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Somewhere in the back of Red’s mind, the more sane, rational part of her, she recognized that failing an anatomy class was not actually the end of the world. It’s one class, she could retake it, hopefully with a different instructor, and continue life as normal. No harm, no foul. Besides, it wasn’t even a required course for her major, just a recommended one if she wanted to get a B.S. instead of a B.A.
It’s just one class.
Except, Red's heart was beating hard in her chest, keeping an uneven tempo, her lungs were struggling to supply her body with oxygen and her skin felt clammy.
Red Hearts, the WLU Spades’ very own unlucky thirteen, sat in Mr. Alabaster Hare's office, the Dean of Students, to talk about some concerns the university had about her final grades.
The meeting was called the day after the championship, the championship she pretty much secured on her own with six shutout innings before being pulled off the mound for the closer. She shouldn’t even be here. She should be with the rest of the team, celebrating another back-to-back winning season. She should be back at her dorm, finishing her packing; her keys were due to her RA by noon tomorrow. Plus, she still had to load up in her truck and haul it to Dora’s place for the summer. She should be working on her schedule, trying to fit in her own conditioning between shifts at the youth baseball facility in town. They had taken her on as a Little League pitching instructor, and with the championships coming in August, parents were already clamoring for spots.
Instead, she stared down at the piece of paper presented to her while trying not to hyperventilate. It was, quite literally, an itemized list of all of her shortcomings during the semester. Her GPA was circled in red pen: 2.25, a fraction of a point away from DI playing eligibility.
She blinked back tears.
It wasn't fair.
Of the fifty-three students in her Anatomy & Physiology I class, only thirty percent of their section passed, a fact the professor seemed a little too thrilled by when he announced it at the end of exam week. She did everything she was supposed to, if she wasn’t on the field, she was studying in the library, hell, sometimes in the locker room. She met with the TA after class when she could, and did all of the extra credit assignments. Didn’t matter in the end, she had done all that work and had absolutely nothing to show for it.
Red was not among the lucky few to eek out even a D, having earned an F on the final, and a 59% overall in the course and lab. The A's in Organic Chem, as well as her B+ in Calc meant nothing to her tanked GPA.
Some woman who introduced herself at the beginning of this meeting as “Mrs. Duke, academic success counselor" did most of the talking. She spoke to her, at her, about her, throwing around words like “academic probation” and “tutoring sessions,” while the dean shook his head occasionally. Her coach, Maddox Hatter, sat next to her, his body taut, seemingly ready to snap as Mrs. Duke droned on about “the importance of maintaining athletic and academic excellence at WLU.”
Mr. Hare let out a heavy sigh, looking at Coach, not Red, as he finally spoke, "With her GPA, I think it’s safe to say that she won’t be pitching next season.”
Her head snapped up.
No.
Not playing was not an option for her.
“I can’-”
“With all due respect, sir,” Coach Mads spoke through clenched teeth, his voice an octave lower than normal, “I think we’re being a bit overzealous here. I know Red can get her grades up before the season starts. Maybe she can retake the class in the fall-”
“I could take a summer class,” she said, the thought suddenly coming to her. “That would bump up my GPA a bit, right?” She would have to talk to the manager at the training facility about dropping a few shifts and adjust her budget. And she would have to dedicate time to the class itself, whatever it ended up being, and do everything she could to ace it. It would be a pain, but she could, would, make it work.
“Yes,” Coach snapped at the idea. “A summer class would give her the credits she would need to get her back into playing eligibility,”
“I’m sorry, but all of our summer courses are full,” the dean said, “and the team roster has to be submitted to the NCAA by August.”
Coach Mads leaned forward, his head in his hands. He was already high strung, rarely, if ever, relaxed, but Red could see a vein in his neck pop against his skin, his fingers digging into his scalp. “Could we keep her on reserve?” he asked, almost pleading. “She won’t take the field, but she can still practice with the team. Just until her grades get back up.”
“Not if we want to stay as a DI school. I’m sorry, Maddox, but my hands are tied,” Mr. Hare said.
“That’s bullshit, Al!” He rose out of his seat, stabbing a finger down on the desk. “You allowed Cheshire to play last season and he failed two classes!”
“Mr. Cheshire is a part of the soccer team, which, as I’m sure you recall, is a DII team.”
“I’m sure it helped that his dad made a large donation too.”
Mr. Hare wiped his forehead with a worn handkerchief. “The NCAA standards are clear. If we allow Ms. Hearts to play next season, we will have to request that we demote the entire team from DI to DII, and then what? I know you’re losing your star, but you have to consider the rest of the team too. ”
“It’s not about losing a star player, Al-”
“That’s enough, Maddox,” the dean commanded, though it came out weak. “We still have to discuss a plan going forward for the academic year.”
“I know that this is a lot to take in, Ms. Hearts,” Mrs. Duke interrupted, thumbing through the folder she had brought with her, “but there is the issue of your scholarship.”
