Daydream: A Novel (The Maple Hills Series Book 3)
Chapter 2

IF TIME TRAVEL WERE REAL, I’d use it to go back and convince Neil Faulkner to turn down the opportunity to coach college hockey.

Despite my best intentions, and twenty long years of practice, I’m not always on the pulse when it comes to understanding people’s motivations. I am, however, usually on the pulse of not getting on Coach’s bad side. Which is why a knot of anxiety appears in my stomach the second I hear my name being yelled in Faulkner’s gruff bark.

“Ooooooooo.” Bobby’s best attempt at sounding like a cartoon ghost causes a wave of laughter to rip through the half-full locker room. He misses the glare I shoot at him as he pulls his Titans T-shirt over his head. “Someone’s in trouble. Whatcha done, Cap?”

“No idea,” I mutter back as I pull my sweats up my legs. “Play hockey. Breathe. Exist. The possibilities are endless.”

“It’s been nice knowing ya, brother,” Mattie says, patting me on the back as he passes in the direction of the showers. “Don’t tell the others, but you were always my favorite.”

“Am I a joke to you?” Kris shouts, launching what looks like a dirty sock at him. It bounces off the back of Mattie’s head, ruffling his jet-black hair, and rolls beneath a bench.

And just like that, my tolerance for my teammates has reached its limit for the day.

“I’m sure it’s fine.” Russ attempts to reassure me, rubbing his towel against his wet hair. “If you’re not back when I’m ready to go, I’ll wait for you at my truck.”

We’re only a few weeks into the new school year and I already feel like what I imagine being run over is like. During the summer I spent a lot of time googling what makes a good captain, and while I don’t feel like I have the exact answer, I’m trying to put into practice the few points I picked up. I’m the first one here and the last to leave. I’ve been making the effort to encourage the new, less confident players. I’m trying to be positive, which means not always saying the first thing that comes to mind. Being open to trying new things when it’s in my nature to stick to what I know. I’ve been doing my full workout instead of letting myself get distracted by the perfect playlist. I don’t spend practice daydreaming.

I’m doing a lot of things that go against my natural instincts, basically.

I didn’t even drink at Anastasia and Lola’s joint birthday dinner because I fell down an information wormhole about the ties between sports performance and alcohol consumption.

So the fact that Faulkner is angry with me about something when I’m trying really hard to do a good job makes me more than a little nauseated. My fist knocking against Coach’s office door seems to echo around the room. “Come in,” he yells. “Take a seat, Turner.”

He points toward one of the worn mesh fabric seats opposite him and I do as I’m told. It’s through me trying my hardest to pay attention to this man that I can clearly identify his three main states of being:

1. Irrationally angry and loud.
2. Irritated by a life surrounded by hockey players.
3. Whatever the word is to describe the way he’s looking at me right now.

He taps his pen against the desk repeatedly, the plastic making a sharp clicking noise against the wood. It takes everything in me not to lean across and take it away from him to stop the noise. “Do you know why I called you in here?”

“No, Coach.”

He thankfully puts the pen down and pulls his computer keyboard toward him. “I just received an email requesting a phone call to discuss you, because you failed your paper in Professor Thornton’s class, and instead of going to Thornton to replace a way to fix it, you went to your academic adviser to try and get out of his class. Do you have anything to say for yourself before I dial this number?”

Every single word I’ve ever learned evaporates from my head other than oh shit.

“No, Coach.”

He runs his hand across the top of his head like he’s brushing back a mane of hair. I’ve always wanted to ask why, considering he’s bald, and according to the game tapes we’ve watched, has been bald for the past twenty-five years. Despite encouragement from some of the guys, Nate told me not to ask him that unless I wanted a world of misery, which I don’t. But the question plagues me every time I watch him brush away his nonexistent hair. “Okay, then.”

His chubby fingers practically poke a hole through the handset as he punches in the number and rests the phone between his ear and shoulder. I have no choice but to listen while he introduces himself then ums and ahs through the call. Nate always told us that Faulkner can smell fear, so you should never show him your weaknesses. Admitting I fucked up the semester before I’ve properly started it feels a lot like weakness.

He puts the phone down and stares at me so intensely it feels like he’s staring at my soul.

“Ms. Guzman said she reminded you three times to schedule your appointment to register for your classes—”

“That’s true.”

“—and by the time you tried to register, the class you wanted was full. So you picked Thornton’s class thinking you could get on the waiting list for something else and drop him during swap week.”

