Chapter Text
- T-minus 107 days -
Sneakers screeching against polished floors is the kind of sound that would bring someone to a near eargasm.
Or— no, scratch that.
It's the kind of sound that would bring someone like Cheng Xiaoshi to a near eargasm. That's better.
To someone whose world revolves around an orange and black striped ball and ten-foot-tall hoops, the sound of shoes being used for their intended purpose is like music to the ears.
Fast breaks, quick turns, the final thud of the ball against wood— that is his music. And right now, Cheng Xiaoshi is composing a damn masterpiece.
"Left, Cheng Xiaoshi!" Someone yells.
He ignores it. Why would he go left when there's an opening wide enough down the middle? He slips past the defenders like water through fingers, heart pounding, nape slick with sweat. The hoop was dead ahead, and he didn't hesitate.
Cheng Xiaoshi jumped. His wrist flicked in perfect form, sending the ball soaring from the 3-point line. Breaths were caught. Cheers strangled in throats.
It was as if the ball moved in slow motion, but he could see it. Its fate was as unmistakable to him as the stars on a clear night.
The ball hit the rim . . . then it tipped into the hoop.
The gym erupted in clamour, loud, excited, and just as into the game as the players.
Cheng Xiaoshi grins, haphazardly wiping the sweat off his forehead. His execution was clean. Effortless. Sexy, if you asked him.
And plenty of people asked. Usually after games. Usually with their numbers.
He ate up the roar of the crowd, revelling in the excitement. Sweat clings to his skin, hair a damp mess above the bandana wrapped around his forehead. God, he loved it. The rush, the rhythm, the stupid adrenaline buzz that made him feel like he could do anything in the world.
Like scoring the winning point. Acing his midterm. Maybe even figuring out how taxes worked. His concerns were definitely more . . . domestic, if you could call them that.
He's drinking in the pride that the cheers of the standpeople bring— until the loud, offended screech of a whistle aimed at him cuts across the court. He wipes the lower half of his face with his jersey, eyes finding the coach.
"Number 5! Bench, now."
Cheng Xiaoshi blinks. "What? But that was a clean three!"
"Sure it was. Put the effort you're putting here into your grades." Coach narrows his eyes.
He gapes. What is the geezer talking about? "Wait, what—"
"You're failing stats." He snaps. "If you don't bring your grade up by the midterm, I'm going to have to bench—"
"YOU'RE GOING TO BENCH ME?!"
His eyebrow twitches. "I'll have no choice."
"You can't do that to me!" Cheng Xiaoshi cries in disbelief. It might as well be the end of the world for him. Apocalypse-style. He'll turn into a basketball-yearning zombie, brainlessly muttering pick and roll under his breath and dribbling air.
"Try me." Coach's eyes glint. "I've got plenty of players who'd love your spot."
He swallows. Of course, statistics had to rear its ugly head and bite him in the ass (hard, too). His heart is now racing for another reason, and the gym fades to a dull hum as he slinks down on the bench.
Dragging a towel over his face, he sighs deeply. Maybe in defeat. Yeah, he's been defeated— by stats of all things.
"Looks like you finally met your match," one of his teammates snorts, handing him a water bottle.
"Yeah," Cheng Xiaoshi mutters, pressing the cold, wet plastic to his neck. "Goes by the name of Intro to Statistical Analysis and probably wears glasses."
He earns a laugh. "The big nerdy kind, too. Good luck, stats is a bitch no one wants to deal with."
He seconds that. And thirds it. No one even likes that stupid excuse of a course, so why should he have to put in so much effort for a class he's never going to need? For God's sake, his only future is working at a photography studio! (courtesy of Qiao Ling's dad)
Despite how much he wants to go pro, there's nothing he can do to avoid what's been planned for him since he owes her father a huge debt. He'd be making a hell of a lot of bank if he could.
Instead, he's destined to work behind the counter of some dainty little photography shop, cleaning camera lenses and handing old people their developed pictures. He was going to be miserable.
His misery can only start so early. Now he's gotta deal with statistics until the semester ends— maintaining a decent grade for four months so he can stay on the team. Who even made up such a bullshit rule, anyway?
His eyes drift to the ceiling, and the scoreboard glares red at him in his peripheral vision, taunting him as if it knows he's stupid. He isn't— not technically. He's just . . . not good at things that don't involve a court, a ball, or instinct.
Still. He isn't ready to kiss the season goodbye. If that means he needs to be tutored, so be it. He'll suffer through a few awkward hours of brain torture with someone he doesn't even know, no biggie.
What's the worst that could happen?
True to the coach's word, Cheng Xiaoshi opens up his inbox after the practice game to find an email from his academic advisor. He's officially on probation. No basketball until he can get his stats grade above the 60-percent mark.
He's in his dorm, occupying his space on the bottom bunk as he scrolls through the list of recommended tutors like it's a dating app. Except, instead of getting laid, he's trying not to get benched.
> > Available Tutors < <
Chen Shuang
Year: Junior
Availability: Every evening. Consult to schedule.
Average Rating: 4/10
Top Comment: He wouldn't stop calling me "slime" and made fun of my dead grandma. I literally wish I was kidding.
He squints. ". . . What the hell?"
That's not even the worst one. Apparently, most of the tutors are just jackasses with a superiority complex. The rest are weirdos.
Sun Meilin
Year: Sophomore
Availability: 7-11 p.m. only
Average Rating: 3/10
Top Comment: She spent 45 minutes explaining how numerology could help me "manifest" an A and charged me for extra crystals. I'm still failing.
Cheng Xiaoshi stares at the screen, amused. "So, witchcraft. That's where we're at now."
He scrolls up on the touchpad, fingers pressing into it like he's punishing the laptop for his misfortune. There's a guy whose profile pic is just a blurry close-up of his cat's face. His application says, "Contact my assistant for bookings," but it doesn't list a name. It also says he only teaches through interpretive dance.
"Are these tutors or aliens summoned from the depths of a cursed uni forum?" He mutters.
No way his grade depends on these lunatics.
Just as he's about to give up and accept the bench-warming, financially illiterate future that awaits him, he sees it. A genuine-looking application.
Lu Guang
Year: Junior
Availability: Weekdays, 6-8 p.m. sharp.
Average Rating: 10/10
Top Comment: Knows what he's talking about. Will emotionally destroy you if you don't pay attention, but like . . . in a motivational way?
This catches Cheng Xiaoshi's attention. He clicks on the load more comments button.
weixxn00: He's scary smart! I actually passed thanks to this guy. Be prepared to feel like a dumbass if you sign up for his sessions, but at least you'll be a better dumbass by the end of it.
pengpeng1!: He's hot in a terrifying way. But mostly terrifying. He'll end the session if you try to hit on him, so maybe don't do it when you're only fifteen minutes in ;-;
He raises his eyebrows. Clicks on the profile.
The photo is clear, high-resolution, and oddly intense. It feels like the sharp-eyed guy in the center of the picture can sense your stupidity through the screen. His expression is completely neutral, borderline annoyed, but it screams I'll destroy your GPA and rebuild it from ashes.
Not to mention, he's incredibly easy on the eyes.
Cheng Xiaoshi whistles low. "Damn. Hello, Academic Daddy."
He books a session before he can talk himself out of it. This guy might just be his ticket to staying in the game.
He hopes, at least.