“Got any ideas?” Dad asks, and while the question seems genuine, I can’t help thinking there’s a challenge in it. Like he knows I’ve got jack shit. Which, I do because I’ve never allowed myself to think of a future I couldn’t have.
“I have countless.”
“Wow. Okay. Didn’t realize you wanted out that badly. But I can’t wait to see what you come up with.”
Again, he sounds genuine, but that can’t be right.
“And, Dad? No matter what I come up with, promise you’ll give Baby a chance.”
He doesn’t answer immediately. “I’ll think about it. Talk soon.” Dad ends the call.
I keep the phone glued to my ear, wondering if that actually happened or if I’m still asleep and it was a dream.
Hmm, nah, if it was a dream, he would’ve told me to follow my heart or some shit.
Reality is if I want out, I’m going to have to prove myself. That’s too close to reality to be a figment of my imagination.
He’s giving me a chance. I have to take it.
There’s only one problem with that.
I have no idea what I want to do with my life.
I might not know what I want to do in the future, but if we’re talking about my future five minutes from now, my answer is Jacobs. He walks out of the bathroom completely naked, soaking wet, while he runs a towel over his longish hair.
Yep. If I could do anything in the world right now, it’s him.
“What did your dad say?” he asks.
My mouth opens to tell him, but then the crippling weight of pressure makes me pause.
“That bad?”
“It was … weird.”
Jacobs smiles. “He cool about us?”
“I think he is. I don’t know. It was a surprising conversation.” One I’m still struggling to wrap my head around.
“It’s a step in the right direction, right?”
I nod because it really is.
My life is my choice, and now it’s entirely up to me to fuck it up.
I have a lot to do. I drop Jacobs at Grant’s parents’ house where he says Grant’s brother promised to help him move all his stuff. I would’ve done it, but I told him I haven’t chosen my senior classes yet, which made him go into full-on Jacobs mode.
I ignore him when he says it’s a typical Beck thing to leave it to the last minute and nod quietly.
I need to talk to my advisor about adding possible courses to my workload this year and the best way to graduate with something other than business units on my degree.
Because it’s the Sunday before school starts, it takes me forever to track him down, and when I do, it’s when he’s crossing the quad heading away from his office.
Professor Edwards is a forty-year-old nerd. In personality and appearance. Right down to his bow ties and sweaters.
He’s made it clear in the whole time he’s known me that he hates jocks.
“I need a minute of your time, Professor.” I begin to fill him in, but he cuts me off.
“Now’s not the time, TJ. I have to get to freshman orientation. I don’t have time to deal with a senior who’s going through an existential crisis.”
“I have … extenuating circumstances,” I say.
He folds his arms across his skinny chest. “And what would these circumstances be? A death in your family? Funding issues?”
I bite my lip. Okay, so saying my father is loosening his reins and allowing me to change degrees will not go over well. Especially if I tell him I want to study something sports related.
This is a pain in the ass, and I think my father knew that when he proposed this idea.
“I want to add some minor certificates to my degree.”
That catches his attention. And not in a good way. “This isn’t an emergency?”
If only he knew. Or could begin to understand.
“Make an appointment with me sometime this week.”
He walks off, and I let out a curse.
My next stop is Coach’s office.
He’s always at the rink during orientation to welcome all the freshmen. Without fail, any freshman on the hockey team turns up at some point to look at the ice they’ll be playing on the next four years of their lives.
We’re hockey players.
Hockey is our everything.
A memory of Coach telling me I had the potential to go all the way if I put in the effort fills my mind, but that was junior year, and I’d shut him down hard.
I couldn’t allow myself to think of a possibility in hockey, and even if it was an option, it’s not a viable option.
I can already hear Dad’s laugh if I went back to him and told him I’m going to be a professional hockey player.
I’m not good enough to be signed to the NHL. I’m no Foster Grant.
The AHL or ECHL is more realistic, and I could work my way up, but Dad was very specific about a stable lifestyle. A career in professional hockey isn’t stable. An average career is five years. Of course, there are outliers who go way longer than that, and I have no doubt Grant will be one of them.