“Who is Brooke, and what are we doing tomorrow night?” Hunter Morgan asks me.
“Huh?” I say, glancing up from my phone.
Hunter spins his coffee cup toward me so I can read the black Sharpie scribbled on the brown paper sleeve.
Can’t wait for tomorrow night! XO, Brooke. A phone number—hers, I’m guessing—is scrawled beneath the message.
“Oh. That one must be mine.”
My best friend raises one eyebrow. “You think? Thought it tasted too sweet.”
I added one of those little sugar packets.
“Get your own next time,” I retort, taking the coffee from him and nudging the other cup closer with my elbow. “Thought this one tasted bland.”
Now both of Hunter’s eyebrows do that annoying judgmental lift. “What the hell crawled up your ass, Phillips?”
“Nothing,” I mutter, right as our third roommate Conor walks into the kitchen.
Hart is whistling, which is even more annoying than Hunter’s expressive eyebrows.
As long as I’ve known the guy, he’s been serious and focused. Sure, I’ve seen him let loose, but only when he’s physically incapable of playing more hockey. For the past few weeks he’s been uncharacteristically depressed, lazing around in sweatpants and sighing a lot. Ever since his trip to Seattle last week, he’s as cheerful as could be, right when I could really use a reliable wingman and drinking buddy.
He was a wet blanket our entire trip to Vail, refusing to do anything except snowboard and mope.
And now he’s in a committed relationship and so happy about it, he’s whistling.
It’s weird to witness.
“You headed out?” I ask as Conor grabs his Holt Hockey windbreaker off the back of a kitchen chair. The entryway to our house, where you would normally store coats, is piled high with hockey equipment.
“Yeah. Going to Harlow’s, then to PeeWee practice.”
I stand, deciding to grab a yogurt. “That’s great, Hart. Coach will be thrilled you’re going back to basics.”
Hunter snorts, the sound audible over the slam of the fridge closing.
Conor just shakes his head. He’s harder to rile up than he used to be. Probably a side effect of getting laid on a very frequent basis. Since we share a wall, I have a good idea of just how often that is.
“Do Not Answer is calling you, Phillips,” Hunter tells me.
I don’t glance toward the spot on the table where I left my phone. “Is the name not self-explanatory?” I ask, ripping the flimsy top off the yogurt with more force than is necessary before tossing it in the trash can.
“Wow, you’re touchy. Just letting you know.”
I should apologize to Hunter for snapping at him, but I shove a bite of yogurt into my mouth instead.
My dad figured out I blocked his number and threatened not to send this semester’s tuition check unless I started taking his calls. So I unblocked him, but was petty enough to change his name in my phone and I haven’t answered a single time.
I’m sure I’ll have another pissed-off voicemail from Lincoln Phillips very soon.
My mood sours even more.
“You’re not coming back here before going to the rink?” I ask Conor.
Hart shakes his head.
“Are you going back to the rink later?”
We’re almost at the end of winter break. Spring semester—our final semester—starts Monday. Conor’s taken advantage of the calmness on campus the past couple of weeks to fit in extra skates most days. I’m surprised he’s at home right now instead of out on the ice.
Another head shake. “I’m busy later. And I thought we talked about you not being my schedule secretary, Phillips.”
I groan. “I’m not asking to be nosy. I just need a ride to the rink later. I’m supposed to meet with Coach.”
“You’re meeting with Coach today?” Hunter asks, suddenly interested in the conversation. “Why?”
I shrug. “Dunno. He texted me after practice yesterday, asking to meet today.”
“Weird.” Hunter glances at Conor, who’s pulling on his jacket. “Did you get anything? I didn’t.”
Hart shakes his head a third time, then looks over at me. “I can drop you off at the rink on the way to Harlow’s.”
“I’m not supposed to meet Coach until five,” I tell him. “My balls will be frozen by then.”
Hart heads for the hallway, obviously eager to leave. “Fine. See you guys later.”
I finish my yogurt, toss it in the trash, and then follow Conor.
His car is already gone by the time I get my boots on and walk out our front door.
The January wind rips right through the flannel I’m wearing as I approach my truck, parked next to Hunter’s green SUV. My useless truck, as I discovered when I tried to go out last night. A fourth Washington winter appears to have been too much for it.