She picked up a pair of reading glasses from a chain around her neck, lifting them to her face as she read from the papers within. “Unfortunately, Ms. Hearts, your tuition as well as your room and board was covered under the university’s Student Athletes fund. As a part of the contract you signed before your admission, you agreed the funds would be contingent on your active participation on a DI sports team throughout your attendance at the university.” She handed a paper to Red. She took it with shaking hands. “That being said, since you are in violation of those guidelines, we are forced to revoke your scholarship until you are able to fulfill your end of the agreement.”
It was the cost breakdown for the next school year, outlining the price of her tuition, room and board, parking pass, even printing from the library. The final number was highlighted underneath.
“We are aware of your…financial situation, but it does make you ineligible for any of our need based aid. Until this amount is paid, we have to put a hold on your account and put a freeze on your enrollment for next year.”
Of course.
Of fucking course.
Red rubbed her eyes, hard. She was not going to cry, not here. “I can’t afford the tuition on my own,” she said, finally.
"Well, Ms. Hearts,” Mrs. Duke said with a sickly sweet tone, placing a hand over Red’s and patting it gently, “you will have to consider the possibility of taking out loans."
The second the meeting was over, Coach Mads rushed her to the gym, trying to get her into his office as quickly as humanly possible. The walk was long, the administration building set on the opposite side of campus as the gym, but he guided her the entire way, pushing her to take each step. Every few feet, her chest would heave as a sob threatened to escape, and he would push them a little faster, whispering, “We’re almost there.”
By the time they got through the doors, Red could barely see in front of her, tears blurring her vision. She felt herself be ushered down a familiar hallway and into Coach’s office. The door closed behind, and Red let go.
“FUCK!” Her frustration was hot and liquid, pouring down her face. She paced the length of the office, punching left hand hard into her palm. “Idon’tknowwhattodoIdon’tknowwhattodoIdon’tknowwhattodo!”
Coach Mads brought her into a bear-hug, wrapping his arms around her shoulders and holding her firm in his arms. She allowed herself to fall into it, sobbing into his chest. She hadn’t cried like this in years. Not since she tore her UCL and thought her career was over before it even started.
Not since her dad died.
“I gave up everything to be here!” she blubbered, each word punctuated by a shuddering breath.
Coach just held her tighter, not letting go. “I know, Red. And I’m sorry.”
“I can’t-” she gave a hiccupping sob, “I can’t-”
“It’s going to be okay-”
“It’s not, Mads! It’s not! I c-c-can’t,” she shut her eyes hard, willing her breathing to even out. “I can’t ask my mom for the money.”
"No, it’s not that.” He let go of her, releasing her a fraction, his eyes shifting back and forth from her face to his desk. He moved behind his desk pulling at the drawers. He emptied them out in his search, taking out printed schedules, old mitts, even a bat before finally finding whatever it was he was looking for. He held out a piece of glossy paper towards her. “You have to transfer,” he said finally.
“What?" she sniffled.
He thrusted the paper at her again, forcing her to take it. It was another team’s recruitment pamphlet, probably taken from some high school visit Coach had to attend. Join the Auradon Fighting Knights! was written in garish yellow impact font on top of a bright blue crest.
“Auradon University,” he said, tapping the paper. “It’s a DII school about a hundred miles from here.”
She stared down at the pamphlet, flipping it open. Inside there were pictures, action shots of the team in play, along with a list of dates for recruitment events, application and financial aid deadlines, and first day of training. At the very bottom was a photograph of the team from the most recent season, dressed in blue and yellow uniforms and smiling brightly at the camera. One of the catchers had dyed their hair bright blue to match the school's colors.
“And?”
“The NCAA GPA requirement for DII players is 2.2. It’s a smaller school but they have a great STEM department. I can talk to their coach for you, he owes me a favor, and I’m sure he could pull some strings for your admission. One of their pitchers gradu-”
“This is stupid.” She crumpled up the pamphlet, tossing it on his desk.
“Red!”
“No major league team is going to look at a DII school.”
“They will for you!” He grabbed her shoulder, pushing her lightly in the chair across his desk before taking the one beside it. He leaned forward, taking his baseball cap off his head and raking a hand through his hair. “Red, you are probably one of the best pitchers I’ve seen.”
She scoffed.
“I’m serious. I've coached here for five years. Out of everyone I’ve seen, I really think you got a chance at making it big, “ he said, his voice soft, earnest. “But if you’re out for your junior year, it’s game over. Transferring is a risk, but you have to keep playing. I’ll handle it, just trust me. Please”
She took a second to study his face. He was the first coach to introduce himself her junior year of high school, not just praising her pitching but offering advice. He was the one who gave her her first DI offer, came down to her high school, jersey in hand, and asked her to consider it. He was the one who convinced her that she could have both chemistry and baseball, where everyone told her to focus on one or the other. After playing for him the last two years, she recognized his little idiosyncrasies, knew when he was worried about a game versus when he was just, well, worried in general. This was different. He looked desperate, pleading with her to listen.
She wiped her face one more time. “Okay.”