Chapter 4

CHAPTER 4

HANSLEY

I t’s been a long time since I was on a college campus and I can honestly say this one feels like a completely different environment than I remember. There’s your typical student body making up the majority of the populous and these kids, man! They’re dressed to kill. I’m actually surprised there isn’t a fashion program here.

What I think I’ve loved the most since the semester started is the energy. You see commercials for college and all the smiles and diverse friend groups as everyone just gets it but you know that’s staged. You know it’s all a bunch of actors.

But… it feels real here. There’s a huge, diverse cast of people—every color, every ethnicity. Unlike so many other places I’ve been, there isn’t a big division where ‘like’ people gravitate together. I mean, sometimes they do, but there’s almost always a handful of those who look vastly different.

I’m struck by the idea that this is what the world would look like without hatred. Without stereotypes and prejudices. Without societal expectations, political involvement, religious doctrine. This truly is freedom.

It’s almost sad they have to leave here eventually and face the ugly world. And that’s coming from a person who has lived a pretty privileged life. Even I know how ugly the world is, and that ugliness has barely touched me.

Stepping into the trades department is like crossing county lines. When you can visibly see the difference in the pavement, the sidewalks, and the landscape as if one county has more resources than the other.

Except, it’s not a resource issue. It’s scale and noise. I hear saws and loud machines, the whine of a motor. There isn’t a difference in landscape or sidewalk quality, but you can tell most of these buildings are new. There’s an industrial feel that attempts to blend the old with the new and has added some architectural features.

I stand outside one of the buildings and stare at a corbel that didn’t quite hit its mark. Maybe they’re letting the student body practice on the outside of the building.

“Looks like two different puzzles trying to be glued together,” a man says as he steps beside me.

I glance at him as he stares up too. He looks amused, but there’s also fondness in his expression. When he meets my eyes, he gives me a big smile. His hair is blond and shaggy, and his eyes are a bright blue. Those are eyes you’d see across the rink.

“I think we’re supposed to appreciate the attempt,” I comment.

He chuckles. “Quin Stommer,” he introduces, offering me his hand.

“Just who I’m here to meet. Hansley Bardot.” I shake his hand. “I hear that just a few years ago, few of these buildings existed.”

Quin nods. “Yep. The office building was here.” He nods toward it, and we begin walking that way. “But the rest was built from the ground up. I’m not sure the execution of the design quite hit its mark.”

“I can hear all the trades working. Seems to me like you have the means to change that.”

He smiles. “It’s already on my list. But I’m still working on introducing trades into the program, so it’s not very high on my list, unfortunately.”

“Is it a matter of design or execution?” I ask.

Quin shrugs. “Both. The outside was made with a different material than the design had originally called for—cost. But that means that the architectural features we’d planned on no longer made sense. I wasn’t quite quick enough at stopping them, so we have a strange spattering of corbels and trim that isn’t uniform over the buildings.”

“Which adds to the strangeness of the appearance,” I say, nodding.

Quin nods as well as he holds the door open for me. “There isn’t an elevator in this old building, so it’s time to get your steps in.”

I laugh. “How does that meet ADA?”

“It doesn’t. We have empty offices and conference rooms downstairs for meeting with anyone who can’t do stairs. Most of my staff’s office hours are actually in their respective shops, so it hasn’t been an issue yet. Though retrofitting an elevator is on the list, but very low on the list.”

“Sounds like this is a very long list.”

“If I wrote it out, it’d be longer than Santa’s naughty list.”

We step into his office as I chuckle. Already, I like Quin Stommer. He gestures to the chair in front of his desk, and I take it as he rounds to the back.

“What can I do for you, Hansley?”

“I hear that you’re the one who heads the big festivals that the school puts on.” He nods once. “Great. I want to know how I can sign up for a couple events.”

“What kind of events?”

“My budget is a little light,” I say, more in reference to the letter than what I’m actually supposed to be spending money on. I’ve set up an appointment with the Dean of Athletic Affairs later this week for some guidance. I feel like I’m missing something. “So I’m looking to supplement it. My team has come up with several ideas and this big festival sounds like the perfect opportunity.”

“My understanding is that all the teams took a hit, most of which were underfunded already,” Quin says.

“Most?”

He smirks. “The football team has never hurt for funds.”

“Ah.”

“Though, I think his budget was hit the hardest as they tried to even out the playing field, so to speak. Coach Frost is on a rampage.”

I’d heard whispers about this coach. His name amused me when I first heard it. Who names their kid Lemon? All I can think of is the pucker your mouth makes when you taste a lemon. By the sounds of it, he’s a brilliant coach, but a bitter, spoiled man who wears loud clothing.

I haven’t had a chance to meet him yet, but if he’s as angry at me for having more funds funneled into hockey, as the rumors say, I’m not in a huge hurry to meet him.

Quin’s smirking. “You haven’t had the pleasure of meeting him yet, have you?”

“Not yet. I’m slightly amused and also maybe avoiding it.”

He laughs. “My point in bringing up that the other teams were hit too is because I know they’re all brainstorming how to close the gap they’re now facing. I’m not sure what your plans are, but I think that they’d probably be on board for a collaborative effort.”

“Hmm,” I muse, nodding. “For some things, I think that will work. One is an athlete date auction, which is just what it sounds like.”

“Ahh,” Quin says, sitting back as he smiles.

“My team has had a blast coming up with ideas on how to ‘sell’ themselves. It’s both kitschy and endearing to hear them twist their good qualities into silly humor and find weird facts about themselves to list. They have this idea of making trading cards as a way to sell themselves,” I explain.

