Page 10 of Safety Net (Mendell Hawks #3)

LINCOLN

As soon as the frigid air of the arena hit my nose, my body felt like it’d shed an itchy layer. I had no clue where my life was going. Where I was supposed to end up. But I knew for sure now, I loved being on the ice. Everything fell into place here.

Maybe this could be my future?

I laughed at myself. It was little late for those kinds of thoughts, though. I was always a little late.

Henrik knocked his hockey stick against mine to claim my attention.

We were the only ones in the locker room, getting ready for practice.

Without gear on, Henrik would never be mistaken for a hockey player.

He was the smallest guy on the team, with a lean body built more like a long-distance runner.

His dark hair was cut short, always brushed off his forehead in as perfect a condition as when he first got it cut.

Henrik’s pale skin was unmarred by adolescence, a key evidence he was born to be a middle-aged man and came from a time when people wore pocket watches and three-piece suits to dinner.

“I’ll talk to Sam for you,” he offered. “If you really don’t want to work with Anthony.”

I didn’t have a problem working with Anthony. I’d said a one-off comment at breakfast about my heavy summer course load, impending volunteer hours at the playhouse, and Henrik took it seriously.

“I’m not afraid to stand my ground with Sam.” I finished lacing up my skates, grabbed my helmet, and stood up.

“Oh, really?” Henrik asked. He took longer than me to get ready, probably holding out hope I’d give in at the last minute.

“There are worse things in life than disappointing Samson Morgan,” I said.

“You really think so?” he teased.

“Plenty.” Like ending up alone. Dead ends in life. Never actually finishing anything of importance. Never getting the chance to know how it felt to see Celeste and have her see me.

I shook out my shoulders, trying to rid my mind of everything that would weigh me down on the ice, and started toward the door.

“Thanks for coming, Hen. But I need you to let this go and focus on getting a puck passed me. We both know you can’t do that yet, so it’s good you’re spending the summer practicing too.”

Henrik’s laugh echoed. “You live in a fantasy world.”

I knew good and well Henrik could smoke me any hour of the day.

I also knew, deep down, underneath all his politeness lay a hardened competitor.

That’s why he got to be Sam’s right man, why he could keep up with Finn’s speed.

Why did he opted to be here with me during break, even though our typical off-season schedule didn’t require (and, in fact, discouraged) any ice time.

“When’s the last time you did it?” I lingered in the doorway.

He opened his mouth and closed it again as he paused, deep in thought. The current version of Henrik couldn’t tell a lie (teenage Henrik would be appalled).

“Exactly.” I tapped the door frame. “See you out there. Preferably with game.”

Henrik tossed a glove in my direction. I chuckled when it missed me and headed out to the rink. I thought I was a little early and would earn some points from Anthony . But some guy was already waiting on the ice.

“Lincoln Hill.” The monotoned greeting felt harder than the ice he stood on.

“Anthony Jackson.” I smiled. He didn’t return it.

Anthony was a stocky guy with dark brown skin and blonde-tipped locs that barely reached his shoulders. He squinted at me as I stepped onto the rink and made my way over to him.

“I expected you’d be here well before me and already warmed up.” He tossed down the last of his cones.

“My bad?” I couldn't tell if he was joking or not. “I could have sworn I was on time.”

“On time is late. Your bad cost us twenty-five minutes.” He held up his watch, showing me the timer I was apparently on. “Practice starts at eight AM. That means you’re already warmed up and ready to go.”

“Honestly, all I need is a couple of these.” I swung my arms back and forth. And did a few (admittedly shallow) lunges. “And I’m good to go, boss.”

Anthony frowned, unimpressed. We were quiet for a second, an awkward standoff between strangers who somehow already had one-sided beef.

“Finish a real warm-up and come find me when you’re done,” he said finally.

I opened my mouth to apologize, but snapped it shut before I could. From the deep-set frown he wore, that was not what he wanted to hear. After years of training, playing on varsity teams, and heeding coaches, I knew how to mold. I learned how to fit myself into any box for small periods.

Anthony wouldn’t take an excuse. In fact, he would probably find it one of the most offensive things I could do.

“Yes, sir,” I said, hoping some show of respect would make up for my mistake. Sam hadn’t been kidding; this guy was all-business.

