marginally better than it did during our first week. Instead of trying to pretend we’re strangers, we’ve resigned ourselves to an uneasy level of familiarity. It’s still awkward but less overtly hostile—like a reluctant, grudging détente. It helps that we’re not alone during training. It’s a little easier to pretend the past never happened when we’re not allowed to talk about it.
Her tape job helps with my AC joint situation significantly. If I could somehow talk her into re-taping it every three to four days, I’d be set, but the chances of that happening are slim. Who knows, maybe the stretching and rehab she said she’d give me will help. Now that I promised her that I’d do them, I have to keep my word.
“Richards, hold up a sec.” Connor jogs to catch up with me as I pass by the Center for Management Studies on my way to my car. I swear he’s got a sixth sense for when I want to be alone. It’s quarter to five, I’m fucking spent, and all I want is to zone out in front of the TV while inhaling a fridge’s worth of food.
“Banks is inside talking to Potter about our comms quiz,” he adds, nodding to the modern, glass-walled building. Connor and Vaughn are both in the business faculty, majoring in finance and sports management, respectively, and they register in classes together when possible. “Should be right out.”
Moments later, Vaughn pushes through the oversized glass double doors. We continue to the parking lot where he and I are both parked, dodging students in our path. A few of them turn and stare, mostly at Vaughn, who’s been featured all over campus in our school’s new athletics advertising campaign. Posters, billboards, you name it. He is officially even more LSU-famous than he already was. I was more than a little relieved to be spared that “honor.”
“We’re going to Gino’s,” Vaughn says. “You in?”
“Nah, I’m gonna pass.” Normally, I’d never turn down pizza. At the moment, I am decidedly not in the mood.
“Why?” Connor gestures with his stainless travel mug which, knowing him, could contain anything from double-strength coffee to straight vodka, possibly both. “You have to eat. You’re telling me you’d rather cook? Or order in cold takeout?”
“Been a long day.” In truth, everything after training went smoothly enough, but it seemed twice as exhausting as normal. Fourth-year engineering courses like Applied Hydraulics and Advanced Structural Analysis are brutal enough without throwing an ex-girlfriend into the mix.
Connor narrows his eyes like he’s scouring my face for a tell. “You’ve been weirder than usual lately. Is this about the Violet thing? You’re not still hung up on her, are you?”
Unfortunately, discretion isn’t something he’s familiar with, and he’s speaking loudly enough to be heard in Canada.
“Dude,” Vaughn mutters. “Volume.”
My head whips around, scanning our surroundings for anyone we know. “Seriously, Haas. Maybe you should get a megaphone and tell the whole school. Make a fucking TikTok, while you’re at it.”
Connor lets out a low whistle. “Oh, I get it now. You need to get laid.”
“I need lots of things.”
“Nash!” A female voice in the distance cuts in, interrupting us before Connor can respond.
I look over my shoulder to find Candice barreling in our direction, her glossy pink lips breaking into a too-broad smile. Her high heeled boots click against the concrete as she draws closer and I reluctantly slow to a stop, nodding for the guys to go on without me. Acting like I didn’t see her doesn’t appear to be a viable option, especially when she just shouted my name at full volume, and we’ve already made eye contact.
“Speaking of getting laid . . . ” Connor says under his breath.
Vaughn starts, “Do you want us to—”
“I’ll catch up with you guys at home.”
“Bzzt. Wrong. You’re coming to Gino’s. I’ll save you a seat.” Connor throws me an air pistol as he walks backward. Vaughn rolls his eyes, tossing me a wave before turning away to catch up with him.
Before I can argue, Candice launches herself at me, wrapping her arms around my neck and enveloping me in a cloying floral-scented hug. I half-heartedly return the gesture while she mashes her breasts against my chest. I think the goal is to tempt me, but I’m mostly annoyed by the unsolicited physical display of affection. We don’t hug—unless we’re naked.
She releases me, looping her slender arms around my waist instead. “I missed you.”
Our extended bodily contact begins to give me claustrophobia, and I take a step back until her grip on me breaks, her hands falling to her sides. She looks slightly affronted, but I don’t really care. This public thing she’s pulling isn’t us. At all.