Despite my silent prayer that the issue magically resolved itself overnight, the engine doesn’t so much as click when I press the button that’s supposed to turn on the truck.
I press my forehead to the cold steering wheel, swear under my breath, and then climb out of the driver’s seat.
I know nothing about cars. I’ll have to call a mechanic to come tow it to a garage to get looked at.
Hunter is still sitting in the same spot at the table when I reenter the kitchen, his legs stretched out so far I have to step over them to get to the other chair.
“Didn’t start?” he asks without looking up from whatever book he’s reading.
Hunter was home last night when I discovered my truck is currently useless.
Conor wasn’t, but he didn’t even bother asking why I wanted a ride. Lately, if it isn’t related to hockey or his new girlfriend, it’s off his radar.
“Nope.” I sigh.
He nods toward my coffee cup, then smirks. “Call Brooke. Bet she’ll give you a ride.”
My hungover memory of the blonde who served me and some of the guys coffee earlier is vague, but yeah, she probably would. I barely remember what I said to her or what the hell we’re supposed to be doing tomorrow night. I was distracted and exhausted this morning. Still am, actually. And ever since winter break, it’s been harder not to compare every flirtation to that night in the hot tub. To keep interest, when they’ve all been lackluster in comparison.
“Can you drive me?” I plead. “At quarter of five?”
Hunter raises one of his damn eyebrows at me again.
“Please,” I add. After experiencing how fucking freezing it is out, I have no interest in walking. “Or let me borrow your car?”
“I’ve seen you drive, Phillips. You’re not borrowing my car.”
“Then give me a ride. I brought you coffee, remember?”
“You mean the bland coffee?” Hunter is annoyingly good at holding a grudge.
“Better than no coffee.”
“You didn’t even bother to keep track of the cups, Phillips.”
“We fixed that issue, remember?”
Hunter heaves a sigh. “Fine. But only because I left my favorite sweatshirt in my locker at the rink.”
“Thank you.” I grab my phone and coffee off the kitchen table, then head upstairs.
When Hunter and I walk into the lobby of the rink, the chatter of young, excited voices is literally bouncing off the walls.
I’ve never really gotten why Conor volunteers with the local PeeWee team. He’s by far the best player at Holt, could easily have played for a Division I school, and I know he must get frustrated by the talent discrepancy between himself and other guys on the ice, myself included.
Spending time around little kids still figuring out the basics sounds like it would be ten times worse. But seeing the awed, admiring expressions of the kids passing us with miniature hockey bags slung across small shoulders, most of them escorted by a parent, makes me smile.
I still remember my first exposure to hockey—a pro game when I was eight. My older brother Jameson chose not to go, so it was just me and my dad. Plus the man my dad was trying to purchase a company from. The only reason that detail sticks in my head is because it’s why my dad opted for rinkside seats, so close to the boards I could reach out and touch the players.
From the first second those big, hulking guys appeared, speeding across the ice effortlessly, I was hooked.
And now I’m one of those big, hulking guys, at least in these kids’ eyes.
It’s a strange realization, one I’m not entirely sure how to feel about. Kind of like I already peaked and kind of like I should have been lifting weights last night instead of doing shots. Half-nostalgia, half-regret.
“Never thought I’d see the day,” Hunter says, shaking his head slightly as we pass through the lobby and the rink comes into view.
Hart is out on the ice, which is nothing new. He often stays late after our practices, so it’s no surprise he’d do the same after coaching kids, which isn’t much of a workout. What is new is that he’s not alone out there. The flash of Harlow’s red hair is impossible to miss against the white backdrop.
“Me neither,” I agree.
Conor getting a girlfriend was not on my bingo card for this season. He didn’t have the same reputation I do, but he definitely enjoyed his single status. Him getting serious about a girl, especially right before hopefully winning the championship he’s been chasing since freshman year, was a surprise.
I feel like I could take some credit for the happy couple we’re watching. Up until I all but forced him to a few months ago, I’m not sure if Hart had ever said a single word in Harlow’s presence.
You’d never know that, looking at them now.
I might miss having him around lately and the wild nights when we would go out and let loose together, but I’m also relieved.
