September – Senior Year
me plummeting back to reality. My gaze falls to where he’s standing on the other side of my black Infiniti QX60, waiting for me to unlock the passenger side door. I glance over his shoulder again, but it’s too late. The blonde I was staring at has already disappeared into Dalton Hall.
Drew smacks the roof with the palm of his hand to get my attention again, raising his eyebrows. “Earth to Richards.”
“Sorry. Thought I saw someone.” I press the button on the chrome door handle twice to unlock the SUV, sliding into the driver’s seat. A wave of thick, suffocatingly hot air assaults me, black leather upholstery scorching the backs of my thighs. Tension winds through my shoulders as I turn the air-conditioning to full blast and let the engine idle, trying to push the thoughts of her aside.
In the passenger seat, Drew buckles his seatbelt and reaches for his phone, entering his passcode. He turns it to face me, its lit-up screen displaying a breakout play diagram for this weekend’s game. “Where did I lose you?” he asks. “Do you need me to go over the whole strategy again from the start?”
While our team captain, Marcus Grant, is a deadbeat in the leadership department, Drew more than compensates for that in his role as alternate captain. Thanks to Drew and our Head Coach, former professional centerman, Dallas Ward, we’re excessively prepared for each game, including contingency plans to cover scenarios like losing multiple players due to injury or both of our goalies shitting the bed. They probably have a backup plan in case of alien invasion, too.
Despite his apparent concerns, I’ve already memorized all of the plays. I cram more before games than I do before my engineering exams. I know what will be paying the bills after college, and it sure as hell isn’t my degree.
“No, I just missed the last thing you said.” Shifting the gear stick into reverse, I check the backup camera before easing out of the parking stall. Another glimpse back at Dalton Hall reveals the mystery blonde is still MIA. Probably wasn’t her, anyway. Somehow, I’ve gone more than two years without bumping into her on campus even once. It’s a little strange, actually; Lakeside University might be big, but it’s not that big.
Then again, if I did run into her, what would I even say?
Drew clears his throat. “I said, are you ready to face Eriksen again on Saturday? The guy has it out for you.”
That he does. Sleep with an opposing player’s ex-girlfriend one time over the summer, and suddenly the whole team wants your head on a hockey stick. Not that Michigan State University needs a reason to hate us; Lakeside University and MSU have battled for conference titles, divisional championships, and rankings since the schools were founded. Our rivalry runs deeper than the Dead Sea. This is merely another excuse to fuel that animosity.
Besides, how was I supposed to know that Penelope chick just dumped him? I had no idea who she was. Am I supposed to be doing reference checks at the door to my bedroom?
“Do I look like I’m scared of Eriksen?” I ask. “Come the fuck on.”
“He was out for blood last week,” Drew points out, slipping his phone into the pocket of his varsity jacket. “And that was a preseason game.”
“And? Who’s the one who walked away from that with a black eye?”
Aaron Eriksen talks a big game, but when the gloves come off, he can’t fight worth shit. Not to mention, he has a ridiculous name.
At any rate, the guy is totally overreacting. He and Penelope weren’t even together when it happened. Though I can’t say it would have stopped me if they were.
He barks a laugh, half-amused and half-exasperated. “You’re lucky they didn’t toss you from the game.”
“Not my fault the refs didn’t get there in time after he threw the first punch. That was self-defense.” Signaling, I shoulder check and exit the parking lot, merging onto the main road. My aching biceps protest as I maneuver the steering wheel—a bad sign in terms of how I’ll be feeling later. At least the drive home is short. I can collapse on the couch until I have to go back out for practice later.
“Just watch out for them this weekend,” he says. “We don’t need anyone getting injured this early in the season.”
“I’m not the one who should be worried.” Sure, I could crush Eriksen like the insect he is. And if that cheap fucker tries to trip me again, I might. But there are certain advantages to being in his head, too. He’s one of MSU’s scoring leaders, and if our last preseason game against them is any indication, his game has been completely thrown off by this ex-girlfriend situation. He couldn’t get the puck to the net, let alone in it.
Drew pops a stick of gum in his mouth, offering the pack to me. “On another note, student trainer evaluations start tomorrow.”
