.

"You don't know that."

"Everyone knows that. Especially you. You've heard me talking about my clients. You know every damn one of them would've flunked out of college if not for their skills on the field."

"That's not me. I'm smarter than that."

"That's what they all think. But get them out in the real world and they're lost. They can't handle it. They aren't equipped to. They don't have the knowledge or the skills because all through college, their mind was on the game, which is where it has to be in order to make it to the pros. The same is true for you. Honestly, Ethan, you can't tell me you truly believed you were maintaining a B-average on your own."

I sit there quietly, trying to figure out if he's telling the truth or just saying it to convince me to get back to training. But what if he's right? He can't be. My professors have never even showed interest in the fact that I'm on the team. Last semester, my English Lit professor even acted annoyed by it and purposely called me out to answer questions about the material that he knew I couldn't answer. And yet I got a B in that class.

Shit. Now that I think about it, how did I get a B in that class? My papers weren't that great and I turned in two of them late. Fuck. What if my dad is right?

"Get your things," he says. "I need to get going. I have a conference call in twenty minutes." He takes his phone out and starts checking his messages, making it clear our conversation is over.

I could refuse to go but now I want to. I need to talk to Coach and find out if my dad is right.

He makes a call and I go in my room and pack my gym bag, the whole time feeling sick to my stomach at the thought that I might've been deceived this whole time. I know professors rig grades for athletes but I didn't think I was one of them. Unlike a lot of my teammates, I actually put effort into my classes so I thought I'd earned my grades. But maybe not. Maybe it's all been a lie. A big, fat lie to make sure my focus remains on football and making it to the pros. A future I may not even want.

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