“Goddammit,” I slur, shaking my head to clear my vision. It lights upon gleaming black dress shoes first. My eyes follow them up, past the highbrow suit, to my uncle. His nostrils are flared and disappointment oozes from his every pore.

My pride smarts as I get to my feet. It’s not easy, but he doesn’t help me for which I’m grateful. Standing, I hold up a palm to Carter to take five. He shrugs and walks off the mat, swiping his water bottle off the floor.

Pulling a hand free from my boxing glove, I drag off my headgear and take out my mouth guard, giving my uncle a hard stare. “What do you want?”

He gets straight to the point. “I want to talk about your grade.”

My eyes do a quick sweep of the training facility. No one’s paying us any attention. “I’m in the middle of a boxing session. Now’s not the best time.”

“When is a good time?” he snaps. “Because I’ve given you plenty of it to come see me and you’ve pulled a disappearing act. What’s going on, Brody?”

I note the impatient glance he gives his watch. “Nothing’s going on,” I retort, which is the absolute truth. “So don’t let me waste what little time you have spare.”

“Your sarcasm is duly noted and unnecessary. I’m trying to help you here.”

Dumping my gear, I lean over and collect my towel and water bottle off the floor. “Hmmm … And last time you tried that it worked out so well.”

Patrick steps away from the mat as I move off it, slinging the towel around my shoulders and using the end to wipe my face. “You know when you act like this you remind me of your father.”

I shrug, pretending the barb hasn’t hit its intended mark. Tipping my water bottle back, the cool liquid washes away the heat of his insult. I swipe the back of my hand over my mouth. “Like father, like son, huh?”

“You have no idea,” he bites out.

His tone is bitter and grief darkens his eyes for a single moment. Something niggles at me, a murky whisper. It’s gone before I can make sense of it, but whatever it is lodges a sick feeling in my gut. “Am I missing something?” My uncle doesn’t meet my eyes. “Something about my father?”

“Your father …” Patrick begins and presses his lips together.

“My father …”

“Your father doesn’t deserve you,” he says, finally looking at me. “And I think he’s an absolute fool.”

I stare at my uncle for a long, hard moment, shock rooting me to the floor. His unexpected compassion is like water in the desert. My eyes prickle with heat. I take a deep breath and blink because boys don’t fucking cry.

“So what if he is?” My voice is thick and scratchy. “It doesn’t change anything.”

“Exactly. He’ll always be there telling you how you don’t measure up. He expects you to fail. He wants it just for the fact it will prove him right. So what are you going to do, give up and let him win?”

I lift my chin. “I’ll do whatever it takes to prove him wrong.”

“So work harder on the final, Brody.”

Frustration has my teeth grinding together. “How can I possibly work harder? I’ve never studied so much in my damn life. I had that midterm in the bag. I knew the damn answers and I still failed.”

“What happened with Jordan and your tutoring?”

A lump fills my throat. The ache of missing her is sharp. The way she smells of warm vanilla. The smile reserved just for me that lights her eyes. The furrow she gets between her brows when she loses patience with me. I swallow a mouthful of water and toss the bottle on a nearby chair. “It didn’t work out.”

Patrick exhales forcefully, his aggravation coming through loud and clear. I hate this—being the errant child he has no clue what to do with. I want to lash out and tell him I can handle it myself but clearly I can’t.

“You’ve barely given it a chance. You can’t expect miracles overnight, Brody.” He reaches inside his jacket pocket and hands over a blank white card. “Here.”

I take it, brows drawing as I flip it over. One word is neatly printed on the back. Dyslexie. Shaking my head, I look at my uncle. His expression displays the same slick confidence as my father, only his comes with conviction rather than the cool superiority I can’t stand—like he actually believes in me.

“It’s a font. Look it up.”

My brows rise in silent question.

“Normal font is designed to be aesthetically pleasing, but this one not so much. It’s slanted to dissimilate letters and words.”

“Dissimilate?”

“Make similar looking letters and words different. It’s supposed to be easier to read. Studies show that eighty-four percent of dyslexic readers can read text faster than standard font with fewer mistakes.” He shrugs as he says it, like it’s not a big deal when it possibly could be. “I’m using it to write your finals paper, so I suggest you start using it too.”

Another glance at his watch. “I have to get going.” Patrick picks his briefcase up off the floor and gives me a hard stare. “You can do this, Brody. Keep up the tutoring and use the damn font. If you don’t, I’m speaking to your coach and you’re off the team.”

“Thanks,” I mutter, my voice bitter with sarcasm.

“Don’t thank me.” His shoulders lift in a shrug as he turns to leave, over his shoulder saying, “Thank Jordan.”

“Wait.” My eyes follow his retreat for a single moment. “What?”

“The font was her idea,” he calls back, not pausing as he strides from the room.

Of course this has Jordan written all over it. Defeat is not in her nature. She might now cross the road if she sees me walking down the street, but this proves she hasn’t given up on me yet. Maybe the only way to fix us is to show her I haven’t given up on me either.

I flick the card with my thumb and forefinger and grin, feeling lighter already.

Just you wait, Jordan. I’m coming for you.

Weeks later I’m at my study desk in my room, cramming hard. I check the time on my phone. My stomach sinks. Five minutes to midnight. I have two finals to sit for tomorrow, one of them for my uncle’s class.

My eyes are gritty, my body tired and battered from training, and nothing short of a miracle will help me pull this off. Two back-to-back away games, endless drills, and late nights watching plays has taken all my time, leaving none to look over the new material. We have one more game before the playoffs. My focus is on the National Championships and on my team, who are depending on Carter and me to carry them to the top. Hell, so is half of Texas. And here I am stuck in my room, forcing myself to study for an ethics test that has the power to wreck everything.

I throw my pen down. The new font has made a huge difference in typing study notes but what I’m reading comes from the textbook, which is no help. My shoulders and chest are tight with frustration. I rub at the ache, trying to ease it somehow. All the lightness from two weeks ago is gone. I’ve never felt lower than I do right now. The pressure is crushing.

My throat feels thick and my eyes burn. I can’t do it.

I look to my phone, my heart an aching lump in my chest. Notifications are piling up on the screen. None are from Jordan. Her silence has never been more deafening then it is right now. I haven’t opened Facebook in days. Social media is low on my radar. The speculation on Jordan’s and my relationship has become public fodder. For a brief time we were the new golden couple, now we’re strangers, causing the scrutiny to intensify.

A sharp knock on the door jerks me from my spiral. I swivel in my chair, annoyed at the disruption.

Damien’s propping up the doorframe, body swaying and eyes bleary. After a night of drinking he’s in a complete stupor.

“Dude,” he slurs and blinks excessively at the books spread over my desk. “Studying? Come have a drink with us.”

Male and female voices drift from the living room, loud and rowdy. Damien has brought his party home with him. Not long ago I would’ve joined in, but their laughter projects down the hall like fingernails on a blackboard. I grit my teeth. “I can’t. I have to get this done.”