The Has-Been (Delleth College #1)

1. Welcome Back

WELCOME BACK

LIAM

SEPTEMBER

“Delleth College welcomes you back, Mr. Anderson.” My advisor’s voice echoes through her small office.

I force a strained smile of acknowledgment as I settle into the worn chair across from her.

“You’ve missed…” Sarah’s voice trails off, her auburn bangs hiding her eyes as she flips through the transcripts piled before her.

“My junior year,” I interject.

Glancing up, her wide eyes peer over the rim of her glasses. Scrutinizing me.

Or maybe that’s just my imagination.

After a quick confirmation, she says, “Two semesters.”

Isn’t that what I just said?

I let out a heavy sigh, trying not to allow my annoyance to show.

Not that it’s Sarah’s fault my fuse is short—more of a me problem.

I tend to have a lot of those nowadays.

I suppose Sarah and I are both right, though. I did miss the two semesters that were supposed to be my junior year here at Delleth College.

And now…I’m back.

Ready to put this place behind me for good.

My leg bounces as I fidget in my chair. Sarah closes the binder and turns to her computer.

While she scrolls, I glance out the office window and find the muted hues of fall greeting me.

The dull reds and golds are a stark contrast to the still-plush green lawns I left behind in Indiana.

That isn’t surprising to me, though, as Delleth College sits nestled in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula.

Fall comes early and leaves fast. But I don’t mind, I’m one of the rare people who actually enjoy winter.

Not sure what that says about me.

Outside, the campus grounds are buzzing with life. Delleth is cited as the most prestigious college in the state, ‘a big school with small charm,’ or however the bullshit slogan goes. Freshmen wander, maps in hand, trying to memorize the expansive grounds.

My head cocks to the side as I watch one look down at his map, then back up, then down again. He points toward Noble Hall, the sophomore dorms—a far cry from Johnson Hall, which houses the freshmen and sits at the furthest corner of campus.

I chuckle when he finally turns in the right direction, just as Sarah clears her throat and pulls my attention away from the window.

“I see in your file, from our first counseling session, that you initially started as a Physical Therapy undergrad, but later changed to Ath-letic Training.”

“Yeah—” I begin to explain, but she cuts me short.

“Ah! I forgot you were on the hockey team. The clinical time and course load didn’t correlate.

” While she explains it kindly, she doesn’t need to.

I still remember our conversation three years ago.

The much younger version of myself was disappointed, but I also had my sights set on the NHL back then.

So when I found out the schedules didn’t pair well, I didn’t think twice about switching majors and putting one dream on hold for another.

The funny thing about dreams, though, is they have a way of altering—of never coming true.

At least not for me.

“Have you considered changing your degree? Now that you aren’t on the team—” My leg stills—the very one bearing the scar that ended my hockey career—and any hope of graduating this spring.

Running a hand through my straight hair, my gaze narrows on the jagged, dyspigmented scar cursing my leg. Instantly, I yank down the length of my shorts in an attempt to conceal it. When I fail, I just look away instead.

“No.”

The single word is blunt. Absolute. I downright refuse to change my major.

Can you blame her for asking, though?

Sitting through practices and games. Hand-ling preventive care—wrapping ankles, guiding stretches meant to avoid injury—which feels iro-nic, considering no amount of stretching could have prevented the one that ended my career.

All of that…that’s what I have to look forward to now. Not the NHL. Not a million-dollar contract. Just rolls of tape and ice packs. And the constant reminder that it’ll never be me out there again.

After a few minutes of silence, Sarah closes her laptop and folds her hands over the desk.

“Alright, then. It looks like you’ve taken on quite the workload.” Her brows draw together. “Are you certain you can handle it?”

“I’ll be fine.” I insist, each word harsher than the next. I don’t intend to be rude, but I’m tired of everyone telling me what I can’t do.

It’s fucking exhausting. I know my own limits.

But do you? A voice whispers. I ignore it, like I’ve learned to do.

“Very well,” Sarah declares. “If you can keep up with the schedule, you’ll be on track to graduate only a semester behind your senior classmates.” She pauses, inclining her head. “I’d say that’s quite the accomplishment…considering.”

An audible scoff escapes me.