“Yes.”

“But you didn’t add yourself to the waiting list and you didn’t try to drop it during swap week.”

I intended to. I truly did, but I’ve been so busy worrying about following Nate and being a good captain that everything else took a mental backseat. Every obstacle let me push things off, and I kept telling myself I’d fix it until it was eventually too late.

“Also true.”

“So, you mean to tell me,” he says, then pauses to take a long sip from his coffee mug just to make me extra miserable. “That despite ample opportunity to rectify the situation yourself, you didn’t, and now you’re here, disturbing the few sweet hours in a day where I don’t have to look at your face, expecting me to help you?”

I want to point out that he invited me in here and I went to the adviser who is specifically employed to support student athletes for help, but I suspect he’d take that as well as he’s taking me failing one assignment. “I guess.”

“What’s your grievance with Thornton?”

I think back to what Anastasia and I workshopped ahead of my visiting Ms. Guzman. I repeat her words like a parrot. “His teaching style and my learning style are incompatible.”

“You’re going to have to give me more than that, Turner.” Faulkner sighs, leaning back in his chair. He clicks his mouse and stares at his computer. “You’re excelling in everything else, and I know you’re a hard worker. So what is it with this class that makes you think you need to quit?”

I’m trying to remember how I explained it to Anastasia and Aurora the day I came home from my first session with Thornton. I ranted for five minutes and then had to lie on the floor and stare at the ceiling for an hour. “I need to take a writing intensive class to meet the requirements of my major. Professor Thornton’s syllabus is known for being a lot of reading and researching—it’s why nobody wants to do it. He essentially teaches world history; it’s barely even about the art. I struggle to focus on the material because there’s so much that’s irrelevant to what he wants… I think.

“And I don’t love reading things I’m not interested in. I struggle to stay focused. I also don’t understand what he wants most of the time. I’ve found myself in information black holes to only end up in the wrong place anyway, and then of course, failing.”

Faulkner sighs again. I wonder if he does it at home or if it’s something he reserves for this office. I wonder if it gives his family the same sinking feeling it gives me. “It says here you have a similar kind of class with Professor Jolly and you’re not trying to drop that.”

Jolly is a borderline hippie and believes the history of art should be something you learn about and feel in your soul. She hates the idea of grading people on how they interpret and enjoy learning about art, so her class is final exam only, and that’s just because the department makes her. It’s impossible to fail as long as you show up, and she doesn’t have a class cap, meaning I could get in even though I signed up for classes later than everyone.

I love Professor Jolly’s class not only because it’s actually interesting, but because I understand what she wants from me. What I learn helps me with my practical work, and I don’t leave her class feeling unprepared and lacking direction like I do with Thornton. It would have been the perfect solution, but it doesn’t meet the requirement. “I work better under the pressure of an exam.”

Faulkner starts tapping his pen again. “Have you talked to Professor Thornton?”

Professor Thornton is even less interested than you are, I want to say. “He was unwilling to hear me out.”

“It’s out of my hands,” he says, giving me an uninterested shrug. “Should have come to me sooner so I could have helped you.”

Be more organized. Come to me sooner. I don’t know how to explain to someone who doesn’t live inside my head that they could have physically carried me to the office or glued a laptop down in front of me and I’d have still found a way to avoid the task. “What happens when I fail the class?”

I’m not even worried about my GPA because I dominate at things I enjoy, and I love everything else on my schedule for the rest of the year—assuming I register for the rest of my classes in time. It’s just this class and Faulkner’s obsession with team captain academic perfectionism.

After his professional career was cut short by an accident that left him unable to play, he’s obsessed with us having a backup plan. Yes, as student athletes we’re tied to achieving a certain grade point average to be able to keep that title, but what Faulkner wants is next level. I know there’s no point in fighting it, because no person who ever fought it before me won.

“We’re not talking about that. You’re the leader of this team, Turner. You don’t get to fail your classes and keep your title. Partner with a classmate, join a study group, use your academic adviser for something other than quitting… I don’t fucking care. You do whatever it takes to make it work. I don’t expect to hear about any more bad grades.”

Nate made it all look so easy, and I’m kind of mad at him for downplaying how much of a hard-ass Faulkner is in private. I’ve been told so many times that being captain is an honor, but as I drag my feet out of Faulkner’s office, it feels more like a weight around my neck. Leadership doesn’t come naturally to me; I’ve always been happier in solitude, but I’m trying as hard as I can. I don’t want to let my teammates down, or Nate and Robbie, who convinced Coach I deserved it.

