It’s nine thirty-ish when I get home. The two-bedroom condo I share with my teammate Brooks Weston is nothing I could ever afford on my own, even with the sweet rookie contract I signed with the Oilers. We’re on the top floor of the four-story building, and our place is ridiculous—I’m talking chef’s kitchen, bay windows, skylights, a massive rear deck, even a private one-car garage for Brooks’s Mercedes.
Oh, and it’s rent-free.
Brooks and I met a couple of weeks before the start of freshman year. It was at a team event, a “get to know your teammates before the semester starts” dinner. We hit it off immediately, and by the time dessert was served, he was asking me to move in with him. Turned out he had a second bedroom in his Cambridgeport condo—for free, he insisted.
He’d already received special permission to live off campus, a perk of being the filthy rich son of an alum whose donations would be sorely missed if the school didn’t keep him happy. Brooks’s father pulled a few more strings, and I was given a pass from the dorms, too. Money really does pave the way.
As for the rent issue, at first I’d balked, because nothing in life is free. But the more I got to know Brooks Weston, the more apparent it became that for him? Everything comes free. The guy hasn’t worked a day in his life. His trust fund is huge, and he gets whatever he wants handed to him on a silver platter. His parents, or one of their minions, secured this condo for him, and they insist on paying the rent. So for the past three and a half years, I’ve been given a glimpse into what it’s like to be a rich boy from Connecticut.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m no mooch—I tried to give him money. Brooks won’t have it and neither will his parents. Mrs. Weston was aghast when I raised the subject during one of their visits. “You boys need to focus on school,” she’d clucked, “not worry about how to pay the bills!”
I’d choked back laughter, because I’ve been paying bills for as long as I can remember. I was fifteen when I got my first job, and the moment I held that first paycheck in my hand, I was expected to contribute to our household. I was buying groceries, paying for my cell phone, gas, our cable bill.
My family isn’t poor. Dad builds bridges and Mom’s a hairdresser, and I’d say we are solidly between lower and middle class. We were never rolling in the dough, so experiencing Brooks’s lifestyle firsthand is jarring. I’ve already secretly vowed that once I’m settled in Edmonton and hitting all the incentives in my NHL contract, the first thing I’m going to do is write a check to the Weston family for the three years and counting of unpaid rent.
My phone buzzes as I kick off my Timberlands. I fish it out of my pocket and find a text from my friend Hazel, who I had dinner with earlier in one of Briar’s fancy dining halls.
HAZEL: You make it back ok?? It’s raining like crazy out there.
HAZEL: Anytime. See u Saturday at the game!
ME: Sounds good.
Hazel sends a couple of kissy-face emojis. Other guys might read more into that, but not me. Hazel and I are completely platonic. We’ve known each other since grade school.
“Yo!” Weston shouts from the living room. “We’re all in here waiting for your ass.”
I shrug out of my wet jacket. Brooks’s mother sent a decorator over when we first moved in and made sure to purchase everything that guys don’t think about, like coat racks and shoe racks and dish racks—apparently men don’t give much consideration to racks, outside the tit variety.
I hang up my gear in our separate entryway and then duck through the doorway that leads to the main room. The condo has an open-concept layout, so my teammates are scattered in both the living room and dining area, and a few have taken up residence on the stools at our kitchen counters.
I glance around. Not every guy on the roster has shown up. I’ll let it slide, considering I called this meeting last minute. On the drive home from Hastings, I was stewing over Brenna’s taunt about the Frozen Four and worrying about how she’s distracting McCarthy. Which led to a mental investigation of all the other distractions that might be hindering the team. Since I’m all about action, I sent a mass text: Team meeting, my place, now.
The majority of our starters—nearly twenty of us—fill up the space, which means my nostrils are greeted with the combined scent of various body washes, colognes, and the BO of the assholes who decided not to shower before they came.
“Hey,” I greet the guys. “Thanks for coming.”
