Jenna Lake didn’t know anything about football. She was aware of this fact the moment she sat down at the long table in the football wing of Syracuse College’s tutoring department and realized she was supposed to help the starting quarterback pass a midterm exam in Christianity. The hallway outside smelled faintly of disinfectant and damp wool coats, and framed photographs of past seasons lined the walls—broad shoulders, lifted helmets, frozen victories. None of it felt like her world.
Kevin Smith arrived five minutes late and looked entirely unconcerned about it. He dropped into the chair across from her, stretching his legs out with the casual confidence of someone used to being waited for. Jenna tried not to let that bother her.
“I don’t know one thing about football,” she said, clasping her hands together to keep them still. “I’m an English major and a music minor, not an athlete, but I’m willing to help you pass your midterm.”
Kevin smiled as if she’d said something charming instead of responsible.
“Coach said this class would be an easy A,” he said.
Jenna glanced at her watch. Fifteen dollars an hour. Fifty minutes left. Not nearly enough time to cover early church history, theological terms, and biblical authorship—especially not for someone who clearly hadn’t opened the syllabus.
“The first thing you probably need,” she said carefully, thinking aloud, “is a Bible.”
Kevin let out a breath that sounded halfway between a laugh and a complaint.
“I’ve got a game on Saturday, and this is a lot to think about right now. You know I’m not really a Christian, right?” he asked.
She studied his face, trying to decide whether he was deflecting or being honest.
“What do you mean?” she asked.
“I grew up going to church with my grandma,” Kevin said. “African American church. I still go when I’m home. I just… don’t think about it too much.”
Jenna nodded. She could respect that more than pretending.
“You don’t have to know exactly what you believe yet,” she said. “But you do have to know the material if you want to pass.”
Without quite meaning to, she slid a folded newspaper clipping across the table. Kevin, mid-stride. Kevin, celebrated. She’d cut it out while studying in the library, telling herself it was just because it was there.
“You’re going to have to start reading the Bible,” she added.
Kevin unfolded the clipping and laughed softly.
“My grandmother would love you already,” he admitted.
During her freshman year, Jenna had enrolled in Christianity because she genuinely loved reading the Bible. She’d been surprised to discover the football team made up nearly half the class. Every year, the coach tried to guide players toward courses that sounded easy on paper. Christianity never was.
“In February A.D. 313,” Professor Mark Johnson had lectured, pacing slowly, “Emperor Constantine issued the Edict of Milan, ending the persecution of Christians in the Roman Empire.”
Jenna remembered the quiet thrill of learning—how history and faith intersected, how belief shaped civilizations. She’d studied harder than necessary because it mattered to her. When she earned a perfect score on the final, Professor Johnson had asked her to tutor struggling athletes during her sophomore year.
Now, every Tuesday night, Jenna rode the campus bus to the football fieldhouse. Rain, sleet, snow—it didn’t matter. She told herself she was earning money and helping people, but some nights she wondered if she was simply trying to prove she belonged. Sitting alone in the waiting room one evening, she caught her reflection in the glass.
I’m the tiny white girl who plays piano, she thought. I know the rules of tennis, not football.
Kevin burst through the door fifteen minutes late.
“Did you see the touchdown I got on Saturday?” Kevin asked.
“There were women running circles around you too,” Jenna said dryly as she followed him into the study room. “I think they’re called cheerleaders.”
He laughed as he unpacked his books.
“I broke up with my girlfriend,” he said. “Do you have a boyfriend?”
The question caught her off guard. Jenna straightened her long dirty-blond hair and adjusted her glasses. Although she didn’t wear a lot of makeup or trendy clothes, underneath her simple appearance, she was what her mother called a classic beauty.
“You just need me to help you pass your class,” she replied.
“I’m flirting,” he said easily. “You’re beautiful.”
“That doesn’t change your grade,” she replied, though her heart betrayed her by beating a little faster.
They met twice a week after that. Sometimes Kevin arrived prepared, sometimes not. Jenna explained authorship theories, memorization tricks, and historical timelines. She told herself she was only doing her job, but she found herself looking forward to the sessions more than she should.
One evening, Kevin leaned back in his chair and studied her.
“You ever do anything fun?” he asked.
“I study,” she said.
“I mean really fun.”
After a long pause, he said, “What if we studied over dinner?”
Jenna hesitated. Boundaries mattered. But so did his grades.
“Only if we’re actually studying,” she said.
The next evening, she packed two Bibles and her textbook into her bag. She climbed into Kevin’s Range Rover and immediately launched into a lecture about Genesis, Hebrew texts, and early church councils. Kevin promised he was listening.
They ended up at a pizza place instead.
For the first time in weeks, Jenna forgot about responsibility. She laughed, danced by the jukebox, and stayed out far later than she should have.
Outside her dorm, Kevin asked if he could kiss her.
“Only if you study,” she said.
“I promise,” he said, kissing her cheek.
The week of the midterm arrived faster than Jenna expected. She tried to convince herself she had done everything she could. Kevin had shown flashes of effort—enough questions asked, enough half-filled pages of notes—but she’d learned not to confuse charm with preparation. Still, she found herself praying for him, not just that he’d pass, but that something would stick beyond the test.
