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Like this is earth shattering information. This is something I have been well aware of since birth, thanks to our father.
Landon was the saint, and I’m the spawn of Satan. Which makes sense if you think about it. My father is Satan. But that is a story for another day, or never at all.
Giving my brother the finger, he laughs at me. The effects of the venom and weed are taking over. Best fucking high. The venom is a hallucinogenic and elevates you. I feel like I’m floating. Landon has colors radiating off him. Vibrant pinks and blues that if I were to touch them, they would ripple through the air.
I’m sure my eyes are hooded. Laughter leaves my mouth, and it echoes in the room. That’s the effects from the weed mixed in.
My mind wanders, knowing we are so close to the end. I can taste it on my tongue. Bursts of sweet grapes erupting. Fizzy bubbles popping. There is one more game before Christmas break starts. The last Christmas break of our college career.Cannot fucking wait to get out of here. One more semester, then the world is ours. We are free to do whatever the fuck we want.
I have a couple more exams that I don’t give a fuck about, but will magically pass thanks to our Athletics Student Advisor—if she knows what’s good for her.
Banks Lewis. She’s new. Maybe late twenties, early thirties. From what we have found out, this is her first big gig out of college. She is snatched as fuck, too. It’s a nice change from our previous advisor who had retired. We gave her gifts, flirted, and envelopes of cash magically appeared in her home mailbox and our grades would appear as passing. We have to maintain a C minus average to stay on the team.
But fuck thinking about school right now. We just won four in a row. The guys and I are on top of the fucking world and this high is too fucking good to not enjoy.
2
BANKS
The air is crisp.
December in Groveton, Texas can be chilly. The leaves on the trees have fallen, and the lush green grass is more of a dull brown this time of year. A cool winter breeze blows, causing goosebumps to decorate my skin as I stand outside of my white Honda Civic. The sky is gray, filled with clouds floating low to the ground. They do this each winter. The sun tries to peek through, sometimes the clouds allow it. Most times, they don’t.
The campus is buzzing from the weekend. Our hockey team has won their fourth game in a row. Being the team's Athletics Student Advisor, I was at the game. The guys are playing like each pass and every goal is effortless. I watch their practices, where they spend hours going over plays and practicing faceoffs. The more time they spend together, the stronger their chemistry becomes. Which shows on the ice.
Watching them is like watching poetry on ice.
Thanks to my dad, I’ve always been a fan of hockey and it was a dream to get this job this past summer. Now that my first semester is nearing its end, I have no regrets.
This is my passion.
This team. This job. This campus. These students.
I walk through the parking lot to the paved pathway lined with benches, shrubs and bare trees on my daily walk to my office. Old brick buildings are scattered around it. Students are bundled up with book bags on their backs, racing to their morning classes. The arena is located on the edge of campus, the rink is a decent size for a college. It can seat up to five thousand people, the outside walls are white and gray with the green Jackal logo decorating each side. On top of the entrance doors is a giant sign that lights up at night withBarlowe Arena. I take it all in as I approach. As I do everyday, wondering how I got so lucky.
My life hasn’t been roses.
Don’t get me wrong, my childhood was amazing, but these past few years have been hell. And now, I’m all alone.
Getting this job was the first bit of light I have seen in a while.
That doesn’t matter now. Shaking my head to rid me of the memories that creep up every so often, especially around this time of year. Christmas.
I let out a deep breath when I arrive at the arena doors. Grabbing my card from my black winter puffer jacket, I pass it over the scanner, and it turns green, unlocking the door for me. As soon as I enter, I walk past the concessions and store that sells the team's merchandise. Just past that is a sign that says staff only, and I scan my pass over it, unlocking the heavy steel door, painted in black. Twisting the silver handle, I have to use all my strength to push it open. Surely I have to be building muscle from doing this everyday. The quietness of the hallway is no more. As soon as I enter the area, loud grunts bounce off the walls, the clicking of weight machines echo and deep male voices fill my ears. All of this brings a smile to my face. Breathing in through my nose, the distinct smells of sweat and testosterone invade my senses with a hint of ice rink. If you have been toa hockey arena, you know this smell. No amount of fans airing the place out or odor spray can get rid of it. I think it’s a part that those of us who are in this world would actually miss if it disappeared.
But this here, it’s my home.
“Yo, Ms. Lewis. Looking good as always,” Trace Barlowe, our goalie, shouts at me then whistles, causing me to laugh on my way past the weight room and wave in response. I’m one of the only females who support the team besides a few PT’s who are also students here. The catcalls are fine, they don’t bother me. It’s harmless banter, in my opinion.
A few other guys laugh at his comment.
“Good for you, Trace,” I yell back as I head to my office.
I grab hold of the keyring that holds my office key and unlock my door. The room is pretty bare, with only a dark wooden desk, a couple of chairs on one side, with my desk chair on the other, along with a phone, and a few locked filing cabinets. I don’t have a desktop computer. I prefer a laptop. This way, if we are at an away game, I can still work and correspond with their professors, as needed. My job is to stay on top of the guys when it comes to their grades and homework. For many of them, hockey is a passion and they are here on a scholarship. The NHL isn’t in their future. I make sure they are successful academically in order to remain on the team, keep their scholarship, and have a degree when they walk out of here. I know the odd one may make it to the big leagues. They may not think education is important, but once they hit thirty-five and are forced to retire, they will regret not taking it seriously. So, I'm the one to push them now to get the degree, then they don’t live with regret later. Sure, if they make a fuck load of cash, they can live off it. But to go from a fast-paced lifestyle to nothing isn’t in their DNA; none of these kids have ever had to sit still longer than summer break. Even then, there are hockey camps and leagues many jump into.
As inappropriate as it sounds, I ride these guys. Constantly emailing or texting, making sure their assignments have been handed in, their tests are studied for, and if their grades are slipping, I arrange tutors. These kids will not fail under my watch, but it is up to them to work for it. I can only give them the tools, the rest is up to them. Sometimes, I bring Coach Taylor in. He can kick their asses into shape like no other. Fortunately, most of the time they are good kids and listen to me.
Setting my backpack down behind my desk, I take a seat in my chair and grab my laptop out of my bag and I open it up to turn it on. Within seconds of entering my password, I have two email notifications.
