Icebreaker: Chapter 2

THERE’S a hand near my dick that isn’t mine.

She’s fast asleep, snoring loudly with her hand wrapped around my waist and tucked into the band of my boxers. I gently untuck and examine it—long fake nails, Cartier rings, and a Rolex strapped to her slender wrist.

Who the fuck is it?

Even after a night of God knows what, she still smells expensive, and there are strands of long, golden-blond hair draped over my shoulder from where she’s lying behind me.

I shouldn’t have gone to the party last night, but Benji Harding, and the rest of the basketball guys, are persuasive little shits. As much as I love throwing a party, nothing beats going somewhere else and coming home to a quiet house not full of other people’s mess.

Unless you’re talking about this kind of mess. The kind where there’s a woman in your bed, and you can’t remember who the hell it is.

The common-sense part of my brain tells me to roll over and look at her, but another part that remembers all the silly situations we’ve gotten ourselves into keeps reminding me that drunk Nate is a dick.

That part of my brain has real concerns this is going to be someone’s sister, or worse, someone’s mom.

“Can you stop moving about?” the mystery guest snaps. “What is it with fucking sports guys and early mornings?”

That voice. It’s one I wish I didn’t recognize.

Oh fuck.

I slowly roll over so I can confirm my own worst fear: that I did have sex with Kitty Vincent last night.

And I do.

She looks peaceful when she’s trying to sleep; her facial features are soft and delicate, lips blush and pursed. From how calm she looks right now, you wouldn’t know she’s an absolute raging bit—

“Why are you staring at me, Nate?” Her eyes fly open, and she disintegrates me with one look, like the fucking dragon she is.

Kitty Vincent is everything wrong with rich girls with Daddy’s credit card, a subspecies of women at UCMH I happen to be an expert on. Expertise I’ve gained from having sex with practically all of them.

Except for this one.

I was never supposed to do it with this one.

There’s nothing wrong with her visually. To be frank, she’s an absolute knockout. She’s just an absolutely terrible human being.

“Are you okay?” I ask carefully. “Do you need anything?”

“I need you to stop staring at me like you’ve never seen a naked woman in your bed before,” she snipes back, pushing her body to lean against the headboard. “We both know you have, and you’re creeping me out.”

“I’m shocked, Kit. I, uh, don’t remember how this happened…”

I remember being at the party and trying to get Summer Castillo-West to give me her number, but tragically being rejected for the fourth September in a row. I also remember playing beer pong with Danny Adeleke and losing, which I’d rather not remember, but I still don’t remember how this happened.

“Oh shit. Wait, aren’t you dating Danny?”

She rolls her blue eyes and reaches for her purse sitting on the table beside my bed, cursing when she finds her phone battery is dead. Brushing her hair from her face, she finally looks over at me, and I have never known a woman to look so irritated by my existence. “We broke up.”

“Right, right. That sucks, I’m sorry. What happened?”

I’m trying to be polite, a gracious host, some would say, but she raises one of her perfectly sculpted eyebrows at me and frowns. “Why do you give a fuck?”

I rub my jaw nervously with my palm as I attempt to think of a reason to give her. She’s right. I don’t care, I hate cheaters and panicked, but since they broke up, I don’t have anything to worry about. “Only trying to be nice.”

She gives me the fakest smile I’ve ever seen, swings her legs off the bed, and struts butt-ass naked toward my bathroom. It’s hard to concentrate on how good she looks because, with one last

disinterested look over her shoulder, she scowls at me. “If you want to be nice, get me an Uber.”

Thank God. “Sure.”

“Exec only, Nate. It’s bad enough I’m going to be seen leaving here. Don’t make me suffer further by being cheap.”

When the bathroom door slams shut and I hear the shower turn on, I know it’s safe to scream every curse word I know into my pillow.

I’M STANDING at the front door watching Kitty climb into her Uber, Exec obviously, because of all the potential shame.

Raking a hand through my hair, I can’t decipher how I ended up here after swearing this year would be different.

I distinctly remember saying to Robbie, my best friend, on our drive back to California from Colorado, that senior year was going to be different. I must have said it at least twenty times on our two-day coffee-fueled journey.

I lasted three weeks.

I’m quickly dragged from the pity party I’m throwing for myself by the sound of muttering behind me. Robbie and my other roommates, JJ and Henry, are all sitting in our living room sipping their mugs of coffee like the cast of The View.

“Well, well, well,” Robbie says smugly. “What happened here, you little hoe?”

Robbie has been personally terrorizing me since we were five years old. Robbie’s dad, who I still call Mr. H sixteen years later, was the coach of our local ice hockey team back in Eagle County, where we grew up. That’s where we met and became friends, and he’s been a pain in my ass ever since.