I started my usual warm-up routine, glancing in Anthony’s direction in the box now and then. He scratched down something in a small, worn notebook. His gaze never once strayed from the pages to check my progress. Henrik joined me halfway through, already sensing bloated tension on the quiet rink.

“Serious?” Henrik asked.

“Deathly.” I tried to catch my breath from the most intense sprints I’d ever done. Anthony had called from the sidelines once, asking, “Is that really as fast as you can go?”

I wouldn’t take that lying down, even when my knee started throbbing in protest. It’d taken longer than I expected to recover from the fall from the ladder. Bouncing back at twenty-one wasn’t as easy as it’d been at thirteen.

“Nice, maybe you’ll learn something new,” Henrik noted.

I snorted. “Better. He’s costing my folks seventy-five an hour.”

“Speaking of payment.” Anthony surprised us both by no longer being in the box but a few feet away.

His skates barely made noise on the ice.

It was almost like he floated above it. Maybe that was his problem.

With the ability to float above everything, surely one would become too humorless to let something as simple as a warm-up slide.

“Who are you?” Anthony asked Henrik.

“A friend.” Henrik pushed himself up to give him a proper greeting. “I’m Henrik Olsen. I thought I’d be a body if you guys needed it.”

“You’re on the Hawks with Hill?” Anthony asked with a raised brow. He looked Henrik up and down, assessing his smaller build.

“I am.” Henrik stood as straight as he could with pads on his shoulders.

Anthony studied him for a moment before finally saying, “I guess if you have the free time, I could use you. This works better if Lincoln has more than one opponent.”

“I’m all yours,” Henrik said and waited for a beat before adding, “Sir.”

I scoffed under my breath at the telltale rise in his voice.

“You two finish up and we’ll get to work,” Anthony ordered before going back to the sideline.

“You really love your age gaps,” I teased in a low voice.

Henrik shot me a look. “Be quiet and stop messing around.”

“Just an observation.” I held up my hands in defense.

“Observe yourself stretching.” Henrik shook his head and tried to pretend like he didn’t want to smile.

There wasn't a muscle in my body that didn't ache after my session with Anthony. But pain came secondary to spending time with Celeste.

I took my time climbing the steps to Mendell’s music building.

I had to stop halfway to stretch out my calf.

Someone passing by asked if I needed help the rest of the way up.

And you know what, I was tempted to accept the offer.

But I was also known to be a bit of a baby when it came to stuff like this.

“Go on without me,” I told the kind stranger. “I have a high chance of making it on my own. And if I don't, well, these stairs look freshly power-washed so sleeping here doesn’t seem too awful.”

They didn’t look convinced but left me to my theatrics. It took me another couple of minutes, but I managed to conquer the rest of the stairs. The inside of the music building was warm, and the smell reminded me of my second-grade classroom: plastic and fresh markers on a whiteboard.

I pulled up the text Celeste promised to send, and I promised to answer (I cringe at the memory).

Celeste

Are you okay meeting in the Music building? I have a reservation for one of the rooms.

sounds like a plan!

Celeste

Alright, it’s room 203. On the 2nd floor. Try not to take the elevator unless it’s necessary.

The screaming of my thighs made elevator use feel like an absolute necessity.

My training session had been more than brutal; it’d been disheartening.

Was I really this out of shape? According to Anthony, in addition to not being ready to practice, I didn’t understand a single thing about being a goalie.

Everything from my stance to my philosophy (or lack thereof) needed fixing. By the end of the session, he’d asked,

“Why are you here? Honestly?”

Between my burning lungs and heaving breath, I didn’t have a good answer for him.

I was still searching for one when I stepped into the elevator.

The door dinged as if it were going to shut, but it remained open.

I mashed the close button about six times before it finally gave in and let me have my way.

After it closed, the groaning started. It was a low, horrific noise.

I was the asshole in the horror film who did the one thing he’d been warned not to and who would now crash to their untimely death, and wake up in some demon’s courtroom.

I wondered if hell offered free legal counsel.

Could I, in turn, pay it forward, counselling the next unlucky fool to take the elevators after they ignored a reasonable warning,

By some miracle, the elevator began to move. Up, thankfully. Its slow ascent had me reaching for my phone, readying a text to send to our group chat.

If you don’t hear from me, I may be in Dante’s Inferno. The entrance is in the basement of the music building. Only come looking for me if you’re sure you can get me out. Otherwise, it’d be a waste of time and energy.