Chapter Four Max
Chapter Four
Max
If Max was a list-making person—which, gross—this would be number one on the Things I Don’t Have Time For list.
This, of course, being his chocolate-peanut-butter protein shake dripping into his eyes. Why was it burning? He blinked, but that only made it worse. He wiped a hand across his face and tried to clear his vision. That didn’t work, either. It was in his eyebrows, too, and maybe his mouth?
He ripped his headphones off, letting them fall to their usual home around his neck. “I’m—”
“It’s all over my laptop,” a voice squeaked, then groaned, and he could have sworn he’d heard it before. His mind blared warning signals, but he couldn’t place it.
He tried to look up, but more goop stuck to his eyelashes, dripping from his forehead. “It’s in my nose.”
“It’s in my hair,” she whined.
This was ridiculous. He wasn’t going to argue with a girl while he had puréed banana dripping down his front. He used the hem of his sweatshirt to wipe his face and blinked slowly until the spots started to clear.
By the time he could see again, she had turned away and was swiping her hand across the keyboard of her expensive-looking laptop, flinging brown goo into the garbage can against the wall. Her fingers were nimble, capable, with ink smeared alongside her left pinkie.
That little ink blot did funny things to his pulse, made it stumble a step.
Before his gaze tracked up the rest of her distinctly feminine body to her face, she was gone.
He hadn’t even gotten a chance to apologize.
But there she went, ducking around the corner in a fury of golden-brown hair, and he was left standing in her peppermint-scented aftermath, wondering what the fuck just happened.
This was why Max didn’t come to the career center. Far too many highly strung academics for his liking.
“Hi, there,” someone said from inside the office. “Can I help you?”
Max took one more glance down the hall, but that girl clearly wasn’t coming back. And neither was his protein shake—half of it was still seeping into the carpet.
He shook his head clear. He didn’t have time to worry about the mystery girl, anyway.
He was supposed to be at the gym five minutes ago to meet his relay team for an impromptu weight session between morning practice and their first classes, and if he stood Nolan up again, Max wasn’t sure he’d receive another invitation.
Hesitantly, he stepped over the threshold.
The office was homey, warm and comfortable, which for some reason went against Max’s expectations.
He’d always imagined these places to be clinical, or look like his high school one, with motivational posters and magazine stands full of brochures about Your Next Step. This. . . wasn’t that.
Pictures lined the windowsill, and sunlight shined through the window behind the desk, making the greenery in the corner deeper and more vibrant. Max wondered if there actually was hope to be found here, like Coach had suggested.
It wasn’t like things could get worse.
“Are you Dr. Goff?” he said. He’d searched through his email’s garbage folder for five minutes this morning while getting ready to find the right name.
The woman behind the oakwood desk stood and extended her hand. Bracelets jangled, sliding down to cover her dainty wrist bones. “I am. I don’t think we’ve met.”
“Max Simmons,” he offered after a beat, and it was hard to miss the recognition that flashed across the counselor’s face as they broke their handshake.
Yeah. He was that Max Simmons. Record-breaking state champion. Total embarrassment. People might not know his face, but they sure as hell knew his name.
Dr. Goff put on a smile, but it was too early in the morning, and Max didn’t know her well enough to discern whether it was genuine. “Well, Max, what can I do for you today?”
She gestured to one of the chairs across from her, and he took off his backpack, setting it in the empty seat. Once he was settled, she handed over a roll of paper towels.
“Thanks,” he muttered, tearing off a sheet and wiping his face again before dabbing at his sweatshirt. “So, Coach told me last night—”
“Coach. . .?”
Oh, great. She was one of those. If she knew who Max was, she should also know his coach. “Coach Miller,” he amended, trying not to grit his teeth. “From the track team.”
“Right. Go on.”
“Coach Miller told me last night my funding was cut. And he suggested you might—” he shifted in his chair “—that you might have some options for me.”
Her mouth quirked as she studied him. She turned to her computer without another word.
“You can do that, right?” Max’s hand twitched toward his backpack before he curled it into a fist around the used paper towels. “Because, if not, I really need to—”
“What’s your funding for?” Her voice was calm, soothing some of Max’s jumping nerves. She typed on her keyboard. “You’re a senior. Surely, it’s not this semester’s tuition?”
“No.” He shifted again. “It was a private athletic fund aimed at helping promising athletes go pro. It covered my continued training and expenses for two years.”
“Why did it get cut?” She sat back and took a drink from her travel coffee cup.
“Football dopeheads,” Max muttered, then winced. He wasn’t supposed to say that out loud.
Dr. Goff spluttered, and a few drops of coffee landed on the desk in front of Max.
“Right. I heard about that.” Wiping her hand across her mouth, she looked at her computer again.
“So, you’re looking for something to fill the space after graduation?
Assuming you’re on track, no pun intended? What’s your major?”
Everything this lady said came out as a question. Then again, maybe Max wouldn’t be as overwhelmed if he didn’t have to cram four years of advisement into one twenty-minute session.
“I’m on track, yeah. Exercise science.” Max wasn’t so short-sighted as to not have a plan for after he finished racing for good.
Based on recent events, if he didn’t get his act together, after would be here before he knew it.
Dr. Goff nodded, alternating between glancing at him and her screen. “I have a fabulous idea.” She spun her monitor around for Max to see.
“ ‘Pursue Your Passions?’ ” Max read aloud. “What’s that?”
As she explained the scholarship, the caveats and stipulations, Max’s mind whirred. It sounded perfect—one year after graduation to get his act together. He could find an agent, secure a brand deal. Nothing major, but something to tide him over until the next Olympics season kicked in.
“It won’t be easy, though,” Dr. Goff said, eyes sparkling with something Max couldn’t place. Mischief, perhaps? “It’s going to be competitive. Other students have already expressed interest.” She glanced at the door.
It took him a moment. “You mean that. . . girl?” he said, for lack of a better word. “The one who ran into me?”
“From where I was sitting, it seemed to be a mutual running into.”
“How is that relevant?”
Dr. Goff coughed, used the tip of her index finger to straighten one paper on her desk swimming with other crooked packets.
“She’s got a very impressive resumé,” Dr. Goff said, and he couldn’t tell if it was in confirmation or defense. “Your application will need to be airtight to stand up to hers. How do your grades look right now?”
A heaviness pressed on Max’s chest, making his next breath harder to come by. It was only two weeks into the semester, and only based on a few assignments. And maybe he’d missed a few classes in favor of training sessions, extra laps, more stretches and weight reps.
If his grades really were the deciding factor to his future, he was well and truly screwed.
“They’re alright,” he said, not meeting her gaze, and gave into the urge to reach for his backpack. He slung it over his shoulder. “I’m sorry to waste your time. I need to get to practice.”
“It’s not a waste of time, Max. My door’s always open if you want to talk something through. I’ll email you the details of the scholarship.” Dr. Goff smiled, that same sparkle in her eyes. “Deadline’s May first,” she reiterated.
He replaced his headphones on his ears, but didn’t turn on music.
May first, Max chanted in his head instead as he made his way across campus to the Quad to grab a replacement breakfast, since his protein shake was clinging to the front of his sweatshirt.
His phone vibrated in his pocket. The message had him gritting his teeth.
Nolan
grabbed us a bench in
the back corner
Max typed out a response saying he couldn’t make it. His thumb hovered over the send button. He’d be letting Nolan down again, and how were they supposed to team-bond if Max never showed up?
But he’d already missed half of their session, and Nolan probably expected him to bail. It’d been Max’s default setting for over a year. Alex was a better spotter anyway.
Max pressed send. If he only had three and a half months to secure his future, he needed every spare minute he had.