I ignore him and head straight past their prying eyes to the kitchen, pouring a mug of coffee and giving him the finger instead of the satisfaction of a response.

Gulping down my coffee in what feels like two seconds, I can still sense their eyes on me. This is the worst part of living with your teammates—nothing is a secret.

JJ, Robbie, and I are all seniors who have lived together since we shared a dorm freshman year, but Henry is a sophomore from the team who moved in at the start of term.

The guy is incredible at hockey but has a bit to go with the whole social pressure side that comes with being on a sports team. He hated living in dorms and struggled to make friends outside the team, so we offered to let him move in here.

We’ve always had a spare bedroom because our garage was converted into a wheelchair-accessible bedroom for Robbie, and Henry was more than grateful for the offer.

Even in the three short weeks he’s been here, we can already see him more confident—which is probably why he no longer has a problem helping JJ and Robbie give me abuse.

“Why did you have sex with Kitty Vincent?” Henry asks over the rim of his coffee mug. “She isn’t very nice.”

Oh yeah, and the kid has zero filter.

“I’m going to pretend I didn’t, buddy. She wasn’t very excited about it, either, and I don’t remember one second of it, so it doesn’t count.” I shrug, walking over to the living room and throwing myself into a recliner. “How the fuck did you three let this happen?”

Am I old enough to not pass off the blame for my mistake? Sure. Will it stop me from trying? No.

“I tried to stop you from leaving with her, bro,” JJ blatantly lies, holding up his hands defensively. “You said she smelled nice and her ass felt good. Who am I to stand between you and true love?”

I groan loudly, making my own head thump from the noise. If Jaiden claims he tried to stop me from leaving, he probably requested the Uber and put me in it with Kitty.

JJ is an only child from middle-of-nowhere Nebraska, so messing with the people around him was his only source of entertainment when he was growing up.

His parents always visit in June so they can join the rest of us at LA Pride with JJ, proudly wearing their pansexual flag ally pins. The time they spend at our house has allowed me to get to know them well, which is how I know JJ’s dad is exactly the same, to the point I don’t know how his mom coped with having two of them in the house.

Mrs. Johal is an amazing woman with the patience of a saint. She always makes sure she fills our refrigerator full of different curries and sides before they leave, and she has amazing taste in horror films, which might be why I love her so much.

She might be the only reason I haven’t murdered Jaiden yet.

Robbie maneuvers beside me and wraps what I think is supposed to be a comforting arm around my shoulders. “Your focus on school and hockey lasted longer than I was expecting. Now come on, sort your shit out. You have to drive us to class.”

I HAD no idea what I wanted to study when I got accepted by Maple Hills. I’m graduating in less than a year and I’m still not sure studying sports medicine was the right choice.

I was drafted to the Vancouver Vipers when I finished high school and it was a hard choice to put my education first, especially when joining the NHL has been my dream since I was a kid. All I want to do is play, but I know shit goes wrong in hockey all the time; one bad injury or one unavoidable accident and your career is over.

Even with a spot on my dream team waiting for me as soon as I graduate, I still wish something I’ve learned in the past three years had stayed in my brain so my backup plan felt worth it.

My dad wasn’t a fan of me heading out of state for college, and he was even less of a fan about me signing with a hockey team, never mind one in Canada. He wanted me to learn the family business

and run the ski resorts until I’m old and gray like him. The idea of turning into my father has always been enough to kick my ass into gear and get my goals.

I’d have better luck understanding cell structures if I wasn’t constantly exhausted from practice, not to mention keeping my clown teammates out of trouble. When Greg Lewinski graduated and handed the captain torch to me last year, he didn’t prepare me for how much babysitting it takes to keep butts on benches ready to play.

Robbie helps me out since he’s assistant to Coach Faulkner. After a skiing accident in our junior year of high school, Robbie didn’t regain movement in his legs and now uses a wheelchair. He transferred his skill of shouting shit at me on the ice to shouting shit at me from the edge of the ice.

He loves nothing more than waving his oversized clipboard in my direction and telling me to do better. The guys on the team love that I take the brunt of Robbie’s abuse because it gives the rest of them an easier time.

A perfect example is days like today. On Fridays, JJ and I have classes in the science building, so we have a tradition of dragging ourselves over to the rink for practice via a Dunkin’ for a pre-workout doughnut.

It’s our little secret, but JJ knows if we get caught, I’ll get the blame anyway, so he doesn’t mind the risk. The last class of the day on a Friday is my least favorite thing in the world, so I don’t mind the risk either.

