Page 13 of Safety Net (Mendell Hawks #3)

LINCOLN

“We’re not on the ice today,” Anthony said… as soon as I stepped onto the ice.

He sat on the sidelines with his notebook open and pen in hand, already writing something down.

“Loved the heads up.” I pulled off my helmet. “Always looking out.”

“And we won’t need your assistance today,” he said to Henrik, who was at my elbow, equally confused. “But feel free to stick around if you want to learn something.”

“Thanks,” Henrik said. “I think I will.”

He was a better man than me. I was practically salivating for an excuse to get out of practice and work on some things for Celeste. Her expressed admiration still reverberated in my brain, sending shockwaves of excitement through my veins.

“Alright, let’s get to it.” Anthony finished writing down one more thing before getting up and leaving the arena.

Henrik and I exchanged looks before we started removing what we could, then followed him.

Anthony led us to the office section of the building.

I usually didn’t come here unless a coach or trainer had some bad news to share or it was mandatory check-in time.

So, my associations with the cold air and burnt cheese smell toggled between not fun and rather dull.

“Why don’t you have a seat?” Anthony’s suggestions all sounded like orders.

Henrik and I slowly sat in two chairs placed in front of the desk. Everything in the office looked new, from the sparkling glass desk and empty bookcase to the photo frames that still had placeholder shots of random families hanging on the walls.

I wondered if all those families were actors.

Or did those companies buy actual family photos?

Were the images being licensed out by photographers?

Or did the families offer them to companies themselves?

Was there such a thing as a family photo agent?

Someone who only offered contracts if the family was a packaged deal.

A company either took on all of them or none at all.

“Do you have something to write with?” Anthony pulled a laptop out of one of the desk drawers.

I snapped out of my musing to look at Henrik, who somehow, someway, already had a pocket notebook and pen out.

“What the hell?” I mouthed. “How?”

He shrugged and clicked his pen, at the ready.

“Well?” Anthony’s stern gaze was on me, judging and waiting.

“I have my phone.” I fumbled to get it out of my back pocket.

“Too distracting.” Anthony gave me a disapproving frown and was quiet for a second. What did he want me to do? Conjure up loose-leaf paper?

“Here.” He reached into the drawer again, grabbing a legal notepad.

“Thanks,” I said. “Just need—”

Henrik offered up a fountain pen. The thing looked like it cost more than our rent.

“Where are you getting this stuff?” I accepted this pen, looking him up and down for some hidden bag.

“Alright, eyes on the screen,” Anthony said as he pulled up a video.

I didn’t have to look at the paused image long to realize it was of one of our games.

I winced. I hated seeing myself in motion.

Everything on the ice felt epic when I did it, only to turn out looking like desperate flails and last-minute splits.

Somewhere on the official Mendell Hawks social media page, there was a compilation of all my flubs edited to what I can only describe as chaos clown music.

Whenever I thought about it, I reconsidered every decision that led me up to this point.

“Lincoln, I want you to tell me everything you did wrong,” he said.

“Got out of bed this morning, for one,” I muttered.

“Huh?” Anthony gave me a look that told me he'd heard me perfectly.

I cleared my throat. “Sure, boss. I’ll take notes of my many flaws. Thought you’d never ask.”

“Figured you might appreciate the break,” he said flatly. “From the way you’ve been dragging yourself through practices, sitting seems more your speed.”

Well, damn. I hadn’t been on my A-game, sure.

But who was in the summer when everything else besides work was appealing?

I’d literally watched videos of paint drying (in my defense, it was a DIY channel and bonding time with Naomi and Finn) before I even considered doing the extra drills and conditioning Anthony wanted me to do outside of practice.

Anthony clicked play on the video, and almost immediately, Henrik wrote something down. I leaned over to see what he possibly had to critique so early, stopping when Anthony glared at me.

Right.

Focus.

I looked for myself on screen, noting posture and position. This game had been against the Amber Titans. A decent team that consistently ranked somewhere near us during the season but could never quite get past the first round of playoffs until last year, when we weren’t in them.

Besides a few scratches on the paper, it was quiet as we watched. Anthony paused after the video was a quarter of the way through.