That gets some nods, several “no probs,” and general grunts of acknowledgement.
One person who doesn’t acknowledge me is Josh McCarthy. He’s leaning against the wall near the brown leather sectional, his gaze glued to his phone. His body language conveys a hint of frustration, shoulders stiffening ever so slightly.
Brenna Jensen’s probably still tugging him around by the cock. I battle my own sense of frustration at the notion. This kid shouldn’t even be wasting his time. McCarthy is a sophomore and he’s decent looking, but no way does he belong in Brenna’s league. The girl is a smoke show. Hands down, she’s one of the hottest women I’ve ever laid eyes on. And she’s got a mouth on her. The kind that needs to be silenced every now and then, maybe with another mouth pressed up to it…or a dick sliding between her red lips.
Oh fuck. I push the thought aside. Yes, Brenna is gorgeous, but she’s also a distraction. Case in point: McCarthy hasn’t even lifted his head since I entered the room.
I clear my throat. Loudly. He and the other handful that were still on their phones swivel their heads toward me. “I’m gonna make this fast,” I tell the room.
“You better,” Brooks drawls from the couch. He’s wearing black sweatpants and nothing else. “I left a chick in my bed for this.”
I roll my eyes. Of course Brooks was banging somebody. He’s always banging somebody. Not that I’m one to talk. I’ve had my share of girls over at our place. I feel sorry for our downstairs neighbors, having to deal with the parade of footsteps marching up and down the stairs. Luckily for them, we don’t throw many parties. Hosting a party sucks balls—who wants their house to get trashed? That’s what the frat houses are for.
“Aren’t you special,” Dmitry, our best defenseman, cracks to Weston. “I left my bed too for this meeting. Bed, period. Because I’m goddamn exhausted.”
“We all are,” a junior left-winger named Heath pipes up.
“Yeah, D, welcome to the tired club,” mocks Coby, one of our seniors.
I cross the room toward the kitchen, where I grab a bottle of water. Yeah, I hear them. This last month has been intense. Every Division I conference is balls deep in their tournaments, which means a solid month of the most competitive hockey you’ll ever see. We’re all vying for auto-bids into the national tournament, and, if that fails, hoping for a good enough record to be selected to the finals. Entire seasons are on the line here.
“Yes,” I agree, uncapping my bottle. “We’re tired. I can barely keep my eyes open in class. My entire body is one big bruise. I live and breathe these playoffs. I obsess over strategy every night before bed.” I take a slow sip. “But this is what we signed up for, and we’re so close to reaping the reward. This matchup against Princeton will be the toughest one we’ve faced all season.”
“I’m not worried about Princeton,” Coby says, smirking arrogantly. “We already beat them once this year.”
“Very early in the season,” I point out. “They’ve picked up steam since then. They swept the quarterfinals against Union.”
“So?” Coby shrugs. “We swept our series, too.”
He’s right. Last weekend we played some of the best hockey we’ve ever played. But we’re in the semifinals now. Shit just got real.
“This isn’t best two out of three anymore,” I remind the guys. “This is single elimination. If we lose, we’re out.”
“After our season?” Dmitry says. “We’ll get selected to the national tourney even if we don’t make it to the conference finals.”
“You’d bet our entire season on that?” I challenge. “Wouldn’t you rather have that guaranteed bid?”
“Well, yeah, but—”
“But nothing,” I cut in. “I’m not gonna hang our hopes on the possibility that our season might be deemed good enough to move forward. I’m gonna bet on us kicking Princeton’s ass this weekend. Got it?”
“Yessir,” Dmitry mumbles.
“Yessir,” some of the younger guys echo.
“I told you, you don’t have to call me sir. Jesus.”
“You want us to call you Jesus?” Brooks blinks innocently.
“Not that, either. I just want you to win. I want us to win.” And we’re so damn close I can practically taste the victory.
It’s been…fuck, I don’t even know how many years it’s been since Harvard won the NCAA championship. Not during my reign, anyway.