I’m lazily scrolling through my feed, waiting for JJ outside his lab when I hear his cheery tone getting louder as he approaches me. “You ready to get your hungover ass kicked?”

“Nothing a rainbow sprinkle ring can’t solve. Sweating out alcohol is good anyway. Will get me fresh for tonight.”

His brows furrow together. “What are you talking about? Have you not seen the group chat?”

The last thing I saw was Robbie deciding we were throwing a party tonight. Our first game isn’t for another two weeks and it’s tradition for us to bring in the season with a party or five.

The second I pull out my phone I can see the messages I haven’t read yet.

The awards room is a function room in the central area of the sports building. Most of us don’t spend much time over there unless we’re in trouble; it’s where the coaches work outside of practice and games. It’s where ceremonies are held at the end of the year. If we’re being called there it means someone has massively fucked up, and I hope it wasn’t me.

“I don’t know what’s going on,” JJ says as we climb into my car. “Y’know Josh Mooney, the baseball guy in my class? He said their practice has been canceled too. They have to go to the awards room, but they’ve been told to go thirty minutes after us. Fucking weird, man.”

It’s the third week of term, how much trouble could we be in?

WE’RE IN SO MUCH FUCKING trouble.

When we walk through the door, Coach doesn’t even look in our direction. Half the team is already sitting in front of him, each wearing an identical look I recognize: fear. JJ takes a seat next to Henry and gives me a look that says Find out, Captain.

Neil Faulkner is not a man you want to get on the wrong side of. Three-time Stanley Cup winner before a drunk driver knocked him off the road, shattering his arms and right leg, instantly ending his NHL career. I’ve watched his old game tapes countless times, and he was—no, still is—one scary motherfucker.

So, the fact he’s sitting on a chair in front of the team, red faced like he’s going to implode but saying nothing, is triggering my fight or flight. But my team needs me, so I reluctantly poke the bear.

“Coach, we we—”

“Get your ass on a seat, Hawkins.”

“W—”

“I’m not going to tell you again.”

Stumbling back to my teammates with my tail between my legs, they look even worse now than they did a minute ago. I’m racking my brain, trying to think what we could have done because there is no way he’s angry over the house party we went to last night.

Apart from Henry, most of the underclassmen weren’t there. They’re not old enough to drink, so we don’t invite them to parties with us. Not to say they’re not all out getting wasted on frat row instead, but at least I’m not the one putting the beer in their hands when I’m supposed to be their responsible leader.

When Joe and Bobby finally arrive and sit, Coach finally makes a move, well, a huff, but at least it’s something.

“In my eighteen years at this school, I have never been as ashamed as I was this morning.”

Fuck.

“Before I go on, does anyone have anything to say?”

He’s looking at each of us like he’s waiting for someone to stand and confess, but I genuinely don’t know what we’re supposed to confess to. I’ve had the I’ve never been so ashamed speech so many times since I joined the team—it’s a Faulkner special—but I’ve never seen him look this angry.

Folding his arms across his chest, he leans back in his chair and shakes his head. “This morning, when I arrived at the rink, I found it destroyed. So, who has been causing trouble?”

College sports are full of traditions. Some good, some bad, but traditions all the same. Maple Hills is no different, and each sport has its own quirks and superstitions that get passed down from year to year.

Ours are pranks. Reckless, childish pranks. Against each other, against other teams, against other sports. I’ve been in enough of these Faulkner verbal beatings over the years to know I wasn’t letting it happen during my time as captain. Egotistical guys were fighting to outdo each other, and even themselves, until it got to the point the school was being forced to get involved.

So, if our arena has been trashed, it means someone hasn’t been listening to me.

I creep forward slightly to get a better view of my teammates, and it takes approximately 0.2 seconds to spot Russ, a sophomore who’s been playing with us for the last year, and right now looks like he’s seen a ghost.

Faulkner’s voice gets louder to the point it’s echoing around the room. “The director is furious! The dean is furious! I’m fucking furious! I thought we’d drawn a line under this prank bullshit? You’re supposed to be men! Not kids.”

I want to say something, but my mouth is dry as hell. I clear my throat, which does nothing to help, but manages to capture his attention. Taking a sip of water, I finally manage to speak. “We have drawn a line, Coach. We haven’t done anything.”

“So, someone spontaneously decided to smash the generator and cooling system? My rink is on its way to being a swimming pool, and you expect me to believe you clowns have nothing to do with it?”

This is really, really bad.

“The director is holding a meeting with every student athlete in five minutes. Buckle up, gentleman. I hope none of you want to make hockey your career.”

Have I said fuck?