9. Pucking Art
Pucking Art
Keene
H ave you ever had one of those days when everything you touch turns to shit?
I should have known this day wasn’t going to get any better after it started with my phone dying during the night—I could have sworn I had plugged it in to charge—and my alarm not going off.
Thank fuck I was going to ride with Connor while my car is in the shop, and my teammate knocked on my door to tell me that we needed to leave if we didn’t want to be late to practice.
That caused me to get up in a panic, and unless I wanted to risk Coach Harrison’s fury, I had no time to shower or have breakfast before practice.
It was just my luck that today it was suicide drills. I was running on empty, and I ended practice feeling lightheaded and wobbly on my legs.
The day was packed with back-to-back classes and another practice in the afternoon.
All I managed to have was a sandwich on the go at lunchtime.
Now, rather than going home, I had to go to the art center for one of the extra classes Professor Cantucci stipulated I take if I didn't want to fail her class.
I have no choice but to suffer through the workshop if I want to graduate this year.
What could be worse than my current situation when I’m tired, starving, and not in the mood to try my hand at something I’m clearly not good at?
“Welcome to our new Unleash Your Creativity workshop.” Bex smiles as I slip into the classroom just in the nick of time.
Fuck. Of all the people who could be teaching this class, of course it had to be her.
The one woman I can’t stop thinking about no matter how hard I try. What have I done to deserve the way the universe is clearly trying to fuck with me today?
As Bex explains how the workshop will work, I debate if I can get out of here without her noticing. Professor Cantucci was adamant that she wanted to see some convincing artwork to change my F into a passing grade.
And she was also crystal clear that my skills need all the nurturing they can get and this workshop is the way to do it.
Fuck, I would rather fail her class than suffer through hours of being taught by Bex.
But my feet stay rooted to the easel in the last row because I know that I can’t afford to fail that stupid class.
I have only one semester left after this one to graduate, and my course load is simply too full to take another elective next semester.
So if I fail Intro to Visual Arts, I’ll have to come back for another semester.
My G.I. Bill will only cover this semester and the next; so, not graduating as planned would mean having to pay tuition fees for another semester, even if it’s just for one little elective class.
My Puckyousoldier videos earn me enough that I could swing one extra semester, but at this point it’s a matter of principle.
Finishing my degree is important to me. I’ve seen way too many rookies fizzle out once they hit NHL ice; or even worse, get a career-ending injury during their rookie season and be left with nothing.
A college degree is a safety net I can’t afford to neglect.
My agent has a few teams interested in signing me. I’m in a good position, especially since I would save my future team a draft pick, and as a free agent they don’t have to worry about securing a trade.
But it could all fall through if I need to do one extra semester.
Sure, I could take that extra class online; but I won’t be defeated by a professor with a bias against athletes and by a woman so pretty that she makes me want to ignore all the walls I built around my heart to avoid being crushed again.
She hasn’t noticed me yet, so I could still leave. But I steel myself. I can pretend that the way her green eyes light up when she’s explaining what art means to her doesn’t affect me. That I don’t notice how the pencil skirt she has on hugs her dancer ass to perfection.
I fight the urge to brush away that lock of blonde hair that keeps falling on one side of her face, getting stuck to her lip-gloss.
“Ok, so if everyone is happy with my plan,” Bex claps her hands, excited.
“We can get started. This isn’t an actual class that counts toward your curriculum, but I know some of you need help to make up a grade with your professor, and she’s agreed to grade the work you do here as long as I sign off on it.
What we’re looking for isn’t just the end result, but the understanding of techniques, media and materials used to create art. ”
Bex has been moving from row to row while she’s been introducing the concept of this workshop.
She stops in her tracks when she finally spots me.
I don’t know if I expected her to gloat or to make fun of me, but she didn’t. She just holds my gaze for one moment longer than she does with the other students, and then she moves on.
“So what I would like to do today is for everyone to choose a subject they’re familiar with and paint it or sculpt it. Before we begin, however, can I have a raise of hands from the people who are here to make up a grade with Professor Cantucci?”
There are about ten people in the classroom, and half of us raise their hands.