My jaw clamps down on the cinnamon-mint gum at his reminder. More evaluations? Great. I’m sore as hell—in the kind of way that won’t be resolved within 24 hours—and I’m about to be run through the gauntlet by the athletic training team for a second time this month.
Fitness testing won’t be an issue, but the biomechanical and injury assessment might be a different story. Somehow, I skated by the first time, and I’m not sure I’ll be so lucky again. I’m nursing a few chronic issues that I’d rather hide the full extent of from Coach Ward. Nothing dire, but he’ll be up my ass about resting and rehab if he finds out, which is why I’d rather he didn’t. I can push through with a couple of painkillers and some mental grit, like always.
“Heard two of the interns this year are chicks,” he adds.
Unease settles in the pit of my stomach. My ex-girlfriend, Violet, is in the athletic training program. What if she’s one of them? Then again, she probably has some say in where she does her internship. There’s no way she would want to work with our team after the way things ended between us. With the way I ended things, specifically.
The unease in my gut morphs into something far more troubling, and a glimmer of regret rises to the surface. I swallow hard, fighting to repress the unwelcome feelings stirring in the back of my mind.
The only thing worse than having a “one that got away” is knowing you’re the one who pushed her to leave.
“Coach give you any names?” I ask, trying to sound casual.
Drew glances over at me. “No, why?”
“No reason.”
***
Drew jogs upstairs to take a shower while I ease down onto the black leather couch in our living room. Or try to, at least. Suppressing a wince, I move in slow motion while every muscle in my lower body protests. Even after maintaining a strenuous training schedule over the summer, getting back into shape for the season has been a bitch. Mostly because I’m still playing catch-up with my conditioning after a shoulder injury sidelined me last January.
In the adjacent kitchen, Vaughn rummages through the freezer, emerging with a handful of blue jelly ice packs. Without warning, he lobs one across the room, sending it sailing straight for my head. I narrowly catch it in time to avoid being smacked in the face.
“Heads up.” He smirks, sauntering into the living room holding a cold compress for himself.
“Thanks, bro,” I say sarcastically. But the truth is, I need it; that much is obvious based on how I’m shuffling around like the Tin Man. I’ve never been worked so hard this early in the season. Someone must have pissed off Coach Ward before he got to practice this morning.
Vaughn sinks onto the other couch and props his feet up on the black leather ottoman, resting the ice pack on his left knee. Grabbing the remote, he turns on the flat-screen TV and flips through the guide, landing on a football game. His gaze cuts over to me. “Detroit game? It just started.”
“Sure.” I shrug, placing the blue compress where the top of my shoulder meets my collarbone. Soothing cold seeps into my skin, calming the pain that’s been nagging at me since practice.
Both exhausted, we lapse into a comfortable silence while we zone out in front of the TV. One of the things I like most about Vaughn is that he doesn’t feel the need to run his mouth constantly—and when he does speak up, you know he’s going to say something important. Sometimes I just want to exist in peace without having to make small talk about the weather, the news, or who’s banging who at school. Okay, fine. I never want to make small talk about any of that shit. If you ask me, most people talk at least twice as much as necessary.
Near the end of the first half, one of our other roommates, Connor, strolls in from his late afternoon class. Speaking of people who like to talk: Exhibit A. Connor is like a brother to me, but sometimes the dude does not shut up. Especially when it comes to his hookup play-by-plays. They’re so detailed, they could give Penthouse letters a run for their money.
“’Sup.” Connor tosses his leather bag on the ground, carelessly abandoning it, and I clamp down on the urge to throw my ice pack at his head. No matter how many times I nag him to put away his stuff, it’s always everywhere.
I’ve had several near-death experiences tripping on his stray personal belongings in all kinds of unexpected and bizarre places. Who leaves a magazine on the fucking stairs? I blame the fact that he was raised by a rotation of overly lenient nannies. If I’d done stuff like that growing up, my dad would have beat my ass. Literally.