On the morning of the exam, she saw him in the hallway outside the lecture room. He grinned and gave her a thumbs-up.
“I’ve got this,” he said.
She wanted to believe him.
Two days later, Jenna was gathering her things in the tutoring wing when Kevin burst through the door, breathless and glowing. He waved a paper over his head.
“A plus,” he said. “I got an A plus.”
Relief flooded her before she could stop it. She laughed and hugged him, forgetting for a moment about professionalism, about lines she’d drawn and redrawn in her mind.
“I’m proud of you,” she said. “You must have studied more than I realized.”
“Yeah,” he said, a little too quickly.
As they pulled apart, one of Kevin’s teammates passed by, slowing just long enough to glance at the paper.
“Same test as last year,” he said with a laugh. “Lucky break, man.”
The hallway seemed to tilt. Jenna felt the warmth drain from her chest.
“What does he mean?” she asked once they were alone.
Kevin shifted his weight. “It’s not like that.”
“Did you cheat?” Her voice sounded too loud, too sharp.
“I just… had access to last year’s test,” he said. “It was the same questions. I still had to know the answers.”
Jenna stared at him. Trust, once cracked, made a different sound when it broke completely.
“You lied to me,” she said. “I trusted you—with your grade, with my job.”
“I wanted you to think I was smart,” he said. “There’s a lot of pressure on me. Football comes first.”
Her hands shook as she gathered her books.
“I don’t have time for this,” she said quietly. “Or for you.”
That night, she took the bus back to her dorm in the snow, the windows fogged with cold. She replayed the conversation over and over, anger tangling with disappointment. It wasn’t just about the cheating. It was about what it revealed—how easily integrity could be traded for convenience.
For two weeks, Jenna didn’t return to tutoring. She threw herself into classes, into piano practice, into anything that kept her from thinking about Kevin. She prayed too, though her prayers felt tangled and uncertain. Forgiveness wasn’t something she could reach for lightly.
One evening, a knock came at her dorm door. She almost ignored it.
Kevin stood in the hallway, eyes rimmed red, shoulders slumped. He looked smaller somehow, stripped of the easy confidence she’d grown used to.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I know I messed up.”
She crossed her arms.
“You did,” she said.
“I prayed with my grandmother,” he said. “I told her everything. I don’t want to be that guy.”
He rolled up his sleeve, revealing a small cross tattoo and a line of scripture beneath it. I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me.
Jenna felt her resolve soften, not all at once, but enough to breathe again. Forgiveness didn’t erase consequences, but it opened a door.
“I forgive you,” she said quietly.
Kevin let out a breath he seemed to have been holding for weeks.
“I don’t want you to tutor me anymore,” he said. “I’ll find someone else. I just want to take you to dinner again. The right way.”
She hesitated, then smiled.
“Next time, give me some warning,” she said.
After Kevin left, Jenna sat on the edge of her bed for a long time without turning on the lamp. The hallway noise faded, replaced by the quiet hum of the building settling for the night. Forgiveness felt lighter than anger, but heavier than she’d expected. It asked something of her—trust, patience, courage—that didn’t come naturally.
She reached for her Bible, the spine worn from years of use, and opened it without looking for a specific passage. The words felt familiar and steady, reminding her that faith wasn’t about perfection but direction. People stumbled. People learned. Sometimes slowly.
The next week passed in small moments. Jenna caught herself watching the clock during piano practice, wondering how Kevin was doing. She resisted the urge to text him reminders or encouragement. Letting go of responsibility was harder than taking it on.
On Sunday morning, she slipped into the back pew of the small campus chapel and let the music wash over her. She prayed quietly—not for answers, but for clarity. She wanted to be kind without being careless, open without losing herself.
By midweek, Kevin sent a short text message. Studying on my own. Going to office hours. Just wanted you to know.
Jenna smiled at her phone, relief loosening something tight in her chest. Maybe growth really did happen in unseen ways.
She saw him once in passing near the library. He waved but didn’t stop. She appreciated that. Respect, she realized, wasn’t loud. It showed itself in restraint.
As Saturday approached, she debated whether to go to the game at all. The stands were loud and unfamiliar, and part of her worried she’d read too much meaning into one apology, one tattoo, one promise. But another part of her—the braver part—knew showing up mattered.
On Saturday morning, she pulled on her coat and scarf and headed toward the stadium. The air was sharp with cold, and the campus buzzed with anticipation. She still didn’t know the rules of football, but she knew this: faith wasn’t proven by avoiding risk. It was shaped by choosing hope anyway.
Jenna stood in the bleachers, wrapped in her coat, the roar of the crowd rising and falling around her. When Kevin ran onto the field, she felt a quiet pride. Not because he was the quarterback, but because she knew how much pressure he carried and how hard it was to choose differently.
Each time he scored, the crowd erupted. Jenna shouted too, her voice blending with thousands of others.
“Touchdown!” Jenna yelled.
At the end of the game, Kevin found her near the rail. He kissed her in front of the coach, the stadium lights blazing overhead, and for once she didn’t worry about who was watching.
As she walked home through the cold night, Jenna smiled to herself. She still didn’t know much about football. But she finally knew exactly what it meant to score a touchdown. It was a beautiful game.
Copyright 2020, 2026 Jennifer Waters