Being captain is a lot like Thornton’s class. I’m expected to know so much that nobody has ever explained to me, and yet I’m supposed to just smile through it. It’s why I said no when I was originally offered the position. I expected it to be given to someone else and I could carry on living my life. But that didn’t happen, Nate and Robbie continued to reason with me.

They tried everything from comparing me to everyone I suggested would be a better captain to saying I’d be the first Black hockey captain at Maple Hills. They dropped the latter when I said it was a damning snapshot of opportunities for people of color in hockey and not the win they were making it out to be.

The more my teammates pushed, the more others started. My moms, Anastasia… so many people told me they thought it was amazing, and how excited they would be to see what I could do. In the end, even though I still had my doubts, I accepted.

I don’t give in to peer pressure, but this is the one time I did, and look where it’s gotten me. Not only do I need to stress about letting the entire team down, but I also need to worry about letting down everyone not on the team, who, through no fault of my own, believes in me. It’s so hard having supportive friends and family who don’t immediately assume the worst.

“ANY SUCCESS?” RUSS ASKS AS I climb into his truck in the now-deserted parking lot.

“I’m fucked.”

“I’m sure it’s not that ba—”

“He told me I don’t get to quit or fail my classes and to replace a solution.”

Russ sighs as he navigates us out of the empty lot. “Helpful. Look, it might not be as bad as you think the more practice you get. I’ll help you as much as I can, and so will Aurora. Next time, we can get our codes to register for classes together.”

I rest my head against the window as we pull up to a red light and wonder how I can possibly put into words that don’t make me seem unhinged that, short of a perfect set of circumstances all aligning to allow me to feel excited about the prospect of organizing my schedule, I’ll probably be in this mess again in January. “Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it. Rory is at the house with Robbie waiting to hang out, but if you need peace, we can go to her place,” he says softly as we turn onto Maple Avenue. “I don’t mind.”

I like living with Russ because he always seems to interpret a person’s mood without many words. I think it’s a skill born from the constant state of fear he was in when growing up with a dad who wasn’t nice to live with, but I don’t think it would be okay to ask him if he agrees with me outright. Especially since his dad is trying to be better and Russ is trying to give him a chance to prove himself.

“You don’t need to go anywhere. I like Aurora.”

I lift my head from the window in time to catch the small smile on his face. “She likes you, too.”

Russ changed a lot this summer when he was working at a sleepaway camp. He met his girlfriend, challenged his dad’s gambling addiction, and, while I don’t think he’s ever going to be the loudest person in the room, he’s more confident than he was.

As for Aurora, she’s not who I was expecting for Russ, but I think that’s a good thing. Russ likes her because she’s generous and kind, and he spent a long time feeling second best before he met her. He’s her number one, which isn’t me making assumptions: she says he’s her number one to literally anyone who will listen. There’s no room for doubt in his head that he is important to Aurora because she tells him, and boy is she loud.

I don’t like to compare my friends because they’re all different, but she’s the only one who doesn’t talk to me about hockey, which puts her pretty high up on my list given it feels like the only thing people ever want to ask me about now.

Trying to remember the last time someone asked me about one of my other interests makes the trip home quick. Before I realize where we are, Russ is pulling into the drive beside his girlfriend’s car.

Aurora looks up when I open the front door, but her eyes travel straight past me and the widest grin spreads across her face when she spots Russ. I feel like we just shipped one lot of girlfriends out, and immediately gained more.

She’s conventionally attractive—average height and build, suntanned white skin with green eyes and blond hair—but I don’t think she’d be very interesting to draw.

Russ is obviously very attracted to her, but they make an effort not to be loud about it, which I appreciate. I loved when Anastasia was living here, but she should have been charged with disturbing the peace.

“Are you okay, Henry?” Aurora asks as I drop into the recliner opposite her. “You look extra pensive today. Brooding, like the tortured artist you are.”

“Coach found out I got an F on that French Revolution essay,” I say as Russ leans in to kiss her temple.

“That blows, I’m sorry. Did you try to charm him?” she asks.

“I don’t know how to charm people on purpose, and even if I did, he’d be immune just to punish me. He thinks I should have academic superpowers because I picked up a hockey stick fifteen years ago.”

“I think you’re incredibly charming,” she says.