“Ok. Which class do you guys have problems with? Once I know that, I can have a better idea of what you need to produce.”
To my surprise, there’s only another student who’s having trouble with Intro to Visual Arts. The other three are attending Landscape Paintings Through History.
“Awesome.” Bex beams. “So it goes without saying that the Intro students, and the people who are here to learn something fun, are free to paint or sculpt whatever inspires them right now. The Landscape people need to paint a landscape. Follow me to the supply room and pick up the materials you intend to use today.”
Bex ushers us into a room filled with floor to ceiling metal shelves.
Every type of paint, color, and other materials is available for the art projects.
There’s colorful paper, tiles for mosaic, clay, metal and soldering irons.
You name it, it’s here. The Zeta Theta Beta and its alumni don’t do things halfway.
“While I said that most of you can have free rein on what they decide to do,” Bex says. “I suggest you keep it simple today, and we can experiment with some of the more unusual materials and techniques as we get the hang of the basics. Is that ok?”
I pick up a set of paintbrushes and some acrylic paints, while Bex helps a petite freshman who can’t decide on what she should do.
“If that’s the final result you want to achieve,” Bex and the freshman are looking at the girl’s phone.
“You need watercolors. They’re up there.
” She points to the top shelf. “I could have sworn we had a stepladder in here, but I can’t see it anywhere.
Not to worry, I should be able to get it if I climb on the bottom shelf. ”
“Bex, wait.” I warn. “That shelf doesn’t look sturdy enough to support your weight.”
But she’s already perching on the bottom shelf, where there’s barely enough room for the front of her high-heeled shoes.
As I suspected, the shelves aren’t anchored to the wall. The entire structure wobbles, leaning dangerously forward.
It takes me one second too long to react. I’m not proud of the fact that my eyes are attracted by the sight of Bex’s shapely ass and my mind goes blank until it’s almost too late.
I snap out of my lust induced daze when the shelf shakes perilously and Bex loses her grip.
Thank fuck playing hockey has sharpened my reaction time, and I surge forward just in time to catch our instructor.
“Oh my God.” She squeaks as her back is flush with my chest.
She’s so fucking soft, and she smells so good. I’d be lying if I said that I don’t take advantage of the situation to inhale the floral scent of her shampoo as her long blonde hair brushes against my face like a silky curtain.
“Are you ok?” my voice comes out as a deep rasp, barely audible over the frantic beating of my heart.
“I’m fine.” She sounds shaken as she turns to face me, still securely tucked in my arms. “Thank you for grabbing me. That shelf looked sturdier than it really was.”
My eyes take stock of her slightly disheveled hair, the pink hue of her cheeks and the way her chest is heaving against mine. “I told you it wouldn’t support your weight. You should have listened.”
That comes out way harsher than I intended, and, deep down, I can’t blame Bex for taking offense.
“Are you calling me fat, Keene?” her pretty green eyes narrow into two suspicious slits.
No, the word is on the tip of my tongue, but I don’t utter it. Instead, I chuckle, and that was the wrong thing to do.
She pushes against my chest, and I back down even though I immediately miss her warmth.
“Let’s go back to the classroom.” Her tone has a sharp edge. “I saw you have an F to make up for. Let’s see how bad it really is.”
Bex
It’s bad.
Worse than I expected, actually.
“I see you decided to go with abstract art. Are there any styles other than cubism that inspired you?” I ask, tilting my head to the side to look at the black square blob on Keene’s canvas.
These art classes were just supposed to be for fun, but when I interviewed for the position, Professor Cantucci was impressed by my portfolio. I had brought it in just to show that I was qualified as a Figurative Arts major, despite the fact that I still need a few credits to finish my degree.
Dance is my minor, but before my father decided it was where my talents resided, my dream was to become an artist.
When Professor Cantucci saw my work, she decided to send me the students who struggle with her electives that require producing actual art pieces.
She’s still the one who will assign a grade, but I’m responsible for selecting the works I think suitable as extra credit.
Almost everyone today did a great job, and I’ve already seen four projects that, once completed, should earn at least a passing grade from Cantucci. Unfortunately, the same thing can’t be said for Keene’s black square.