Chapter 3
THE MAN OF THE HOUR
KNOX
Ican’t stop thinking about my near-vehicular manslaughter victim. A week later, and that interaction at the hospital still haunts me.
Hospitals and I don’t mesh well. I never liked them—not since I was the only person in the room to watch my grandma take her last breath.
It happened a few years ago. She wasn’t alone, but I was.
That kind of memory messes with an impressionable mind, you know?
Carrying all that grief, with nowhere for it to go, broke a piece of me.
So, seeing that innocent girl in the hospital bed was a sickening reminder that the past has a habit of repeating itself.
I don’t know what I was expecting. I know I made the right choice in following the ambulance, but the ass-ripping I got was…rough…to say the least. I’m lucky she didn’t sue. Hell, I’m lucky all I gave her was a minor concussion.
However, as expected, the news spread on campus like wildfire.
Anyone who knows I drive an obnoxious, cardinal-red Lamborghini has my unaired confession in their small, hand-held devices.
My dad was the first in my family to be alerted.
About an hour later, after enduring his tyrannical tirade—including but not limited to name calling, disturbingly creative curse words, and an appropriately deserved freezing of my financial assets for the time being—I was yet again ostracized by my family for a decision that I made.
A decision that had unspeakable consequences.
Until I can prove to my dad that I’m abandoning my playboy ways of life and beginning to take accountability for my actions (i.e.
, getting my grades up), I can say goodbye to my black card and my glorious DashPass.
Oh, and the midterm that I almost missed?
If my excuse wasn’t a “hospital emergency,” Mr. Hardwin wouldn’t have let me retake it.
Maybe I was better off forfeiting it altogether. I failed. I have a D in Intro to Literature. That’s fucking embarrassing. That’s like being unable to read and comprehend shit. Everyone can read and comprehend! Second graders can read and comprehend.
I can’t believe I thought I’d hit rock bottom a week ago.
Now, I’ve fully dug a hole into the earth’s crust and curated my own holding cell of dead dreams where my body will rot until I become nothing but an incorporeal name of the past. And no, this is not me being dramatic.
My life sucks balls. Big, sweaty, hairy balls.
The whoosh of the puck torpedoes past me, whipping up a tornado of ice shavings and sucking me into a vacuum of chilled air.
I have to blink a few times to transport myself back to the present.
I’m at hockey practice. My teammates are counting on me, and I’m as useless as a condom dispenser in the Vatican.
I had every chance to intercept that shot.
Crew Calloway—captain of the Minnesota Mustangs, retired playboy, and all-around stand-up guy—skates over to me, donning a frown that’s signed, sealed, and delivered with my name on it.
It’s crazy how far we’ve come. We used to be sworn enemies. Or more accurately, I was his enemy, and he was the innocent bastard just trying to live his life.
“You okay?” he asks, his visible breath slipping into the fifty-degree atmosphere like the end of a comet’s tail.
No matter how much I want to shake off my fake smile and artificial attitude, my impenetrable bulwarks prevent me from doing so. They’re like high-rise wooden stakes broadcasting a KEEP OUT sign in regard to my fragile, fragile ego.
“Yeah, just off my game,” I deflect, clenching my hockey stick out of frustration. Not a total lie, alright?
Something sinister knots in my stomach, jealousy cresting like a destructive wave against an eroded, coastal bluff at the seemingly peaceful lives of my fellow teammates.
We’re working toward the Frozen Four, and if I have any shot at convincing my dad that I’m good enough to make it to the NHL one day, then my performance has to be flawless.
Axel—a hulking defenseman with a kink for my humiliation—joins the conversation, way too giddy for nine a.m. on a Tuesday. There’s no pretense to his words, no sugarcoating, just a no-lube kind of ass fuckery that manages to garner too much attention.
“Is it true that you ran over someone with your car?”
I choke on my own spit.
The rest of Crew’s friends flock around us like seagulls starving for a breadcrumb of truth amongst exaggerated lies and glamorized fabrications. There are five pairs of eyes on me, and my guilt is louder than a flashy marquee.
“I didn’t run over someone. I hit someone. On accident.” I tack on the last bit rather quickly.
I would’ve kept this a secret if it wasn’t for the goddamn gossip vultures. My teammates are the closest things I have to friends. I don’t…play well…with others. Honestly, I kind of shoehorned my way into their friend group, and they’ve been generous enough to let me stay.
