Safety Net - Chapter 1

Lincoln

I was twenty-five minutes late for my 'you-honestly-might-be-going-on-academic-probation' meeting. If I did deserve a but (which I'm well aware I didn't), it would look like this: But it was Thursday. And Thursdays were equivalent to time sinkholes for me. One moment, I'm bidding in an online auction for first-edition copies of obscure, small-town mystery penny paperbacks. Next, I'm at an estate sale, talking to a couple who (almost) convinced me I should invest in a couch the size of Texas.

See, Thursdays weren't good for my attention. Further evidence: as soon as I sat down in my advisor's office, my gaze landed on a massive painting of the midnight sky.

"Who's the artist?" I asked.

Jonah, my academic advisor, shrugged and settled in his desk chair, tugging close the buttons of his suit jacket because the summer heat and a crappy AC system didn't dare threaten his commitment to professionalism. "Came with the office."

"Ah." I mused and started thinking about how there were stars in the corner of Celeste Able's eyes when I first met her. Small, hand-drawn stars. Barely noticeable, barely there. But once I saw them, I couldn't stop looking and wondering. It was delicate work, worthy of close examination but almost hidden. Who did something that special but attempted to hide it?

Between how she did her makeup and played the flute, it's safe to say Celeste was an artist. I've always liked artists. Their attention to detail was enviable. I've tried to hone that kind of attention for years with no luck. I found it difficult to care about the things I do in that way. Not in a destructive way. Just in, I'm ready to get this done and move on to the next thing way. The mindset served me well as a goalie. Can't be too precious when your job is to recover in the blink of an eye. Up until recently, I didn't think I needed to change that. Now? I'm starting to consider my life would improve drastically if I took cues from an artist.

Hockey's been my safe harbor. A place that accepted my impatience. Rewarded it. But after last season's forced forfeit, I'm starting to wonder if my impatience and lack of attention span should be addressed and taken care of.

You see, since the forfeit, I've been forced into deep, reflective thinking. I had a lot of time on my hands while not playing hockey and all. After learning the Hawks wouldn't have a shot at the playoffs, I knew I might not have a shot at walking across the stage during graduation.

Victory lap was what Jonah called it.

"Sounds fun," I joked because, well, it did. Heaven knew I wasn't in store for victory on the ice anytime soon. I may as well take one somewhere else.

"It's not," Jonah said, point blank. My adviser wasn't much of a smiler. His unbothered brow made me antsy.

Jonah looked like he could be my brother… if my parents liked kids enough to have more than just me. He was at least a decade older than me with the soulless stare of a man unfulfilled. As much as I liked him, I feared him. His advisor gig didn't seem that soul-crushing. But he knew something I didn't. And the fact that he looked like me made it feel like I was staring into an inescapable, depressing future.

"You plan on going pro?" Jonah asked.

"In hockey?"

He frowned. "Yes, Lincoln. In hockey. Do you plan on playing in the NHL?"

I chuckled and adjusted in my seat. The wood finish was far too hard and slippery for a place where one was supposed to make life-changing decisions. "Only a few of us are drafted out of the NCAA. Lucky few. Since I didn't get a deal during my senior year of high school, my odds are slim. So, I don't plan on anything because it's been out of my hands since I got to Mendell...could try my hand at being a free agent, though."

"Okay." He nodded and typed something. "And if that doesn't work?"

I shrugged, my gaze straying to the photos on his desk. He was a cat dad. "I'll figure something out. Hey, you know, I heard cat people are especially empathetic due to their constant exposure to rejection. What are your thoughts?"

"Irrelevant." He sighed. "Let's imagine life after college. After hockey."

Jonah tipped the cat photo over with a slight nudge of his pen when he realized I was still staring. "What does that look like?"

"Probably move back home for a bit." I readjusted in my seat. I wanted to pace. Jonah didn't like it when I did that, so I remained glued to the hard surface. "Maybe work for my grandma."

"She owns a chocolate store, right?" Jonah scrolled through his notes as he recalled the tidbit. "That sounds interesting."

I nodded. "Wish it were more Wonka and less Hershey, though. There's no whimsy—just standard bars. I'm trying to convince her to branch out. Rebrand."

"Okay, that's something. The makings of a plan. Are you interested in the business side of things? Perhaps we could include a finance course or something similar? Intro to business, too. Maybe graphic design for rebranding ideas?"

"Business is not a long-term interest. I have a more casual investment in the rebrand," I said. "I just want to make something that'll impress my grandma."

"Well, we need to fill your course load with something you're half-interested in. You're seriously behind on your credits. And your GPA isn't where it needs to be."  

"I'm working on that. All of that. It'll be fine." Grades had never been my strong suit. Sitting still for hours listening to someone lecture without much space for tangents and rabbit holes was exhausting. My learning style was solely based on tangents and rabbit holes.

