Page 1 of The Has-Been

CHAPTER 1

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 Ath­letic 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.