1
THIS IS GOING TO HURT
KNOX
Having Coach Lawson scream into my ear at nine in the morning wasn’t exactly how I wanted to start my day. Neither was slamming a 5-hour Energy after running on three hours of sleep.
I’m so fucking late, and traffic isn’t helping. I spent all night studying for my English literature exam, and if I don’t get above an eighty percent on this test, there’s gonna be a doghouse waiting for me with my name emblazoned on the front.
I thought I’d set my alarm, but between a sleep-induced fog and thoughts which made as much sense as incompatible Scrabble pieces, I woke up ten minutes before class time. My professor closes the door once all the exams have been distributed. I live twelve minutes from campus.
This isn’t the first time school has been a pain in my ass. I’ve been struggling this entire semester. I’m not…academically…gifted. Learning is difficult for me—even at the baseline class levels—and with my parents hounding me to get better grades, the pressure has only grown tenfold.
I speed through the intersection like a madman, garnering aggravated honks from unfortunate cars that have been caughtin my crosshairs. The frenetic movement of my steering jostles both the anxiety and sour acid in my stomach.
“Mulligan, we agreed that you’d play as long as you kept your grades up,” Coach Lawson barks through my phone’s speaker, his stentorian, brass-wrapped lilt filling the interior of my Lamborghini.
My threadbare voice rises in response, wearing a false coat of confidence. “I know, Coach.”
“Your professors have informed me that you have an overall grade of sixty-five percent. Do you understand why I’m upset with you?”
“Yes, Coach,” I grit through clenched teeth as I white-knuckle the steering wheel, my frustration cut with something stronger—indignation, maybe. A fatal warning that my ever-growing resentment will mutate into something uncontrollable, unbridled, andunholyif the right preventive measures aren’t taken.
A sigh unravels from Coach Lawson’s chest. “You know I don’t want to have this conversation with you, but the bottom line is that if you can’t turn these grades around by the end of the grading period, I’m going to have to bench you.”
“Please, sir, I—” Praying that it’s not obvious I’m driving and talking, I swerve out of the way of an oncoming car, my heart halfway up my throat. “I know I’m not doing well, but I can fix this.”
“You said that the last time we talked, and nothing has changed. Just because you’re a talented player doesn’t make you exempt. Being on this team is a privilege, not a right. I made thatveryclear to you.”
His disappointment is deafening, and if I wasn’t entertaining this conversation, I’d have a warranted breakdown in the comfort of my own car right now. My nerves are being plucked like untuned violin strings; my exhaustion has beenplaying a sick game of catch and release with me for the past ten minutes.
I’m mad at myself. I’m mad at the situation. No matter how hard I study, I never make any progress. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. All my peers seem to understand. All my hockey teammates are keeping their grades up. I feel like I’m the only one struggling.
I’m still in my junior year of college. I can’t fathom…fuck, I can’t fathomnotgraduating. I have my whole future planned out, you know? I’m going to play in the NHL, and nowhere in the schedule does “becoming a super senior” belong in the fine print.
I want to argue with Coach. I want to prove to him that I’ve earned my spot on the Minnesota Mustangs, but the man is unswayable. He’s my superior, and at the end of the day, I have to respect his decision.
Hockey is my lifeblood. It’s the one thing that keeps me sane in this world, and it’s the only thing I’m good at. I’ve never pictured myself doing anything else. I don’t have the patience or facilities for a nine to five. I’m likeable, sure, but I have a low tolerance for most people in the world.
Plus, my father will disown me if I don’t make a career out of my “extracurricular,” as he calls it. Since I’m not following in his footsteps to become a CEO—a laughably ridiculous ask of me, by the way—I have to do something with my life that brings “honor” to the Mulligan name.
My dad is the senior executive of one of the most esteemed law firms in all of Minnesota, my mom is an investment banker, and my older sister, Livia, is a psychiatrist. Dropping out of college and making a minimum wage isn’t an option for me.
Oh my God, I think I’m spiraling. At 9:10 a.m. on a Tuesday. Class starts at 9:15. This is it, folks. This is my pathetic, pitiful rock bottom, and life is burying me alive in an unmarked grave, shoveling earth onto my nowhere-near-cold body.
There’s a congested mass of tardy student drivers ahead of me, hindered by a mocking red stoplight. Cursing beneath my breath, I’m allocated the time to choose between reassurance or vulnerability, and the latter is yet another topic I’m not well-versed in.
“I’m studying my ass off. I’m doing everything I can to bring up my grades, but I just…the curriculum is difficult this semester.”
A half lie that tastes bitter on my tongue.
I hate giving people the impression that I’m not capable. I shun vulnerability as much as the next guy—it’s basically a direct pipeline into my tissue-scarred heart, and there’s a reason I’ve got that bad boy locked up with deadbolts and latches. Weakness isn’t something that the Mulligan men admit to. Toxic? Maybe. My upbringing? Unfortunately.
“You need to get a tutor. As soon as possible,” Coach demands, and I quite literally cringe at the suggestion.
I can’t, Coach. Mostly because having anyone know that I’m universally bad at anything involving critical thinking makes me want to throw myself onto train tracks.
Come on, Knox. It’s either hire a tutor or bon voyage hockey. There’s a clear lesser of two evils here, and honestly, you don’t have much of a choice.