“When was the last time the Crimson won the Frozen Four?” I ask Aldrick, our resident statistics guy. His brain is like an encyclopedia. He knows every piece of trivia there is to know about hockey, however miniscule.
“1989,” he supplies.
“’89,” I repeat. “That’s almost three decades since we called ourselves national champions. Beanpot games don’t count. Conference finals don’t count. We keep our eye on the ultimate prize.”
I conduct another sweep of the room. To my irritation, McCarthy is checking his phone again, and not at all discreetly.
“Seriously, do you even know what was being done to my dick when you texted about this meeting?” Brooks gripes. “Chocolate syrup was involved.”
A few of the guys hoot.
“And all you wanted was to give us the speech from Miracle? Because, yeah, we get it,” Brooks says. “We need to win.”
“Yes, we do. And what we don’t need are any distractions.” I give Brooks a pointed look, then direct the same sentiment at McCarthy.
The sophomore is visibly startled. “What?”
“That means you, too.” I lock my gaze to his. “Stop playing games with Chad Jensen’s daughter.”
His expression turns stricken. I don’t feel bad about outing McCarthy to whoever didn’t know, because I’m pretty sure everyone and their mother already knew. He wears his hookup with Brenna like a badge of honor. He’s not sleazy about it by engaging in locker-room talk, but he also can’t shut up about how beautiful the girl is.
“Look, I’m not one to usually tell you guys what to do with your dicks, but we’re talking about a few weeks here. I’m sure you can keep it in your pants for that long.”
“So nobody is allowed to hook up?” a junior named Jonah pipes up, aghast. “Because if that’s the case, then I’d like for you to call my girlfriend and tell her that.”
“Good luck, captain. Vi’s a sex maniac,” Heath says with a snicker, referring to Jonah’s longtime girl.
“And wait a sec—didn’t you leave the bar with a hot redhead the other night?” Coby demands. “’Cause that doesn’t sound like you’re practicing what you preach, bruh.”
“Hypocrisy is the devil’s crutch,” Brooks says solemnly.
I smother a sigh and hold up a hand to silence them. “I’m not saying no hookups. I’m saying no distractions. If you can’t handle the hookup, don’t do it. Jonah—you and Vi fuck like bunnies and it’s never affected your performance on the ice. So keep fucking like bunnies for all I care. But you—” McCarthy receives another stern look. “You’ve been screwing up in practice all week.”
Our goalie, Johansson, speaks up. “You missed every shot on goal during the shooting drill this morning.”
McCarthy is dumbfounded. “You stopped all my shots. I’m getting shit because you’re a good goaltender?”
“You’re our top scorer after Jake,” Johansson replies, shrugging. “You should’ve gotten a couple of those in.”
“How is it Brenna’s fault that I had an off day? I—” He stops abruptly and glances at his hand. I assume his phone buzzed with a notification.
“Christ, you’re proving Connelly’s point,” a forward named Potts grumbles at McCarthy. “Put your phone away. Some of us want this meeting to be over so we can go home and crack open a beer.”
I swivel my head toward Potts. “Speaking of beer… You and Bray are officially banned from all frat parties until further notice.”
Will Bray balks. “Come on, Connelly.”
“Beer pong’s fun, I get it, but you two need to abstain. For fuck’s sake, you’re starting to get a beer belly, Potts.”
Every set of eyes in the room homes in on his gut. It’s currently covered by a thick Harvard hoodie, but I see the dude in the locker room every day. I know what’s under there.
Brooks makes a tsking noise at me. “I can’t believe you’re body-shaming Potts.”
I scowl at my roommate. “I’m not body-shaming him. I’m simply pointing out that all those beer pong tournaments are slowing him down on the ice.”
“It’s true,” Potts says glumly. “I’ve been sucking.”
Someone snorts.
“You’re not sucking,” I assure him. “But yeah, you could afford to lay off the beer for a couple weeks. And you—” It’s Weston’s turn. “Time for abstinence on your part, too.”