I silently retort, “Yeah, considering…”

Considering I missed an entire year of school, locked in my childhood bedroom back in Indiana. My mom, my therapist, and the daily phone calls from friends were my only companions as I tried to work through my shit after the—

The incident. As my mother likes to call it.

I shove the thought away, remembering what my therapist said about manifesting negative emotions.

“The last matter is your clinical time,” she murmurs softly.

If her tone is any indication, then I know whatever comes next is going to ruin my decent mood.

Well—decent by my standards, that is.

“Let me guess,” I say, far too sarcastically toward the counselor who’s been nothing but friendly and supportive. “There is only one team with an opening. One I might be familiar with?”

She nods, her face softening.

Of. Fucking. Course.

I exhale deeply. Dragging my fingers over my brows, I force a response, “I’ll make it wo-rk.” The words are more like a grumble than a sentence, but I’ll take it—progress is progress.

“Are you sure? I know with your history...” Her voice wanes as her eyes trail the scar on my leg.

I inhale as I force the best smile I can manage nowadays. I know Sarah has worked hard to figure out a way for me to make up for lost time, and I genuinely appreciate her support.

“It won’t be a problem,” I grit, nearly convincing myself.

When I finally lift my gaze to the eyes I’ve avoided this entire meeting, I find a proud look on Sarah’s face.

“Very well,” she declares, jotting down a note.

“I’ll ensure everything is in order. The other student athletic trainer is handling the off-season.

I don’t see why you would need to start until the beginning of the season.

Hopefully, that’ll give you some time to settle back in and focus on your coursework. ”

I try not to allow my relief to show as I think it over.

It’s September.

The first game of the season isn’t until October.

One month.

Those two words loop as I swallow the lump in my throat. Moving to leave, Sarah’s parting words stop me in my tracks, “We are happy to have you back, Liam.”

I lower my head, my goodbye barely audible as I start my long walk back.

Michigan’s fair weather feels wasted on me as I navigate my way to my apartment off-campus. The breeze flutters the strands of my blonde hair, bringing the scent of fallen leaves, but I can’t enjoy it.

No, because the only thing I can think about is what little time I have left before the first ghost of my past returns.

One. Month. Only thirty days to find the courage to face the first obstacle.

Hockey.

I exhale sharply, knowing no amount of time will prepare me for the second. But I don’t let myself think of her.

Not today. Not ever.

AUbrEY

Delleth College was once like home to me.

The one place I never wanted to leave.

The one place I couldn’t wait to come back to.

But that was then, before—

Now, it’s the place I want to avoid.

A place I wish I were driving in the opposite direction from.

The old-stone architecture buzzes past as I drive under the tall gateway sign, officially marking my arrival on campus. My heart doesn’t flip with excitement, my pulse doesn’t race, and a smile certainly doesn’t pull on my lips.

No.

No, deep lines from my scowl are etched into my forehead, my heart has found its home deep in my abdomen, and my breath? It’s caught in my throat, making it nearly impossible to breathe.

Is it too late to turn back around?

To go back home?

My jaw quivers, my teeth chattering together as I squeeze the steering wheel tighter, desperately trying to keep it together.

Only two more semesters.

Only one more school year.

I can do this.

When I drive past the hockey arena, my eyes instinctively look over it—the only place on campus where I once spent more time than my condo. Hockey—like Delleth, like my favorite songs, like so many other things—is just one of the many things that were taken from me.

Growing up in my family, it’s not just a sport. It’s a lifestyle. We Vaughns bleed Detroit red. From the moment we’re born, it’s ingrained in us to love it.

That’s why I centered my whole career around it, for my love of the game.

To work with athletes who admire the sport as much as I do.

That was the dream.

But now…

If I never saw another hockey stick in my life, then it’d be too soon.

My heart beats, and I swear it echoes, as if invisible hands have reached inside me and scoped out all I was, all I am. Now I’m just an empty shell, a vessel with a brain but no feelings, no real emotion.

I force my eyes away, refusing to look at the rink growing smaller and smaller in my rearview mirror.

Eventually, I wave my badge and the large gates of my community open.

Then, I’m pulling into the drive, stepping out of my car.

The familiar smell of pine trees and crisp water torments my nose.