"Yo, Richardson! Get your ass over here!" Coach bellows from the sideline just as practice wraps up.
I pull off my helmet and jog over. "Yes, Coach."
I already know what this is about. The f*****g math course I'm failing.
Professor Cleats must've ratted me out after speaking with me earlier today.
"You failed a course, Richardson," he says, flipping through papers on his clipboard. "Advanced Algorithms. Final year Computer Science requirement. You're carrying it over to the second semester."
His eyes slide to me. "That's not good. You're risking the whole damn scholarship."
"I'm trying, Coach. I have a plan." I reply.
He lowers the board. "Principal Dickinson doesn't like seeing his star linebacker flush his future down the drain. So he's pulling strings. You're getting a student