“Okay, what have we got so far?” he asked.

I chewed on my inner cheek and tried to hide my blank page by pulling the notepad to my chest. They waited for me, and I waited for them. The standoff wasn’t too long before Henrik raised his hand. Anthony shook his head and pointed to me.

“Uh…” I sat up straight, understanding I wasn’t getting off easy. “So many things.”

“Name one,” Anthony challenged.

“Well, I’m pretty lazy,” I said. “Let my guard down when I thought I was in the clear. I follow the players, not the pucks, most of the time. I butterfly slide far too much for it to make sense…are you going to stop me on one thing or are we tackling them all?”

Anthony smiled. Genuinely smiled at me. And I may have sensed a bit of shock and pride. The approval sent a surprising sense of joy through my body.

“So, you are self-aware,” Anthony said. “You just choose to lack common sense. Got you.”

And joy faded. It was nice to get a taste, even if only for a moment.

“This is a good thing,” Anthony assured. “It means I can work with you. If you work with me.”

“I thought that’s what we were doing,” I said.

“Everyone gets a trial period, Lincoln. You’re still in yours,” he said. “Now, let’s keep going. Henrik? What have you got for me?”

Hen looked down at his page. I whistled at how it was almost entirely covered in notes. This may be even more grueling than being on the ice.

We spend two hours dissecting every move I made over the course of three different games, from three different points in the season.

Henrik and Anthony were high-energy and detailed.

I tried to keep up, head spinning as I took note of whatever problem they pointed out and then whatever solution they suggested.

By the end of it, I was so tired that even the thought of glancing at the goal at the end of it made my head hurt.

“He’s good,” Henrik said on our way out. “I think this could be a real turning point for you.”

“Yeah…” My brain was basically mush.

“Lincoln?” He waved his hand in front of my face. “You okay?”

“Better now.” I let out a breath. “That was a lot.”

“But necessary.”

“Agree to disagree.”

“Come on.” His smile faded when he realized I wasn’t joking. “Are you serious? Wait, no, don’t answer that. You’re not. Why would I think otherwise?”

“I’m not good with that much data in one go.”

“I get that,” he said, empathizing a little. “But come on, you’re getting personalized feedback…if you don’t want that, why ask him to stick around?”

When I didn’t respond, Henrik asked, “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” My uncertainty about my capability flashed on my face. It was only for a split second, but Henrik knew precisely how to catch it before it disappeared. “I just have some prep to do for our first rehearsals.”

“Right.” Henrik didn’t sound convinced.

“Some of which you agreed to help with,” I reminded him.

He laughed. “I know, I know. But are you sure you’re ready to take more notes?”

“Never been more ready,” I promised because this time, it’d be for fun. And it’d be for Celeste.

The tabs upon tabs of set design research inundated my laptop. One tidbit about creating atmosphere led to wrapping my head around color theory. Colors opened the door to materials, leading to a whole new world, as I then started considering the influence of texture.

The rabbit hole was bottomless, and I was a dedicated diver. My focus became lasered, and time became slippery as sand. Halfway through an article on collaboration and unity with other departments, I considered how well Celeste and I communicated…which could use some work.

Thus began the great pivot. I’d started looking up ways to communicate and support someone with social anxiety disorder. Before meeting Celeste, I’d never heard of it, and a couple of hours online left me in even more admiration of her than before.

“She asked me to do a lot of the social labor, which you know I don’t mind at all,” I told Henrik as he set up the supplies. “But I was always reading this article about supporting partners with anxiety—”

“Partner, huh?” he asked with a smile.

“It was a natural progression of my research,” I promised. “I’m not that presumptuous.”

“Sure, sure,” he teased.

I scoffed. “Moving on. One of the suggestions was that whenever possible, I helped provide tangible means of comfort.”

Tea was high on the list—especially those known for their calming benefits.

And Naomi had shared Celeste preferred tea brewed at home.

Making a cup seemed straightforward enough.

But when I’d attempted it on my own with Henrik and Naomi’s combined collection of loose-leaf teas, I’d made something that could be found in a backed-up ditch after a thunderstorm.

There would be no calming Celeste if I handed her a cup of my monstrosity.