Boyfriend Material (Hawthorne University, #2)(20)

Reece skates up to us, ice spraying as he looks at me. “You’re never this off.”

I move toward the face-off spot. “Whatever. Yeah. Let’s run it again.”

We do, and it’s as if I have chunks of lead in my body. My legs are heavy like molasses. I can’t stop running LSAT questions through my head and wondering if my father will call the board to see if he can get the scores early.

If he has time. Which he doesn’t.

I used to hate that my father was never around, but now it might be my saving grace.

Why didn’t I study?

The puck connects with my stick, and I go through the motions from muscle memory, take it up the ice, doing the footwork to avoid the defensive trap. I fake right and go left, leaving the defenseman panting in the icy mist of my skates. I assess the goalie’s weakness, the spot over his right shoulder. I get in position, ready to shoot, and . . .

Julia…

Why didn’t I tell her I paid off her goon?

Was it because I didn’t want to admit that I spent that kind of money on a girl who hates me?

Falcon slips in behind me and scoops the puck off my stick. He spins, crosses the center line, making it past the blue even before I turn around.

He shoots, scores.

My shoulders twitch with anger. It’s just a scrimmage, yeah, but in my head, I hear the buzzer go off, see the crowd cheering for the other team. I see fans, the ones who depend on me, glowering.

The hat-trick I pulled off in the playoffs last year feels like ancient history.

“Maybe Falcon should be on the first line,” Boone snarks, gliding in next to me.

“Fuck off,” I reply, skating toward the benches.

“Whoa,” Boone calls after me. “You can’t take the heat, Everest? You’re always talking trash and I can’t?”

I don’t reply but imagine they’re exchanging looks behind me.

Coach Swearingen shakes his head. “We should have just all gone to the beach instead of summer camp because I can’t see a damn thing you guys learned. Do you love this fucking game or not?”

“Yeah!” We shake our sticks.

“Good! Then you better come better prepared tomorrow!” He tucks his clipboard under his arm and blows his whistle. “Let’s call it a day.”

Boone slaps me on the back. “I was just joking, you know. Falcon doesn’t have shit on you.”

“Yeah.” I head to the locker room, jerk off my helmet, and sweep a hand through my hair. I love the ice. It’s the one thing I’m actually good at—only I’m feeling haunted by the specter of my dad—and Julia.

I rub my neck as I recall our poetry class in prep school. I took it for an easy A, then found that I liked it. I especially liked staring at her in class, her shiny, sleek brown hair, the shy looks she sent my way. She’d walk by my desk in her plaid skirt and I’d groan with want.

Too sweet. Too innocent. And I wanted to taste it—to see if she’d rub off on me.

On the bench, I unlace my skates as Coach stops in front of me.

“Hansen. In my office,” he murmurs.

Shit. I like him better when he yells.

I trudge into his office, not even sitting. My hands clench at my side. “Sir?”

“What the hell was that? You looked like my nephew’s team. And he’s in fourth grade.”

“School just started. Our mojo is off,” I say, shifting on my feet.

“You’ve been off for the past few practices. Is something going on? Do you want to talk?”

Yes, there is, and no . . . I can’t.

He leans back in his chair. “Look, you still have a shot at the NHL. The scouts were here for Z last year and saw you. They liked you, Eric.”

My heart thuds. Yeah, sure, but it’s like being told you won the lottery but lost your ticket. I’m too old to be drafted. A team could sign me after the season, but it’s rare. If they weren’t interested the last three years, they aren’t interested now.

“I’ll try harder, sir.”

“You have to lead, Eric. Get the others to fall in line and focus. That’s when the scouts notice.” He pauses as he leans in. “Do you want to play in the NHL?”

I shrug.

A long sigh comes from him. “If anyone else played like shit at practice like you have this week, I’d demote them. Prove me wrong, okay? Do better.”

I take my time getting out of my clothes so that when I hit the showers, the rest of the guys are gone. I spend most of the time staring at the tile wall, letting the water ping my face.

When I’m changed into my street clothes, I gather my duffle and walk out of the arena. Thunder rumbles in the darkness and the air smells like rain.

“Yo, Hansen!” Reece calls from the parking lot as he leans against my truck.

I walk his way. “Hey. Why are you waiting?” I honestly didn’t want to see anyone. My head needs to decompress.

“Let’s get a beer.”

I stick my hands in my jeans. “You’re worried about me. I’m cool, man. I’ve got no issues, just a bad day.”

“Come on. I just wanna hang.” He slaps me on the back.

I sigh. I haven’t slept well in over thirty-six hours, but do I really want to go home alone?

“Alright. Where’s Boone?”