Connor flops down beside Vaughn, nimbly crossing his legs at the ankle. He’s far more limber than I am, currently. A second later, Drew comes down the stairs and hops onto the opposite end of the couch from me, turning his black Grizzlies baseball cap backward. For some reason, I seem to be the only one who feels like a creaky eighty-year-old trapped in a twenty-one-year-old’s body. Weaker people might blame it on overtraining, but I’m writing it off as a fluke.
A tsunami of fatigue crashes over me and I close my eyes, leaning against the couch. The guys begin to go over drills for tonight’s practice while I half-listen. We have two hours until we have to leave and I’m strongly considering going upstairs for a power nap, except that would require getting up. My limbs are unbearably heavy, like the force of gravity is ten times stronger than usual.
“What’s the word on our trainers this year?” Connor’s voice brings me crashing back to reality. “Drew said a few of them were chicks. I wonder if they’re hot.”
My eyelids pop back open at the unwelcome reminder, and any trace of drowsiness vanishes into thin air.
I shift the cold compress to my aching lateral delt, shaking my head. “Can’t hit it and quit it with the trainers, dumbass. You have to see them every day.”
“Right,” Drew agrees. “Use your head, man.”
Vaughn gestures to Connor with the Granny Smith apple he’s holding. “Who’s to say Haas could even land one of the trainers? They’re obviously smart, which means they’d know better than to fall for his shit.”
“Ha ha, fucker.” Connor makes a face. “Not all of us are celibate like you.”
Vaughn’s dark eyebrows lift. “I’m not celibate, I just don’t fuck anything that—“
“Chill, you two.” Drew holds up his hand, cutting them off. As the level-headed mediator of our group, he puts our dysfunctional little family back on track whenever things go sideways, which is fairly often with four competitive athletes living under one roof.
Out of all of us, Vaughn and Connor clash the most, probably because their personalities and backgrounds could not be more different. Vaughn grew up below the poverty line and relies on his full-ride scholarship to survive, whereas Connor was handed a platinum AmEx and his own Benz at sixteen. But Vaughn isn’t literally celibate, he’s just picky as hell—unlike Connor, as Vaughn so eloquently began to explain.
On a scale from abstinent to player, Drew and I fall somewhere in the middle. While I haven’t had a relationship since freshman year, I’m not exactly hurting for hookups. I have zero interest in anything more serious than that. Relationships only complicate things, especially when you have faulty emotional wiring like me.
“House rules,” Drew reminds them. “Next one to start chirping gets dish duty for a week.”
Connor rolls his eyes. “Yes, Dad.”
They quit sniping, and we return our attention to the football game—which is for the best because none of us want Connor on dish duty. He does a terrible job.
A few minutes later, Drew’s phone vibrates on the coffee table next to him and he unlocks the screen, scanning the text that’s come through. Glancing back up at us, he slides off the couch, reaching for his black team hoodie. “Gotta pick up Savi from work. See you guys at the rink.”
“Have fun with your girlfriend,” Connor calls.
Drew flips us off over his shoulder as he disappears down the hallway, and Connor snickers, reaching for his stainless-steel Grizzlies water bottle. The garage door slams, followed by the sound of Drew’s truck engine revving as he pulls away from the house.
“But seriously, what’s up with those two?” Connor asks, idly flipping through the stations in search of something to watch while the football game is in halftime. He settles on a re-run of Hockey’s Greatest Plays. “Savannah slept in his bed last weekend, and he said nothing happened. It’s weird.”
“They’ve been friends for years.” Vaughn gives him a “duh” look, taking another bite of his green apple. He’s perpetually short on patience when it comes to gossip, probably because he’s often the target of it himself. “I know it’s an unfamiliar concept to you, but not everything is about sex.”
Connor pretends to think. “Nah, that sounds like a myth. Like Narnia.”
Leaning forward, I reach for my water bottle, a replica of Connor’s with my number emblazoned on the side instead of his. Searing pain shoots up my shoulder joint, and an involuntary grunt escapes my lips. Note to self: do not extend arm. Should be easy enough, except for the part where I have to wield a hockey stick four to five days per week on the ice.
“How’s your shoulder?” Vaughn glances over at me.