I’ve been worried how Conor might handle the end of the season. If we don’t win a championship, if he doesn’t get a call during free agent season, if this is how his career ends, I’m relieved he’ll have Harlow. That his world is no longer exclusively centered around hockey. I’m happy for him.
Conor spots us walking along the boards and steers Harlow this way. And I do mean steers. I’m not sure you could call what she’s doing skating.
Since I’ve never seen Harlow look anything except in total control and completely at ease, I can’t help but grin at the sight of her clinging to Conor like he’s the only thing anchoring her from a twenty-foot drop.
“Hey, Harlow.” Hunter is the first to speak when we meet at the home bench, and I shoot him a skeptical look. He was the one who had doubts about them, who told Hart he was losing focus and a relationship would be a mistake.
I was the one who not only engineered their first conversation but also encouraged Conor to reach out to Harlow over break. Partly so I didn’t have to deal with his sulking, but it should still count.
That’s Hunter, though. He’s never afraid to share his opinion. He’s also quick to move on and mind his own business.
“Hey, guys,” Harlow says.
Her cheeks are noticeably red for her only exertion being pulled around on the ice.
Conor looks at her with a soft expression that I’d never seen him wear before recently. Harlow glances at him, her cheeks growing redder, and I realize she’s not flushed from skating.
I should probably buy more earplugs. The honeymoon phase appears to still be in full effect.
“What are you guys doing here?” Conor asks.
“I’m meeting with Coach. I mentioned it earlier, remember?”
Conor shakes his head.
I roll my eyes. Our conversation was only four hours ago. “I asked you for a ride. You were ‘busy’ later.”
“I am busy,” Hart tells me, resting an elbow on the boards.
I’m tempted to roll my eyes again. Busy skating in slow circles. “Yeah, yeah, looks like you’ve got Boyfriend of the Year in the bag. But Hunter’s my new favorite best friend, because he actually drove me here.”
“I left my favorite sweatshirt in my locker, actually,” Hunter says.
“Eyesore broke down?” Conor asks.
His disdain for my truck’s color is consistent; I’ll give him that. He’s been ragging on the red shade for years.
I sigh. “Yeah. I don’t know what’s wrong with it. Guess I need to call a garage and get them to take a look at it.”
“I’ll text you the name of the place I used,” Conor says. “They did a good job.”
“Great, thanks. See you guys later.” I start toward the locker room, knowing how much Coach hates tardiness.
Hunter follows me, heading straight for his locker and pulling his sweatshirt out. I continue toward Coach’s office.
“Hopefully this won’t take long.”
Hunter nods. “If it does, I’ll just ditch your ass here to walk home.”
This meeting could last four hours, and he’d still be sitting here when I walk out. He and Hart are two of the most loyal guys I’ve ever met.
I suck in a deep breath before knocking on Coach Keller’s door. The letters spelling out his name are peeling and worn, evidence of how long he’s occupied this office.
Year after year of disappointing seasons, something Conor is determined to change. We’ve only lost one game this entire season. Holt has the best record in our division, meaning there’s a good chance we could actually win a championship in March.
“Come in,” Coach calls.
I turn the metal door handle that’s rubbed shiny from use and walk into his office.
It’s small and sparsely decorated, which isn’t much of a surprise. It matches the locker room and the rest of the building, which I’m pretty sure is a decade older than I am.
“Take a seat, Phillips,” Coach tells me, nodding to the two chairs across his desk.
The patterned plaid is faded and worn. One of the cushions has a rip sagging open on the side. I choose the chair in slightly better shape, glancing at the bare walls and the two picture frames on the desk as I settle into the seat. They’re turned away, so I can’t see the photos, but I’m surprised they’re there at all. Coach has never struck me as sentimental. At the end of each dissatisfying season, he’s told us to look ahead, not back.
I wonder what he’ll say after our final game this year. If we don’t win a championship, odds are Coach K will never get one.
My elbows dig into my thighs as I lean forward, resisting the urge to bounce my knee. Maybe other players have gotten called in here for conversations before, but I never have. If Coach wants to talk to one of us, he usually has us stay a few minutes late after practice. I have no clue why I’m here or what to make of the fact that he asked me to come.
“So…what’s up, Coach?”