I’m kind of expecting them to give me shit for it, but color me surprised when Crew offers me an—ugh—pitiful half smile. He’s too nice for his own good.
“Are you okay?”
I want to say, “I’m fine,” but the hyperactive voice inside of my head screams, “Me? Okay? Oh, yeah. I’m good.
Great, even. Almost killed an innocent person, so that was fun.
Then got cussed out by her and my own father.
She has the power to ruin my reputation completely, and I can’t even be mad about it.
Ironically, I was trying to fix my life before I ended up destroying it.
It’s like this fucked-up, never-ending ouroboros of failure after failure, and I’ll secretly never be satisfied with my own accomplishments because my expectations are too high.
But don’t worry about me—there’s only a fifty percent chance I won’t try to roll into oncoming traffic. ”
But, of course, I just give a tight-lipped nod.
I hate having emotions. I hate showing my emotions. Which probably makes sense as to why most people avoid me…and why most girls mark the NEEDS THERAPY box on my after-sex survey. I like to keep track of my stellar performances, okay?
The hole-burning spotlight on me is suddenly two degrees too hot. “Honestly? I’m more worried about the girl that I hit.”
“You? Worried about someone other than yourself? That’s a first,” Foster, our goalie, jokes, only to be gunned down by a very unamused deadpan from our captain.
“I mean…no, yeah. That makes sense,” he saves.
“Is she okay?” Harlan follows up, always the voice of reason.
He’s also the nicest person I’ve ever met—like, the kind of nice where he’d apologize for getting hit by a car. But he’s not a pushover by any means. He just has a big heart, which is more than I can say for a lot of people.
The barbed truth lodges in my esophagus, scraping delicate tissue just to taste the air.
She’s far from okay. The image of her lying on the ground, bruised and bleeding, percolates through my mind like rain through honey locust leaves.
A constant drip feed of torturous memories.
Nobody will ever understand the inexplicable fear I felt at that moment.
I don’t elaborate; I don’t invite questions. “She’ll be okay.”
Sutton, with his giant height and enviable mullet, sighs as if he was the one behind the wheel. He’s got this whole mountain man vibe going on. He practically materialized off the page of one of those historical romance novels. “Oh, thank God.”
I’m so torn between letting my repressed emotions fly free and reinforcing my (hopefully believable) facade.
I’ve never been burdened by anything before.
I always get what I want, and my bank account has so many zeros that it looks like a binary code.
But the leaden weight that caves my chest in is one I never could’ve predicted.
There’s a restlessness in my body, skittering into the hard-to-reach corners, nesting in subterranean crawlspaces.
When I speak, the words are ripped out of me. “She was so…angry. I mean, of course she fucking was. I don’t deserve her forgiveness, you know? But I feel this responsibility to do everything I can to make it up to her. I need to fix this. I don’t want to imagine a world where I can’t.”
Our teammates are still zigzagging across the tempered ice, oblivious to the unauthorized break a few of us have taken as we loiter in a half circle near the side boards. Hockey seems so trivial now.
Crew gives me a supportive pat on the back, understanding softening the crystal-clear waters of his eyes. “Is there anything we can do to help?”
I shake my head, the sweat-slicked strands of my hair falling against my temples. “No, but thanks for offering. This is my mess. I have to make things right on my own.”
Harlan rests his chin on the butt of his stick. “Is she thinking about suing?”
No matter how diluted the conversation is, the reality of it still strikes my spine, wielding power not unlike lightning lashing drought-stricken tillage. It hurts to breathe. Panic is about as heavy-footed as my sluggish heartbeat.
“No, I spoke to her. She doesn’t want to sue.”
“That’s a good thing, right?”
“Yeah, for now.”
Who knows if she’ll change her mind in the future. Someone with a civil lawsuit definitely won’t get into the NHL. And judging by the short conversation we shared, I’m not getting on her good side anytime soon.
“Hey, man. Whatever happens, we’re here for you, okay? Just remember, it was an accident,” Axel consoles.
“Yeah, we don’t think any less of you. Which is surprising since our opinion of you was already so low,” Sutton teases, elbowing me lightly in the side.
For the first time in a long time, a genuine, full-belly laugh breaches my lips. I never realized how much I took frivolity for granted. Everyone knows I’m a bit of an acquired taste. I appreciate that the guys can still knock me down a peg even in the most dire of situations.
