Strike (Cake) [Completed] (#Wattys2017)

1: Professor

Calum stood in the penalty arc of the university's football field. He had his right foot up on the ball, rolling it slightly back and forth. A breeze blew, rippling the number 25 on his jersey. He took a deep breath and eyed the goal. He stepped back and readied the kick. Letting out the breath in a grunt, he moved forward and lace-kicked the ball as hard as he could at the net.

Peter sidestepped and caught the ball, barely having to move.

"Dammit," Calum said, dropping his arms to his sides.

"That's the fourth one in a row, Cal!" Peter called from the goal. "You're way out of it today."

"Yeah, I know," Calum said. The day hadn't been going well. It was Tuesday, his early day, and he'd gotten out of bed at six to get showered, to the bus, and into central campus by seven. Then it was off to math at 7:15—a double-block that lasted two hours—and Muscular Anatomy 3100 at 9:30. By eleven he was changed into his jersey and out on the field for practice with Peter; the whole team didn't practice on Tuesdays.

First, he couldn't warm up. His kicks were weak, his hip hurting on the strike, and when he dribbled he kept tripping over his own feet. And now he hadn't made a single penalty kick against Peter who, though he was one of Calum's closest friends, wasn't the greatest goalie. He thought he knew what was wrong.

"It's this class, man," he said. "If I can't pull my grade up I won't be able to play in spring."

"Might lose your scholarship, too," Peter pointed out.

Calum threw him a middle finger. "Don't remind me."

The class was Debate 1100. It was easy, a neo-educational course that focused less on political and economic topics and more on a broad range of subjects—thus knocking out a humanities and a social science credit at the same time, which was why most sports scholarship kids took it. True debate structure, while still considered, wasn't followed exactly. The class was designed more to make students think broadly—to expand minds to multiple things and to teach observation and formation of beliefs—than to teach students how to tell people why the government should or shouldn't raise funding for this or that. Calum hadn't signed up for it on his own, but his advisor had put him in it just before the semester started because Calum hadn't picked enough classes to cover his tracking obligations. He'd hoped math this semester would be enough, but no.

And now he was struggling. In this 1-level class that he thought he'd pass with no effort at all, he was barely pulling a C-. Another failed assignment and he could be off the team until next year. Plus, he'd have to retake the course. Since the semester was only five weeks in, he had time to bring his grade up. But it was going to be work. And he would need to see Professor Hemmings outside of class.

"Have you gone to your professor's office hours yet?" Peter asked, reading his mind. He tossed the ball back to Calum.

"No. I might soon, though. Honestly, my mind's all over the place. I don't have time to think about debate all the time. I need to focus on this." He rolled the ball up on his foot, popped it in the air, and juggled it between his feet for a few seconds before he caught it in his hands. He studied the black and white pentagons, then dropped the ball back to the grass. "I don't know, man."

"Better figure it out soon."

He sighed. "Yeah." He looked at the stadium clock. 11:45. Crap. He had to shower and change back into his day clothes in less than fifteen minutes.

"Gotta go, Pete. See you tomorrow." He threw the goalie the ball.

"Bye, dude."