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Chapter four

Daxton

“ D axton, I know there have been issues with some of the players on the hockey team, but Coach Denny is going to straighten it out. It will be fine. We really think you can do this school and yourself justice with this project,” Mr. Jenkins says in his annoyingly calm voice, which grates on my nerves when I’m feeling like this. I don’t want to be spoken to like a child who’s gone ape shit and is now being coddled by one of those gentle parents who just can’t accept they have a little shit for a kid.

“I’m not doing it,” I growl, feeling my temper rise. He’s not fucking listening. “I hate hockey—like, hate it. And I hate one of the players—you of all people know this—and the feeling is fucking mutual.” I don’t even care that I’m swearing in front of a teacher right now. Mr. Jenkins winces before sighing, a small smile playing on his lips, and I swear to God, if he uses that calming voice one more time, I’ll blow a fucking gasket and probably get myself put right back in that damn trailer. But right now, that seems preferable. “And let’s not forget, he’s one of the star players.” My voice escalates as I slam my fist on the table, and I’m not done, even when Mr. Jenkins clutches his chest and steps back a couple of paces. Usually, this would instantly make me feel bad. I know what it’s like to be around people who constantly lose their temper with you, but I’ve held in too much and let way too many people walk over me. “Not only do you want me to put emotion and story into this,” I say, staring Mr. Jenkins straight in the eye, noting his continuous blinking that betrays his nervousness around me, “you want me to get up close and personal, follow the fucking guys around like a lost puppy, do interviews with them, draw them in play? Do you even hear yourself right now? You know everything that went down last year.” My breath comes out choppy from the sheer panic that filters through me. I can’t lose this scholarship, but I can’t do what they’re asking. What they need me to fucking do to keep this scholarship.

“I believe in you, Daxton.” That’s all Mr. Jenkins says before giving me a tight smile and walking off. Is he fucking serious?

“I believe in you, Daxton.” I mimic a kid’s voice. “Is that all you have to say?” My anger increases again as I follow after him. “How can I put emotion and story into something I can’t stand? You need a connection when doing something like this. You need to have a love for it,” I remind Mr. Jenkins. “What about my street art? I can go to the homeless shelter, speak with the people there. I can go to the recovery centers and speak with recovering alcoholics and drug addicts? That’s something I’m interested in; that’s something I can create a story out of and put a shit ton of emotion into. You know I can.” Mr. Jenkins stops and turns slowly, releasing a deep sigh. “Please,” I beg him. “Please, sir. Anything but this. Anything.”

“It’s set, Daxton. It’s what Dean Miller and I have agreed. I’m sorry.” With those words, Mr. Jenkins disappears. Anger consumes me, and I pick up the nearest object, flinging it across the room, then watch it crash into someone’s art hanging on the wall. Right now, I don’t give a shit.

Right now, all I need is to let go.

Calm. Slow. Peaceful.

Everything feels lighter, like a warm, fuzzy blanket wrapping around me. My thoughts slow down, drifting like lazy clouds in a summer sky. Nothing bothers me, and everything that once felt like a looming storm now seems distant and insignificant. This is what I needed—what I had craved. I needed to let go, to escape the weight of my worries. I promised myself when I left that place that I would never smoke weed again. I was determined to leave all that behind, but after today, I had no choice. I couldn’t calm myself down naturally; the anxiety gnawing at my insides was too much to bear. I had to turn to drugs instead.

Not surprisingly, it wasn’t hard to get.

It’s only the first day, and I’ve already ruined it.

I turn, shifting my position to lay my head at the foot of the bed. I drag my pillow with me. As I lay my head down, I find myself staring up at the picture I drew for Bex. A wave of emotion surges through me, my chest begins to heave, and suddenly, a laugh bursts out, raw and uncontrollable. “You fucker.” I laugh, voice trembling. “This is all you. I know it is.” This has Bexley written all over it. “If you’re listening, just know I won’t come and see you anymore until you fix this,” I say, forcing a smile despite the tears threatening to spill. Deep down, I know it’s not true. I will always go to his graveside until my last dying breath. Sitting up with a sigh, I quickly wipe the tear away. This won’t do. I can’t give up just based on what Mr. Jenkins said; I need to see Dean Miller.

I stand outside the dean’s office, my heart pounding in my chest. The hallway is eerily quiet. The only sound is the ticking of the clock on the wall. I take a deep breath, trying to steady my nerves. This is it. I have to make the dean understand how much I don’t want to do the project.

Knocking, I steel myself, and a voice from inside calls out, “Come in.”

I push the door open and step inside. The dean, a stern-looking man with glasses perched on the end of his nose, looks up from his desk. “Ah, Daxton. Please, have a seat.”

I sit down, my hands clenched into fists in my lap. “Dean Miller, I need to talk to you about the project.”

Dean Miller subtly sighs and raises an eyebrow. “Go on.”

“I… I don’t want to do it,” I blurt out. “I know it’s important, but I just can’t. It’s too much for me right now.”

The dean leans back in his chair, studying me. “How’s that?” He says it almost sarcastically, like he’s been waiting for this visit all day. Like he knew it was coming.

I take a deep breath, trying to find the right words. Trying to find the right bullshit for me to get out of this. “It’s not just the workload. It’s everything. I’m struggling with my other classes, and I have personal stuff going on. I just can’t handle this on top of everything else.”

The dean nods slowly but remains firm. “I understand that you’re under a lot of pressure, Daxton. However, this project is a crucial part of your education. You have no choice but to complete it. It’s designed to challenge you and help you grow.”

“I know,” I say, my voice trembling for dramatic effect. “But I’m already at my breaking point. I’m afraid if I take on this project, I’ll fail everything else.”

The dean’s gaze hardens. “I’m sorry, Daxton, but the project is nonnegotiable. You must find a way to manage your time and responsibilities. We can offer support, but ultimately, you have to do the work.”

I feel a wave of defeat wash over me. Followed up quickly by anger. “Thank you, Dean,” I say. “For nothing,” I mutter.

The dean’s eyes harden into squints. “Take care of yourself, Daxton. And remember, we’re here to help you succeed.” Then he holds his hand up. “Actually, I think it’s best if you meet with Coach Denny now. He can help you manage your time and responsibilities more effectively.”

“Now?” I stare in disbelief. This can’t be happening right now. Why did I come here? This has got to be the worst day in fucking history.

My stomach churns at the thought of meeting Coach Denny. I’ve heard stories about his intense behavior and strict expectations. As we walk toward Coach Denny’s office, my mind races with dread. I feel like I’m heading for my execution, every step heavier than the last.