Researching With the Jock {BWWM High School Romance}

A Quarterback's Dilemma

Greg

The first day of school is supposed to be all about reuniting with the team, catching up with my buddies, and gearing up for another season on the field. But not this year. This year, it's different. As I walk through the hallways, everything feels off. The excitement, the anticipation—it's all dampened by the weight of Miss Sullivan telling me my failing grade on my Social Studies report from last year. I can still see it clearly in my mind, like some neon sign flashing "FAILURE" in capital letters over and over again.

I've never been one to stress too much about school. Football has always been my thing—my escape, my future. But now, because of that stupid grade, I'm benched. And not just for a game or two, but for the whole season unless I somehow pull a miracle and pass Social Studies this year.

As I walk through the crowded hallway and exit the school, I see the guys up ahead— Ricky, Juan, Chris, and Brennan—all of them laughing, tossing a football around. They don't know yet. How could they? I haven't had the guts to tell them. As I get closer, Brennan spots me.

"Yo, Greg!" Brennan grins, throwing the football my way.

I catch it instinctively, but I don't have the usual energy to toss it back. Instead, I force a smile. "Hey, man."

Ricky frowns, reading my face like a playbook. "What's up with you? You look like you just lost the championship."

"Yeah, something like that," I mumble, rubbing the back of my neck.

Juan raises an eyebrow. "Come on, man, spit it out. You're acting weird."

I let out a deep sigh, trying to find the right words. "I... I can't play this season."

The words hang in the air, and for a moment, all I hear is the sound of my heart pounding in my chest. Chris is the first to react, shaking his head in disbelief. "What? Why?"

"I failed Social Studies last year," I admit, feeling the weight of the confession settle in my gut. "Coach says I can't play unless I pass this year, and I'm starting the year off in the hole."

The guys exchange glances, their expressions a mix of shock and sympathy. Ricky steps closer, clapping a hand on my shoulder. "That sucks, man. But you'll get through it. You just gotta study hard and—"

"I don't know if I can," I cut him off, my voice barely above a whisper.

"Of course you can," Juan insists. "We'll help you. Whatever it takes."

I appreciate the support, but I can't shake the feeling of dread that's been gnawing at me since I saw that grade. "Thanks, guys. I appreciate it. But I gotta go."

Without waiting for a response, I turn and head to find my bus, ignoring the concerned looks on their faces. I can't deal with this right now. All I can think about is what's waiting for me at home. When the bus stops at my block, I grab my stuff and head home, dragging my feet like I'm walking through mud. Every step closer to the house feels like I'm walking toward my own execution. I know what's waiting for me.

The walk home feels shorter than usual, like time is speeding up just to throw me into this mess quicker. It's like the universe is giving me more time to prepare for what's coming. But no amount of time could make this any easier. I know my parents. They've always pushed me to be the best, to succeed, to make something of myself. Football was supposed to be my ticket to a better future, a way out of the small-town life they've always wanted more for me than.

The door creaks as I push it open and I'm greeted by the smell of roast chicken—Mom's specialty. Usually, it makes my mouth water, but today, it just twists my stomach into tighter knots.