When Stars Align

13: The Art of Avoiding Mom's Texts

JAXON
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The low hum of my laptop felt too loud in the quiet of my dorm room. The blue-white light from the screen flickered, casting sharp shadows across the piles of textbooks I hadn't touched in weeks. I stared at the email for hours, even though it had only been a few minutes.

Academic Probation Status.

I blinked, trying to focus on the words, but the meaning wouldn't stick. My throat tightened, like I'd swallowed something sharp. My eyes skimmed the lines again, hoping the words might change, hoping I'd read them wrong. But they didn't. The words stayed there. Just mocking me.

"Shit," I muttered, slamming the laptop shut harder than I meant to. The loud snap broke the silence, and the old wooden desk rattled under the force. My fingers dug into my scalp as I ran a hand through my hair, tugging a little harder than necessary.

I stood, the chair screeching across the floor as I pushed it back. The faint smell of rain from the open window did nothing to cool the heat building in my chest. Outside, droplets tapped steadily against the glass, blending with the occasional roll of thunder.

I grabbed my phone from the corner of the desk, ignoring the unopened textbooks as my thumb swiped across the screen. Missed call. My mother's name blinked up at me.

Hey, sweetie. Saw your grades. Let's talk soon? You know your dad and I just want what's best for you.

I sighed, my thumb hovering over the message before locking the screen. Of course, she'd seen them. Of course, she'd want to talk. I could already hear her voice in my head—calm, supportive, but with that underlying tone of expectation. I didn't need to hear the actual words. It was the same conversation we'd had a dozen times before. Only this time, it felt heavier. I knew what she wouldn't say, but what she'd be thinking: Don't mess this up, Jaxon. We've given you everything. Don't waste it.

The phone buzzed again. Group chat. I flicked through the messages—practice tomorrow, reminders for drills, the usual team banter. Normally, I'd have thrown in a joke and kept up the back-and-forth, but the words blurred together. I dropped the phone on the bed and stood there, staring at it as the screen dimmed.

My feet felt heavy as I grabbed my bag, slinging it over my shoulder. The strap dug into my collarbone, the weight of it somehow too much, even though it was just notebooks and a laptop. I should've left for class ten minutes ago. But now, I wasn't sure I wanted to go at all.

The hallway outside was colder, the air conditioning blasting. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, making my head throb. Outside, the rain had turned into a steady downpour.

I barely noticed as I walked, my mind circling back to the email again and again. Academic probation. It felt like a slap in the face, like I was failing at the one thing I was supposed to have under control. Football, sure—that was going fine. But the rest of it? The classes, the grades, the future my parents had mapped out since I was old enough to throw a football?

I wasn't sure I could do it.

By the time I got to the classroom, my shoes were soaked through, cold water squishing between my toes. I paused at the door, staring at the worn brass handle. My hand hovered over the handle, fingers cold and stiff. The low hum of students talking, notebooks flipping, pens scratching—it all sounded distant, muffled, like I was underwater. My heart pounded in my chest.

I pushed the door open, and every head in the room snapped toward me. I swallowed hard, giving a half-hearted nod to the professor before slipping into the first empty seat I could find. My shoes squished beneath the desk, soaked through to my socks, and I felt the cold slowly creeping up my legs. A drop of water fell from my sleeve onto my notebook.