Chapter Text
It was on a Thursday afternoon when Sloane's world ended in the worst way possible.
It was during a study break, and she was seated in the library “studying” in a “study” group when she got the email on her phone.
From: Coach Mads
Subject: Warning of Academic Probation
Sloane's heart dropped when she read that single word. Probation. As in: soft-blocked from the basketball team. As in: benched for some mistake she made. As in: one step closer to expulsion. Cold sweat prickled onto her forehead as her thumbs punched in her password to unlock her phone.
Sloane—
I regret to inform you that I’ll be forced to put you under probation. You are one of Merlin University’s star athletes…
“Damn right I am,” she muttered, scanning the sparse email, her eyes lingering on the deliberate bold words. Adrenaline was coursing through her as if her veins were a race track and she jumped up from her seat. To her friends, she said, “Gimme a sec.”
She took off in a sprint. If they were going to put her on probation, they should’ve said it to her face! Sloane ran through the campus, the layout nearly printed in her memory. Soon but not soon enough due to the need to be polite, she found herself at the door of Coach Mads’ office.
She rapped at the door and threw it open before Coach could tell her to come in.
“What the hell, Coach?” The words were shooting out like bullets. Rapid-fire and direct. “Probation?”
Coach Mads was sitting on her desk, startled. She was just about to close her laptop when her star athlete came into her office in a frenzy, dark hair perpetually askew, bangs pasted on her forehead with sweat, and a look of someone begging for a fight on her face. Coach looked at the clock. The confrontation had come earlier than she expected. Her coffee could wait.
“You might as well be pulling my scholarship!”
“Look, I don’t like this either!” Mads stood up, knuckles still on her desk. Her dirty yellow curls were tied back in a ponytail. “But calm down. It’s not as bad as you think.”
“‘Not as bad as you think,’ my ass. You know attending Merlin is a big deal for me.” Sloane needed a wall to punch. It felt like everything was slipping down the drain like noodles in a sink. “My entire life, I spent my blood, sweat, and tears for a chance to get in.”
Coach sighed. She gestured to one of the pleather seats in front of her. “Kid, sit down. Let me explain what’s happening. You’re not on probation… yet.”
Unsteadily, Sloane sank into the proffered seat. As she did, she felt the adrenaline evaporate and she was left empty, warm, and awful. She almost wanted to cry. Almost. She rubbed her nose, and Coach Mads rounded her desk and leaned against the edge so she could face Sloane head-on.
“Your profs told me. Your GPA is hitting a two.”
Sloane shrugged, brows knitting together. “So? That’s the minimum.”
“Kid, your grades have been going down the past two semesters. It doesn’t look good. Especially for the sports department. We’ve been getting complaints about athletic privilege again. It’s all Judd’s fault, but we’re all getting flak.” Mads bent down, looking her player in the eye. “If your grades dip below a two, you’re out. You hear me? No holds barred, you’ll be the department’s scapegoat.”
“So... you thought that benching me would be a better idea?” Sloane said slowly, accusingly. “That tourney with the Warlocks is coming up. If I miss it, I’m dead.”
“Not if you get your shit together now. Look— The way I see it if you truly want to be here, fight for it.”
Sloane closed her eyes, the words coming from Coach’s mouth a backing track to her silent emotional breakdown. “... technically, you’re still allowed to train on academic probation, but I’m barring you from that, too. … I don’t want to pull you out of the roster, believe me…”
Eventually, Coach was leading her out the door, and the last thing Sloane remembered was saying, “Thanks, coach.”
Then her feet led her back to the library, where her “study” group had dissipated into a single student. Mark, the only sensible person left in this world, waved at her. Sloane took the seat across from him, leaned down, and buried her face in her arms.
Mark put her bag on the table. “I packed your stuff for you,” he said. “No need to thank me, I already know I’m the kindest, greatest, bestest friend you have.”
“Thanks,” Sloane muffled, reaching out for her bag blindly. She looked up, unzipping her bag to go look at her class schedule.
Meanwhile, Mark was checking his phone and saying, “I can’t make it to practice tonight, by the way. I already told the band. I have to study for the history exam tomorrow.”
“What? What history exam?”
“History of musical theater, duh. Professor Andersen was on our ass about it earlier. Remember?”
“Shit,” Sloane hissed, dragging fingers through her short hair. “Yeah. Yeah… Actually, can I join you? I need to study, too.”
Mark looked at her strangely. He narrowed his eyes. “When did you start studying for exams?”
“Ever since I was on academic probation.” She showed Mark the email on her phone. He gave her a sympathetic, pained expression as a response.
“How will you get out of this one, Sloane?” he said.
“Easy! I’ll study with you from now on.” She sat up in her seat, satisfied.
“Yeah, I can help with music, theater, history, and all that jazz. But I’m at a loss with gen sci. You’ll have to find someone else for that.”
“Fuck.”
Mark perked up and started rapidly scrolling through it while he spoke. “Actually… a friend of mine introduced me to someone taking biochem a while back. She mentioned something about needing to open tutorials so that she can buy a new laptop or whatever. Here, this is her.”
Sloane leaned forward to check Mark’s phone. It was a selfie of Mark in a café with two other people, posted on Facebook. Someone else was holding the phone, and beside them was Mark; his messy brown hair held back with a bright orange headband, the sides of his dark brown skin stippled with light from the window they sat in front of. Across from him was a pretty girl in a dark purple turtleneck, her mousy brown hair pulled into a messy bun. She smiled tightly at the camera as if an unpaid photo of her was a crime. The tag on the photo named her Rowena.
“I’ll send you her details,” Mark was saying, but Sloane was busy staring at the girl’s little grimace. He knew that look on her face. He took his phone away and snapped his fingers at her. “Hey! I’m setting you up with a tutor, not a date.”
Sloane grinned. “¿Por qué no los dos?”