Jonah gave me a look. "You've been saying that for three semesters. Lincoln, do you understand that you're this close to being on academic probation for the fall semester? And with the added attention on the hockey team, the school can't continue to overlook "fine" grades. They want you to represent what Mendell could be. Or they'll use you as an example of what they won't tolerate."

"Better late than never, I suppose," I said under my breath.

"All lenience and goodwill have been burned through. You understand that, right? How serious this is?"

I straightened in my seat. "Yes, I do."

I did take this seriously. I just didn't let it consume me. There wasn't much I could do about grades past. Grades in the future, well, that'd be a different story. I was ready, and…my phone buzzed. Someone outbid me for the penny novel. It was now up to two hundred dollars.

"Lincoln," Jonah said firmly.

"Committed," I finished out loud. "I'm committed."

"I sure hope so." Jonah sighed and leaned back in his seat. He scrubbed his hands on his face as he tried to figure out how to save me. My favorite thing about him was that he genuinely cared about his students. He hated his job, but his failing students probably kept him up at night.

"I got this." I leaned forward to pick up his cat photo and turned it to him in hopes it'd remind him there was something happier and more peaceful out there than dealing with my ass. "I won't bring your counseling into question. Trust me."

He blew out another breath, face visibly relaxing. "Weirdly enough, I trust you. Trust you're going to come back from this. I've seen students recover from worse. And you have a good support system."

"The best." I relaxed back into my seat. "I'm re-committed to not doing a victory lap…because that's a bad thing, correct?"

"It is," he affirmed.

"So strange," I mused.

"Like we agreed, you're going to use this summer semester as time to catch up," he said. "We'll give you a nine-credit course load. Think you can handle that?"

"It'll be cake," I promised.

My issue had never been the work. It'd been the motivation to do the work, finding the drive to finish a degree I wasn't sure I would use, and the idea of the future when the present was already far more entertaining.

"I know you're not stressed about post-grad," Jonah said. "And in some cases, that could be a good thing. But I think you should consider making some more concrete plans. There's a whole life after college. If hockey is what you want, you need to bring your GPA up to be eligible to continue playing your senior year. You could potentially transition into an assistant coaching position. If you want to do something in Criminal Justice—"

"I enjoyed the courses," I said. "But I'm not interested in the career. Unless it was fictional."

I'd chosen my major because it was the most exciting option. It combined my love for questions and my itch to find answers.

"I don't know what that means."

"Like, fiction. Novels, games, movies."

"You want to write about crime?"

"No, not professionally. I just like mysteries. So, if I could be inside a, oh, I don't know, Agatha Christie novel professionally, I would."

Jonah stared at me for a second and then laughed. "I don't know what to do with that."

"Neither do I." I smiled, but something twisted in my stomach. I cleared my throat and figured it was because I had skipped lunch for this meeting.

"Well, since we're in the same boat, we'll work little by little together." Jonah turned his screen so I could see the classes available for enrollment. "Let's start by picking some electives. Whatever interests you."

The class titles blurred together like some nonsensical child's drawing. I blinked, trying to refocus. The gap between wanting to be better and the patience to do so seemed to widen with every breath I took.

I pointed to a few random lines—a couple of 3000-level courses that wouldn't mess with my early morning routine or get in the way of my afternoon workout sessions.

"You sure?' Jonah looked a bit disappointed at my quick decision.

"Of course." I nodded without hesitation. "They'll satisfy my elective requirements, right?"

"They will," he confirmed as he turned the screen back to him.

"Then, let's do it." I drummed my hands on the armrest, ready to get back to my bidding war. I hoped another fifty bucks would declare me the winner. "Sign me up."

"You barely looked at the descriptions."

"That's the fun of it. Isn't the point of an elective to broaden horizons? Can't do that if I'm researching what the class will be like."

"It's not research, it's basic information—you know what. Never mind. Maybe you're right."

"Going in blind is my preferred method for most things."

Jonah sighed but nodded. "Alright, Lincoln. We'll try this your way. But at the slightest sign of a low grade, you ask for help. Deciding things at the drop of a hat will only get you so far."

"I hear you," I said, giving the screen one last look. "I need to choose one more, right?"

He shook his head. "The hockey program strongly encourages – basically requires – all players to enroll in our Community Development course."

I raised a brow. "They think we will feel less likely to participate in a gambling ring if we volunteer on the weekends?"

Jonah shrugged. "It's worth a shot. I recommended therapy, but the committee wanted something group-focused."

"And public enough to take photos of."

"Group-focused," he repeated, though the knowing look he offered me confirmed my suspicions. "The course should be easy. Just do your best to find a good project that gives back to the community, meet up with your professor for regular updates, and the credits are yours. After that, you'll only have two semesters to go. Then, you're free."

"Sounds like a plan," I agreed, in a voice confident enough to mask my doubt.

"You got this."

An easy smile and nod were enough to convince him I believed in myself, too.