“Screw that. Sex gives me my superpowers.”
I roll my eyes. I do that a lot around Brooks. “I’m not talking about sex. I’m talking about the party favors.”
His jaw instantly tightens. He knows precisely what I mean, and so do our teammates. It’s no secret that Brooks like to indulge in a recreational drug or two at parties. A joint here, a line of cocaine there. He’s careful about when he does it and how much, and I suppose it does help that coke only remains in the blood for forty-eight hours.
This is not to say I tolerate that shit. I don’t. But telling Brooks what to do is about as effective as talking to a brick wall. One time I threatened to tell Coach, and Weston said go ahead. He plays hockey because it’s fun, not because he’s in love with the game and wants to go to the pros. He could give it up in a heartbeat, and threats don’t work on someone who isn’t afraid to lose.
He’s not the first to dabble in the occasional drug, and he won’t be the last. It does appear to be purely recreational, though, and he never does it on game day. But the after-party? All bets are off.
“If you get caught with it or fail a piss test, you know what happens. So congratulations, you’re officially going clean until after the Frozen Four,” I inform him. “You feel me?”
After a long, tense beat, his head jerks in a nod. “I feel you.”
“Good.” I address the others. “Let’s focus on beating Princeton this weekend. Everything else is secondary.”
Coby flicks a cocky grin in my direction. “And what are you giving up, captain?”
My brow furrows. “What are you talking about?”
“You call a team meeting. You tell poor McCarthy he can’t use his dick anymore, you take away Weston’s party favors, and you deprive Potts and Bray of their beer pong championship title. What are you going to do for the team?”
A hushed silence falls over the apartment.
For a second I’m speechless. Because is he for real? I score at least one goal a game. If someone else scores, it’s usually with my assist. I’m the fastest skater on the Eastern Seaboard, and I’m a damn good captain.
I open my mouth to retort when Coby starts to laugh.
“Bruh, you should’ve seen your face.” He grins at me. “Relax. You do plenty. You’re the best captain we’ve ever had.”
“Aye, aye,” several of the guys call out.
I relax. But Coby does have a point. “Look, I won’t apologize for wanting us to be focused, but I am sorry if I’m being harsh on you guys. Especially you, McCarthy. All I’m asking is for us to keep our heads in the game, can we do that?”
About twenty heads nod back at me.
“Good.” I clap my hands. “You can all take off now. Get some sleep and bring your A-game to morning skate tomorrow.”
The meeting adjourns, the group dispersing. Once again, our neighbors are forced to suffer through the footsteps, this time the heavy stomps of two-dozen hockey players thudding down the stairs.
“Dad, may I please go back to my room now?” Brooks asks sarcastically.
I grin at him. “Yes, son, you may. I’ll lock up.”
He flips up his middle finger as he dashes toward the bedrooms. Meanwhile, McCarthy lingers by the front door, waiting for me.
“What am I supposed to say to Brenna?” he asks.
I can’t tell if he’s angry, because his expression reveals nothing. “Just tell her you need to concentrate on the tournament. Tell her you guys will get together after the season.”
They’ll never get together again.
I don’t voice the thought, but I know it’s true. Brenna Jensen would never condone being “put on hold” by anyone, let alone a Harvard player. If McCarthy ends it, even temporarily, she’ll make it a permanent split.
“Briar has won three national championships in the last decade,” I say flatly. “Meanwhile, we’re over here, winless. That’s unacceptable, kid. So tell me, what’s more important to you—getting mind-fucked by Brenna Jensen or beating her team?”
“Beating her team,” he says immediately.
No hesitation. I like that. “Then let’s beat them. Do what needs to be done.”
With a nod, McCarthy walks out the door. I lock up after him.
Do I feel bad? Maybe a little. But anyone can see that he and Brenna aren’t destined to be together. She said as much herself.
I’m simply speeding up the inevitable.