But, as fleeting as all my joy has been these past few days, Coach Lawson interrupts our amateur therapy session, the disappointment in his voice ricocheting off the galvanized walls of the rink. “Mulligan! Here. Now.”
I cringe. Coach is…strict. He means well, but he holds his players to exceptionally high standards, and I have an affinity for slipping beneath the threshold of his thinly stretched patience. My teammates pass sympathy around like it’s a goddamn joint at band camp.
Trying to keep my breakfast from redecorating the ground, I slowly shuffle over to him, preparing myself for the very public admonishment I’m about to receive.
His large arms are crossed over his burly chest, his nostrils are flared, and his features are screwed into gut-twisting disapproval.
My gut doesn’t need any more twisting, alright?
It’s already the equivalent of an origami crane.
My vocal cords twinge, and it feels like my legs are about to give out underneath me. “Yes, Coach?”
“Mr. Hardwin informed me of your current Lit grade.”
Fucking narc.
Mr. Hardwin, if I get out of here alive, I’m leaving you the nastiest review on Rate My Professor.
My day only gets worse when Coach fast-tracks into the real meat of the conversation. “And I had the pleasure of reading quite an astounding headline this morning.”
Great. If I thought I could hide the accident from Coach, I’ve upgraded to a new level of stupidity. Nerves flicker in the tinderbox of my belly, and the paradoxical urge to both run to him and run from him roots me to the ground.
“Coach, I can expla—”
He cuts me off. “Look, I’m not your dad, kid. I’m not gonna kick you off the team for an accident. But you have to start turning your life around, otherwise I won’t be able to protect you every time you screw up.”
He’s right. I can’t just rely on him to excuse my actions.
I’m never going to learn from my mistakes if I keep making them.
Most coaches wouldn’t be so understanding.
It’s probably a slap to the face that he continues to misplace his faith in me, and I continue to perpetuate my turbulent reputation.
“I understand.”
“Good. Then how about you tell me what happened on that recent exam of yours?”
“I, um, wasn’t as prepared for the material as I thought I was,” I admit, gulping down the bile that splashes against the back of my throat.
Coach’s stare pierces the very fabric of my soul—cold, cunning, calculating. I fear that simply breathing will trip his internal alarm system. Just like with my father, I feel this inherent urge to make Coach proud.
A growl emits from him, low enough to vibrate my bones. “Did you not take anything I said into consideration? Do you not understand how serious this is? I can’t let you play if your grades aren’t passing. What part of that don’t you get?”
“I’m sorry, Coach,” I apologize. “It was an honest mistake. I promise I won’t let it happen again.”
“You better hope it doesn’t happen again.”
I practically tuck my tail between my legs like a reprimanded puppy.
His chest eventually deflates with a sigh, and he palms his forehead. “You’re one of the best players on the team, kid. I don’t want to have to bench you. This is just how responsibility operates. No work, no play.”
I need hockey right now. It’s the only thing that makes me feel normal. This school is a prison, I can’t run from my now-viral mistake, and it’s like I’m trapped in a maze of overthinking. Each dead end is another three a.m. deep dive into the ticking time bomb of existential dread.
I curl my fingers into my gloved palms. “I understand, sir.”
“How about that tutoring solution I proposed? Think it would do you any good?”
Right. Tutoring. The only surefire way to keep my spot on the team because cheating is immoral. Plus, I’d never stoop that low again.
Or would I?
Fuck, I’m having an identity crisis on top of everything.
It’ll only be for like, what, a few weeks? Then I can go on my merry way and pretend like I never needed any help in the first place. If I’m lucky, my tutor will forget all about me and I’ll just become another cog in the school’s money-hungry machine.
Come on, Knox. One person who sees you at your lowest doesn’t compare to the whole school seeing you on the bench at the next hockey game.
Considering my dignity is already pulverized beyond repair, I really don’t have anything to lose. “Yeah, I actually think it would be the best course of action,” I reply, the tiniest flame of hope igniting in the cove of my ribs.
“Atta boy.” Coach slaps me on the back, the first smile of the day appearing between his puffed cheeks. “With a little extra help, I know you’re gonna turn your grades around.”
Fuck, what have I just gotten myself into? It’s going to take a tutor with the patience of a saint and the work ethic of a correctional officer to make me a B student, and I’m fresh out of miracles. Nobody in their right mind would take me on as their client.