Coach Keller sighs, shutting the open binder in front of him, setting his reading glasses on top of it, and then leaning back in his swivel chair.
Its loud squeak is the only sound in the small space for a minute.
He sighs again. “You failed Statistics last semester, Phillips.”
I freeze, dread trickling through me like icy water.
Failed. Not even a D. I fucking failed.
“Passing that course is a graduation requirement for all Business majors.” He pauses. “And failing a class puts your GPA below what you need to play, according to the athletics committee.”
I’m still frozen, processing.
No one would call me a star student, but I’ve never flunked a class before.
Fall semester grades get posted over winter break. But I haven’t bothered checking mine—or logging into my school email—because break is supposed to be a vacation from all the boring parts of college. I figured I’d gotten a mix of Cs and Bs like I usually do.
“So I’m off the team?” It’s a small miracle I manage to choke those words out past the panic lodged in my throat.
I’m not chasing a pro career like Conor is.
I’m not as fast or as focused as Hunter is.
But I love playing hockey. Love being part of a team and the high of winning we’ve been experiencing a lot lately. Hockey is the one thing I put some effort into, as opposed to the none I normally give everything else. And I care about helping Hart get his championship. It’s practically all he’s talked about since freshman year, and this is his last chance. The thought of being seated on the bench, stuck watching those hopes die, makes me feel sick to my stomach.
“No,” Coach Keller answers, and I take a breath for the first time in what feels like forever. “But you are on probation.”
I exhale, my muscles finally relaxing. I’ve been on some sort of probation most of my life. With my parents or with some authority figure. It’s a warning; that’s all.
“Professor Carrigan has agreed to let you retake the final exam once the season has ended. Provided you pass that, you’ll still be able to graduate with your year.”
My posture slumps further. I lean back in the chair, relief replacing fear. Even if I fail the final again, I’ll still get to play in the championship, assuming we get that far.
If I flunk out of college after that, it’d have the silver lining of horrifying my image-obsessed family. I can only imagine what kind of story my parents would spin to explain how a Phillips ended up degree-less. Even if they cut me off, I could continue crashing with Hunter and Conor until graduation, minus having to go to class, which I barely do currently. I’ll have full access to my trust fund after my birthday in August, unless my dad decides to take that too. And if he does, I’ll find a job somewhere doing…something.
Coach is still studying me, and I’m worried I might look too relieved.
Quickly, I rearrange my expression, aiming for remorseful and appreciative. He talked to Professor Carrigan for me, set this whole deal up.
Honestly, it’s surprising. Appreciated, but surprising. Usually, Coach is a big fan of consequences. If anyone’s late to practice, we all skate suicides. That kind of thing.
“Okay. Thanks,” I say.
Coach’s serious expression doesn’t waver. “Professor Carrigan seems to think your grade was a result of poor motivation, not an issue comprehending the material.”
I fight the grimace that wants to appear. The material was dry, and Professor Carrigan is an older woman with an uninspiring teaching style. I’m not looking forward to a round two, that’s for damn sure. Unfortunately, I have no other option.
“I’m just not great at math. I’ll study harder this time.”
“I’m sure you will, Phillips. Since Professor Carrigan is making a notable exception to her normal policy, I assured her you would be a dedicated student.”
Quickly, I nod. “Yeah, I will be.”
“I’m not leaving that up to chance. So, I’ve set up a tutor for you. You’ll meet with her once a week to review materials from Professor Carrigan and prepare for the final.”
A tutor? A female tutor? After three and a half years on this campus, I know that means my tutor will either be too nervous to talk to me or too busy flirting to focus on math. Neither bodes well for me passing the retake.
“That’s really not necessary—”
“You’re not in a bargaining position, Phillips. Take the deal—or you’re off the team.”
“I can pass on my own.”
He says nothing, just stares me down. It’s intimidating as hell and a look I recognize from practice whenever one of us deviates from his directions.
It means I’m the coach, so we do it my way. And he’s right; I’m not in any position to challenge him.
I swallow. “Fine. Uh, thanks—for setting the tutor up.”
“I arranged for you to work with my daughter, Phillips.”
This time, my swallow is more of a gulp. He did what?
“Your daughter goes to Holt?” I ask.