“Been busy with preseason.”
Candice makes a pouty face, fluffing her dark brown hair. “Too busy to text, apparently.”
“Yeah. Really slammed.” If I’m being honest, she hasn’t been on my radar, but openly admitting that would be harsh even for me.
“What about tonight?” Taking a step closer, she draws a small circle on my chest with a pink fingernail, fluttering her long eyelashes. “Are you busy then?”
After the past couple of days, I have no shortage of pent-up frustration, both sexual and otherwise. In theory, hooking up with Candice later could be an easy enough solution. She is, objectively, a perfectly nice chick. Low drama, low maintenance. No issues, save for the fact that we seem to be on slightly different pages regarding the nature of our relationship. And while Candice isn’t in the same league as Violet, she’s still hot.
But the last time we were together over the summer, it was like Candice was putting on a big show in the bedroom for my benefit. Her moves were practically choreographed, her lines almost like they’d been rehearsed. It was the same old, “spank me, fuck me harder” shit that all women seem to be whipping out lately. Don’t get me wrong, I’m a kinky motherfucker. But fake kink is even worse than vanilla sex, and you can always tell when it’s fake.
What’s the endgame there? To get me to like them more? That’s not what a no-strings hookup is about, and that’s not going to happen. Fact is, you can’t skirt the edges of decency with a stranger. Can’t push someone’s limits until you know them. And you can’t be involved in a power exchange without ground rules. I’m not going to choke some chick I’m casually fucking, even if she asks me to—and a couple of them have, present company included. As a high-profile athlete, Doug has always drilled into my brain that I need to be mindful of potential optics, and there’s too high a chance of something like that being misinterpreted or used against me later.
Guess that’s what I get for sticking to casual hookups. There’s no emotional connection and there is definitely no trust. Just two people using each other’s bodies as an alternative to masturbation.
Of course, none of this used to bother me until Violet teleported back into my life. It’s hard to forget the fact that our bedroom activities were anything but vanilla. It was Baskin Robbins and the thirty-one flavors of fucking. She’s almost as deviant as I am. Almost.
“Nash?” she prompts.
I force my attention back to Candice standing in front of me and try to seriously consider her offer. My body fails to respond. Not even an inkling of interest down south. Great. Violet is cockblocking me when she’s not even within sight.
“Tonight’s no good,” I tell her. “Maybe another time.”
As I depart, she calls out something like, “text me later,” and I pretend not to hear.
Right before I reach my SUV, my phone vibrates in my back pocket. I pull it out expecting to find Connor harassing me again, only to discover Doug’s name flashing on the caller ID instead. My stomach pole-vaults into my throat, and I silence the ringer, letting the call go to voicemail. I’ll have to call him back later, once I get some dinner into my system. While I can delay it, I know I can’t avoid him forever—even if I wish I could.
Cool relief washes over me when the ringing stops, but it’s short-lived. Two seconds later, my phone starts buzzing again. Hitting the push button start, I let my car idle while I stare at the blinking screen. I should have expected him to keep calling. He has my class and training schedules, and he knows I’m free. I mean, I could be in the shower, in bed with a chick, jerking off, or doing any number of other things that require my attention, but as far as he’s concerned, if they aren’t school and they aren’t hockey, they aren’t valid.
My phone continues to ring, and for a brief, shining moment, I have the strongest urge to find a cigarette. I don’t even smoke—never have—but this is the kind of conversation that could drive a person to start. Alcohol would also work, but sadly, there are no bars in my immediate vicinity, either.
Bracing myself, I swipe to accept, clamping down on the overwhelming urge to address him by name. Antagonizing him will only make it worse, and it’s bad enough as it is.
“Hi, Dad.”
Doug Richards. Nationally renowned minor hockey coach, head of the prestigious minor hockey program at Copperhill Sports Academy, and world-class asshole a.k.a. my father.
“How’s your preseason going?” His voice is gruff, words slurring together slightly in a way that tells me he might have started to hit the bottle earlier than usual today. Maybe his girlfriend, Shannon, is away for work this week. As a flight attendant, she travels a lot, but I don’t keep close tabs on their schedule.