“It’s fine.” My shoulder is not fine, nor is it the only problem plaguing me. I have some nagging issue with my knee that refuses to fully heal. It doesn’t hurt, per se, but it doesn’t feel right.
Connor narrows his eyes. “Uh-huh . . .”
You know things are dire when Connor Haas is judging you. That’s when it’s really time to question your life choices, starting from the beginning.
On the other hand, there’s no one better to get wasted and forget your problems with. You’re just liable to create some new problems in the process.
“You should do some rehab for that,” Vaughn suggests. “Talk to Christina.”
“Yeah, maybe.” He’s right, but raising red flags for injuries and having the athletic training team bench me again is the last thing I need. Getting drafted was only half the battle. If I want to make it to the league after graduation, I have to crush it on the ice this year or risk losing my entry-level contract with Chicago.
Connor’s phone chimes at an ear-piercing volume, nearly giving me a goddamned heart attack. He glances over at it with his brow furrowed, and then he scoffs, shaking his head. “Coach sent a follow-up email about the training interns. Some kind of ‘behavior contract.’ It says we have to respond after reading it, letting him know that we understand and agree. What is this, fucking pee-wee hockey?”
“What’s this about?” I mutter, grabbing my cell. At the top of my inbox, sent three minutes ago, is a new message from Coach Ward.
Subject: Team Update – Athletic Trainers
Team,
Because this is the first year that we’ve had female students working closely with the Grizzlies, I would like to issue a reminder that you must adhere to the Lakeside University Athletics’ Code of Conduct at all times, both on and off the ice. Specifically, you are expected to maintain a friendly and professional working relationship with the athletic training interns. Any complaints regarding inappropriate behavior or comments will be dealt with swiftly and severely.
In advance of training, the fourth-year student interns that will be joining our team for the semester are: Julianna Anderson; Violet Dahl; and Preston Lowell
I don’t move an inch but inwardly, my brain explodes.
This is bad.
This is really, really bad.
Beneath the list of names is another wall of text reiterating tonight’s practice plan, but I can’t stop staring at the middle name. My pulse jumps, the grip on my phone tightening. This can’t be right. Working with the team? What the hell is she thinking?
“Oh, shit,” Vaughn murmurs, staring at his screen. Having witnessed me go off the rails firsthand after our breakup, he’s the only other person who understands how disastrous this development is.
I have very few regrets in life, and all of them involve her.
“Fuck my life.” I toss my phone aside. It bounces off the couch cushion, landing on the hardwood floor with a clatter. Its heavy-duty, military-grade case spares it from damage—unlike my mental stability, which was just obliterated.
In addition to the obvious problems associated with seeing my ex-girlfriend multiple times per week, all of the guys on the team are going to be thirsting over her because (a) she’s gorgeous, and (b) that’s how they are. Coach Ward’s warning won’t deter them for a single second. That’ll be short-lived, though. She’s off-limits, and I’ll make that crystal fucking clear by any means necessary.
Connor gives me a funny look. “What’s the problem, Richards? Did you bang one of the interns or something?”
I scrub my jaw with my hand, debating how to respond. Puck bunnies throw themselves at the team constantly, both at home and on the road, and it’s true that I have been known to indulge a little. That said, this situation would be infinitely less complicated if it involved a casual hookup or one-night stand.
“It was a little more serious than that. Violet is my ex.”
His jaw nearly unhinges. “As in, ex-girlfriend? When the hell did you have a girlfriend?”
“It was before you started here. We met September of my freshman year and broke up the following spring. And now I’m fucked because I’m going to have to see her every day.”
“Maybe it’ll be okay.” Vaughn sets down his half-eaten apple and shifts to face me on the couch, placing his heavily tattooed forearms on his thighs. “Violet’s always been pretty chill, and it was a long time ago.”
Connor waves off my concern, flipping the channel back to the football game. “Exactly. It’ll be fine.”
Stellar insights from the guy whose idea of a relationship is hooking up with the same girl twice. Maybe he could start an advice column.
“I’m not so sure about that.” I lean back against the couch with a groan, staring at the popcorn-textured ceiling. A lone neon orange suction cup dart hangs in the corner. I have no idea how it got there. “Violet hates me.”