“That sounds great. But you realize this is a community event, right? It’s not just the student body here.”

“I thought we’d make an age restriction to avoid a fifty-year-old trying to purchase a date with a nineteen-year-old. I thought we’d also maybe include the date details. Picnic in the park. Or, as one of my students said, romantic night skating on the rink. Though I’m not sure the bright overhead lights lend a romantic ambiance.”

“And put it in writing that this is ‘for fun’ and not a guarantee of anything outside the outlined date,” Quin adds, nodding. “We’ll have to run it by our teams to make sure we have protection for our kids, but I think that could be a lot of fun.”

“I think it’s something I can open up to other teams too,” I say. “Whichever athlete is willing to sign up for this event—the funds from the winning bid on them goes to that team. Easy enough.”

“Have you thought about some good-natured rivalry events?” Quin asks. I shake my head. “I’m thinking of something like dodgeball where it’s a neutral game that none of your teams are well-trained in. Smaller teams can combine and sign up for a dodgeball tournament. You can sell all aspects of it—someone pays to have their company on the team shirts. Maybe have a pay-to-play requirement to enroll as a team and have them get a sponsorship for their team to meet the goal.”

“That reminds me. One of my kids suggested asking teachers to sponsor them for a season. My first reaction was not seeing a problem with it, but I don’t know how teachers would feel having a student ask them to sponsor them.”

Quin dances his head from side to side as he thinks about it. “I think you’d have to lay down some ground rules about approach and stuff. Also have a uniform ask letter so it’s clear exactly what they’re asking for and what they’re promising in exchange. I think it would be okay. I doubt they’d approach more than one or two of their favorites.”

“Okay, so another thing to flesh out. Last one I wanted to run by you is a merch store. We have very few merch options and I thought expanding our products might be a project we could collaborate on. We pay your screen printing and embroidery classes to make our products while allowing your students to come up with some unique ideas for merch. No one knows what an audience wants as merch more than that audience.”

Quin grins. “We can definitely do that. But I hear you’re petitioning to re-logo the team?”

“Wow… that traveled quickly.”

He chuckles. “One of my partners is part of the financial board, and he was particularly excited about this. Otherwise he doesn’t share, since he’s really not supposed to.”

“He too doesn’t like the cartoon horn logo?” I ask.

Quin snorts. “I’m not sure anyone does.”

“Weird that someone approved it to begin with,” I say as I get to my feet. Quin stands too.

“I think it might have just been one of those things that slipped through the cracks. Our football team has held bragging rights for ages, so naturally, they get the most attention. But the other teams are good and getting better. Last year, the board decided they wanted to have great teams. Period. Not just a great team. But they all needed some attention to get to the same or similar level of pride that we have for our football team. Our soccer and hockey teams were the most promising, so that’s where we’ve focused. Alka has been given more resources for camp this year and hockey got you.” He grins.

“I hope I don’t let the school down. That’s a lot of pressure.” Since I’m not sure if I should say I haven’t coached before, I keep that to myself. Though anyone who looks me up will quickly find that information. I just retired, so I haven’t had time to do anything else.

We step outside and I take a breath. The air is warm, but the breeze is cool. This is such a pretty campus with all the colorful flowers and mature trees. Perfectly manicured lawns and beautiful stone work throughout.

“I’m sure you’ll do fine. I think your presence is enough to encourage the community to get excited about our hockey team and offer their support. If it helps, the admin is convinced you’ll do great things.”

It does help, but it also adds another layer of pressure. My team is already doing well. They’re working hard and are completely dedicated to what they’re doing. To hone their skills and master new ones. Working as a team, as well as progressing individually as an athlete.

I have confidence in their ability.

Actually, I find it reassuring that admin feels I’ll do well in this job. Especially since they know I’ve never coached before. But I’ve been playing hockey since I was four. I’ve learned some shit.

As we walk, I don’t pay much attention to the students more than acknowledging that they’re there. So at first, I don’t see the man coming toward us until it’s clear that he’s heading for us. He’s short, thin, wearing pink leggings and a ballerina skirt—that itchy material kind—in a rainbow of colors. His shirt is a white crop top with a sequin football on the front.

His hair is red-blond and filled with curls on the top of his head and short shaved sides. His eyes are framed by black liner and bright blue eyeshadow. It isn’t until he’s standing in front of us that I realize he’s not a student at all. Or, at least, not a typical student. He has a very youthful appearance, but now that he’s close, I can see he’s definitely older than his twenties.

He gives Quin an indifferent smile and says, “Stommer.” Then he looks at me and I can feel his animosity. He’s a whole head shorter than I am, so he’s looking up at me, yet I distinctly feel much smaller right now with the hostility radiating off him being directed at me.

The man doesn’t say anything to me as he pushes between us and keeps walking. Quin and I turn to watch him go, a light sashay to his hips. I’m not sure what just happened. Did I park in his spot?

Quin chuckles. “And that is Coach Lemon Frost. Now you’ve met.”

“Ah,” I say. That explains his anger toward me. As if I truly had anything to do with the budget at all. “He seems nice.”

Quin laughs. “Good luck, man.” He claps my shoulder. “We’ll be in touch about the festival.”

I nod as Quin walks away, but I’m still staring after Lemon. Do I want to do anything about this? Apologize, maybe, though I have nothing to apologize for. I really don’t want to start the school year with this kind of storm cloud on my horizon, though.

For now, I’m just going to head to practice and put my energy where it’s deserved.