I had no idea Coach had kids, let alone a college-aged one. He doesn’t wear a wedding ring or talk about his personal life. As far as I noticed, he’s never had family members show up at a game—just like me. Honestly, he gives off more bachelor vibes than family man.
I glance at the photos on his desk again.
“She’s a new student, but she’s more than qualified to help you,” he tells me.
I’m betting he wanted to say overqualified instead.
And she’s a new student…so a freshman? I’m having a hard time picturing Coach raising a shy geek smart enough to tutor for a senior-level class. But I keep my mouth shut tight this time.
Coach continues talking. “This is serious, Phillips. Any funny business, and you’re off the team. The deal with Professor Carrigan goes away and you’re back to needing to retake the entire course to graduate, which means you won’t graduate on time. And I don’t think I need to talk you through what will happen if I hear you’re treating my daughter with anything less than total respect. Understood?”
I nod so quickly I must look like one of those bobblehead dolls. “Understood, sir.”
“Good. Professor Carrigan will be in touch with you soon about the tutoring schedule. Go study or eat or do something that won’t make me regret helping you.”
I nod again, then stand. Hastily, I head for the door.
Glance back, once my hand is on the handle.
“Thank you, Coach,” I tell him.
He’s already refocused on his binder, probably preparing plays for our next game. But he looks up and nods, hopefully hearing the sincerity in my voice. I close the door behind me, the weight on my chest a lot heavier than when I walked in.
If I had to describe Coach using one word, it would be fair.
I respect him a hell of a lot more than my own father. But it’s always been obvious to the entire team that Conor is his guy, understandably so.
Hart wasn’t officially named captain until last season, but he’s always been the unofficial one. The player everyone—including Coach—looks at to lead.
Coach probably would have done this for any guy on his roster.
I’m not used to having faith put in me, though, and certainly not from someone I respect.
People expect fun from me, not leadership. Expect me at parties, not to see me studying in the library. Expect a grin from me, not the grim line my mouth is pressed in as I approach Hunter. He’s sitting on the bench in front of his locker, reading a paperback. He doesn’t glance up until I clear my throat—twice.
“Let’s go,” I tell him, heading toward the door connected to the tunnel that leads to the ice and then veering right in the direction of the parking lot.
I need some fresh air. To breathe. To think.
“Slow the fuck down, Phillips,” Hunter calls after me. “It’s not like you can go anywhere without me.”
The reminder chafes.
I need Hart to send me the name of the garage he used as soon as possible so I can get back to having my own mode of transportation. I could walk, I guess, but the weather here is usually cold, raining, or both. Maybe the only thing I miss about living in LA.
“So?” Hunter asks once he’s caught up. We’re outside, crossing the mostly empty parking lot. “What’d Coach want?”
“To tell me I flunked a class last semester.”
“You what?” Hunter’s normally deep voices flies alarmingly high.
“Relax, it’s fine. I can still play. I just have a few tutoring sessions to get through.”
I sound calmer than I feel. It’s not great, but it could be worse.
I think.
“Will you still graduate?”
“Dunno. I’ll see how smart Coach’s daughter is. I have to pass a retake at the end of the season.”
Hunter stops walking right in the middle of the parking lot. “What about Coach’s daughter?”
“She’s my tutor,” I tell him. “I guess she’s some kind of freshman math whiz. The professor agreed, so whatever.”
“Coach’s daughter—a freshman—is the tutor who’s going to keep you on the team and help you graduate college?” He shakes his head, then mumbles something that sounds suspiciously like God help her as he starts walking again.
“I’m not an idiot, Morgan. I just didn’t think I needed to study for the final.”
Hunter snorts. “That does make you an idiot, Phillips.”
“Just don’t tell anyone, okay?”
“Which part?”
“Any of it. I don’t want the guys thinking I’m about to get kicked off the team, and I don’t want Hart riding my ass about partying less. If I didn’t study for the first final and got an F, a few study sessions should put me firmly in C territory.”
“Like I said, you’re an idiot.”
“Just keep it to yourself.” If anyone will, I trust Hunter to. He’s the thoughtful member of our trio, while Conor and I tend to be more impulsive.
Hunter shakes his head again but agrees. “Fine.”