“Who has superpowers?” Robbie asks as he rounds the corner from his bedroom. He stops his wheelchair in the space between the couch and recliner, looking right at me. “Faulkner called. Apparently it’s my fault you didn’t sign up for your classes. Because apparently I’m psychic and I’m to blame for you fucking your way through California all summer instead of prioritizing your education. Even though I was busy graduating and, y’know, being in a different state.”

Living with my friends is great. Living with my friend who is also the assistant coach is occasionally not as great. Occasionally being now, when I can’t even escape Faulkner in my own home because all he has to do is call Robbie.

“That’s dramatic,” I grumble as Robbie lifts himself into the recliner beside mine. I stayed local and I never told Coach about my summer. It wasn’t even intentional. I think I might have felt a little lonely while everyone was home or working.

I hadn’t thought of it that way until Anastasia asked me about it, and I realized I was keeping myself busy until my friends got back. I like my own company, prefer it even, but this summer I found that there’s a limit.

Plus, women like me a lot and I like having fun without commitment.

Robbie shakes his head, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Do me a favor, Casanova. Concentrate on not getting my ass beat this year instead of getting laid. You’re the supreme leader after all and you must lead the way in morality and dignity and all the other shit.”

I don’t think he’s being serious. Robbie always laughs right before he says something sarcastic that he doesn’t mean, but it still causes an uncomfortable prickle at the nape of my neck. “The only thing I know is I don’t know how to be a leader.”

Russ leans forward in his seat, looking right at me. “You’re doing a damn good job for someone who claims he doesn’t know what he’s doing. You’re good at everything, Hen.”

“Except revolutions,” Aurora interrupts.

“It’s fucking annoying if you wanna get into it. I’d be obnoxious as hell if I was good at everything the first time I try it,” Robbie adds. “Stay focused and you’ll kill it.”

“Who told you you aren’t obnoxious?” Russ says, quickly blocking the cushion that flies in his and Aurora’s direction.

“Why don’t we get you some books on leadership?” Aurora says, shuffling to the edge of the couch just like Russ is. It makes me want to move my chair back just to increase the space between us again. “I’m skipping book club this week because it’s only an icebreaker meeting and Halle has a boner for Austen that I can’t get on board with, but I still haven’t checked out Enchanted and it’d be nice to drop by to say hi… Why are you looking at me like that?”

Russ chuckles beside her, but I continue to stare at her blankly. “I don’t understand anything you just said.”

“Enchanted,” she repeats, like somehow it’ll clear this whole thing up. “The bookstore that just opened near Kenny’s? Next to that creepy bar Russ used to work in that’s turned into a wine bar.”

She may as well be speaking French. “No idea.”

Aurora immediately gets more flustered, her voice pitching up. “We literally drove past it two days ago and I said look how busy Enchanted is!”

“You say a lot, Aurora. I don’t always listen to you,” I admit. “I replace it hard to concentrate when you’re driving. Fearing for my life takes up a lot of mental space.”

She huffs, and the guys laugh, but I’m not joking. “Halle. The girl who used to run the book club at The Next Chapter. She’s starting a new romance-only book club at Enchanted—the new bookstore we drove past. I’m not going because I don’t like what they’re reading and it’s an introduction session for people who have never been to a book club before. But I want to go say hi to her and check out the store.”

“What does all this have to do with me failing and having to change my identity to hide from Neil Faulkner?”

“This conversation is massively reducing my quality of life,” Robbie groans. “Can you two wrap it up, please? It’s like watching aliens from different planets try to communicate with each other.”

Aurora looks up at the ceiling, muttering something under her breath before turning to Robbie and giving him the finger. She turns her attention back to me and brushes the stray strands of hair from her face. “Henry, do you want to come with me to a bookstore and buy books that will help you learn about leadership? And thus help you be a better captain?”

“No.”

Robbie and Russ burst out laughing, and I’m not sure exactly what was funny about that fact.

“But why? Emilia is at dance and Poppy is busy and I don’t want to go on my own.”

“Have you been paying attention? I need to work out how to pull off a miracle. Take Russ.”

She lightly bops Russ in the ribs and his laughing immediately stops. “Russ is having dinner with his parents tonight. This might help! If you come with me and give it a chance, I will buy you a milkshake.”

“No, thank you.”

“And chili fries.”

“Fine,” I say, but only because I want to be a good friend to her, not because I actually want to go. “But I’m not getting the fake meat this time. And I’m counting down until you can pull away from stop signs. In fact, scratch that. I’m driving. Let’s get this over with.”