At any rate, it’s unclear why my father bothers to ask me about my career when he already knows the answer. I’m more than aware of the fact that he keeps meticulous track of me. He watches my games on TV, checks the post-game replays, haunts the online NCAA gossip forums, and records my stats on a spreadsheet so religiously, it’s like he belongs to The Church of Hockey Statistics. Hell, he knows my numbers better than I do. Always has.
I swallow the shard of glass in my throat. “Good so far.”
Our first few games have gone well overall, both in terms of the team’s performance and my individual defensive play. Not perfectly, but that’s what the preseason is for—to iron out all the kinks, get the players used to working together again, and prepare for the games that actually matter in the standings.
He obviously disagrees, because his tone sours. “Then why are you down on the second line?”
“Coach Ward is still moving us around to find the best fit.” I grit my teeth, working overtime to keep my voice level. It’s a good thing we aren’t on FaceTime because civility would be much harder to fake.
Lines change all the time. Next week, I could be on the first or the third. It’s about the team as a whole. If you shove all the weakest players down to the bottom, you’re handing your opponent a scoring opportunity whenever they set foot on the ice. At the same time, you don’t want to stick your superstars with dead weight. Managing the roster is an art, not a science. It’s not just about me, either, contrary to what my father is implying. As a seasoned hockey coach, he damn well knows that.
It doesn’t matter. If I were on the starting line, he would find something else to criticize.
My father harrumphs. “After all the opportunities you’ve been given, I didn’t raise you to be a mediocre, middle-of-the-pack player.”
I have a full-ride scholarship to play on a D1 hockey team at one of the top schools in the entire country. Objectively not middle-of-the-pack nor mediocre, but he has a way of making me feel like less than either of those things.
“Doing my best,” I tell him, careful not to sound argumentative. “Games against the Vipers and the Orcas were strong.”
Instead of agreeing, he merely grunts because offering even a sliver of validation would be too much to ask. A dull, empty ache settles into my chest—a hunger for his approval. As much as I hate my dad sometimes, I still crave his praise. I hate myself for that, too. I know I’m never going to get it.
That knowledge doesn’t stop that little voice in the back of my head, though. The one that says maybe, just maybe, if I can be better, it’ll be good enough for him someday. If I work hard enough . . .
“Highly disappointing performance against the Wildcats,” he cuts in.
Searing frustration surges through me, and I smack the steering wheel with the heel of my palm, praying he doesn’t hear the impact over the other end of the line. Of course, he would single out the only loss we’ve had so far this year.
“Yeah, I guess it wasn’t our best.” We only lost by one goal, but who’s counting? A loss is a loss, as far as he’s concerned.
Something in my response must trigger him because he launches into a technical lecture about defensive zone coverage that I’ve heard a thousand times before. Like always, I tune out completely, interjecting with “right,” and “makes sense” every so often to create the illusion that I’m listening. Really, there’s no need to. I know every rant of his by heart.
The longer we talk, the hotter the interior of the car becomes, even with the air-conditioning on full blast. While it’s warm for September, the real issue is the person on the other end of the line. I strip off my hoodie and fiddle with the climate control while he rattles on, reiterating concepts so elementary, it’s offensive. I learned this shit in the minors. Not to mention, you don’t get drafted after your freshman year of college like I did if you don’t understand the fundamentals of hockey.
Despite the contract awaiting me after graduation, Doug doesn’t think I’ll make it, and he makes that abundantly clear on a regular basis. He’s been especially skeptical ever since I had the audacity to injure my AC joint last year. He enjoys nothing more than comparing me to the big names he’s worked with, including one first-round draft pick who went pro at eighteen years old a few years back. No NCAA, no farm team, just a coveted golden ticket straight up to the league. It’s beyond exceptional; a generational talent.
According to him, I should have been that generational talent—and he never lets me forget it.
I tune back into our conversation right as he’s wrapping up. “I’m only hard on you because you have so much potential. It’s time you started living up to it.”
The line goes dead before I can respond.
