Page 25 of Safety Net
“I’m all yours,” Henrik said and waited for a beat before adding, “Sir.”
I scoffed under my breath at the telltale rise in his voice.
“You two finish up and we’ll get to work,” Anthony ordered before going back to the sideline.
“You really love your age gaps,” I teased in a low voice.
Henrik shot me a look. “Be quiet and stop messing around.”
“Just an observation.” I held up my hands in defense.
“Observe yourself stretching.” Henrik shook his head and tried to pretend like he didn’t want to smile.
There wasn't a muscle in my body that didn't ache after my session with Anthony. But pain came secondary to spending time with Celeste.
I took my time climbing the steps to Mendell’s music building. I had to stop halfway to stretch out my calf. Someone passing by asked if I needed help the rest of the way up. And you know what, I was tempted to accept the offer. But I was also known to be a bit of a baby when it came to stuff like this.
“Go on without me,” I told the kind stranger. “I have a high chance of making it on my own. And if I don't, well, these stairs look freshly power-washed so sleeping here doesn’t seem too awful.”
They didn’t look convinced but left me to my theatrics. It took me another couple of minutes, but I managed to conquerthe rest of the stairs. The inside of the music building was warm, and the smell reminded me of my second-grade classroom: plastic and fresh markers on a whiteboard.
I pulled up the text Celeste promised to send, and I promised to answer (I cringe at the memory).
Celeste
Are you okay meeting in the Music building? I have a reservation for one of the rooms.
sounds like a plan!
Celeste
Alright, it’s room 203. On the 2nd floor. Try not to take the elevator unless it’s necessary.
The screaming of my thighs made elevator use feel like an absolute necessity. My training session had been more than brutal; it’d been disheartening. Was I really this out of shape? According to Anthony, in addition to not being ready to practice, I didn’t understand a single thing about being a goalie. Everything from my stance to my philosophy (or lack thereof) needed fixing. By the end of the session, he’d asked,
“Why are you here? Honestly?”
Between my burning lungs and heaving breath, I didn’t have a good answer for him. I was still searching for one when I stepped into the elevator. The door dinged as if it were going to shut, but it remained open. I mashed the close button about six times before it finally gave in and let me have my way. After it closed, the groaning started. It was a low, horrific noise. I was the asshole in the horror film who did the one thing he’d been warned not to and who would now crash to their untimely death, and wake up in some demon’s courtroom. I wondered if hell offered free legal counsel. Could I, in turn, pay it forward,counselling the next unlucky fool to take the elevators after they ignored a reasonable warning,
By some miracle, the elevator began to move. Up, thankfully. Its slow ascent had me reaching for my phone, readying a text to send to our group chat.
If you don’t hear from me, I may be in Dante’s Inferno. The entrance is in the basement of the music building. Only come looking for me if you’re sure you can get me out. Otherwise, it’d be a waste of time and energy.
Finn
Got it.
He was the only one to answer. I took it as a sign I needed to give them a refresher on how many laughs they could credit to my presence alone. It was hard work being the primary source of entertainment for the friend group. It downright saddened me to think of how little they were laughing at this very moment because I wasn’t there.
The elevator door finally slid (3/4ths) open on the second floor. I hurried out in case it changed its mind about its judgment on my soul.
Our meeting room was easy enough to find. My ribcage may be bruised from how hard my heart hammered in anticipation of seeing her. I wiped my palms on the back of my jeans, trying to get rid of nervous sweat.
The door was unlocked, but no one was inside. I went in anyway, checking the time to see if I was early. The clock showed I was ten minutes late.
The room was small, with two wall-to-ceiling windows on the far end, facing the bright green lawn at the front of the building.There were plastic chairs neatly arranged in a half-circle. In the middle stood a black podium that hosted a stack of sheet music.
Celeste’s pink tote rested on one of the chairs, weighed down by bag charms and a fully stickered water bottle. Next to the bag was a flute. The silver metal reflected the yellow overhead lighting.
