Chapter 14: Chapter 14

Sweat drips down the back of my neck as I shove into the locker room and throw my stick in the holder near the door. Even though practice ended a few minutes ago, I’m still breathing hard.

It only takes one glance around to realize that I’m not the only one. Coach has been skating our asses off since the loss on Saturday night.

Hey, losses happen.

No one likes it.

But when it’s against our biggest conference rival?

That’s when it becomes unacceptable.

We’ve just given our opponents for the next scheduled game a massive mental boost.

I unsnap the chin strap and yank the helmet off my head before tossing it into my locker and dropping down to the bench to unlace my skates.

Ryder huffs out a tired breath and takes a seat next to me.

As far back as I can remember, we’ve played for the same team. First, house teams, then when we were older, travel teams. I always played up with the older kids, so we were together. The only exception is when Ryder graduated from high school and started college.

I’ve never admitted this to anyone, but my senior season in high school sucked because Ryder wasn’t there skating beside me. When I was on the ice, it felt like a vital part of me was missing. We’ve been teammates for so long that I know the moves he’s going to make before they happen.

Maybe even before he realizes it.

There’s comfort in being able to read someone so easily.

One glance and I understood how the play was going to unfold and where I fit into the schematic.

We were like a well-oiled machine.

Everything fell back into place once I graduated and started at Western the next fall. I’d assumed that we’d coast through the next three years before he signed his contract with Chicago.

“McKinnon, see me before you take off,” Coach calls out, meeting my gaze as he crosses the locker room to his office.

“Fuck, you’ve done it now.” Ryder chuckles from beside me.

I shoot him a dark look before glancing at the frosted glass door Coach disappeared through.

“Any idea what that’s about?” Ryder asks as guys joke and strip off their gear around us before hopping in the showers.

“Nope.”

All right, so maybe that’s not altogether true.

I have the sneaking suspicion that this might have something to do with my shitty English grade.

He already ripped me a new one for getting into it with River after the game on Saturday. I can’t imagine he’s going to bring that up again.

Here’s the thing about Coach—once we’ve discussed a topic, he expects you to take care of it and puts the issue to rest. He doesn’t treat us like we’re a bunch of toddlers in need of constant supervision.

It’s one of the things I like about the guy.

When I sit and stare, lost in the whirl of my thoughts, Ryder bumps my shoulder. “You better get a move on. Don’t want to keep Coach waiting.”

A sigh escapes from me.

He’s right about that.

Better to get it over with.

Ryder and our new coach haven’t always seen eye to eye. It took a few months for their relationship to even out, but it’s much better now. Any time a new coach comes in and shakes things up, there’s bound to be growing pains.

Coach Philips had to break down Ryder to build him back up again so he could elevate his game. As much as I’m going to miss playing with him next year, I’m excited to see what he achieves. It wouldn’t surprise me if he takes the league by storm.

He’s that fucking good.

And I’ll be stuck playing here for another year before moving on to the pros.

That is, if I can get this damn English grade up.

If not…

A shudder slides through me before I force the possibility from my head, unwilling to dwell on it.

Once I’m showered and changed, I rap my knuckles against the door and poke my head inside his office.

A flurry of nerves wings its way to life at the bottom of my belly. Getting summoned to the head coach’s office is never good. If he wants to give you kudos, he does it in front of the team.

“You wanted to see me, Coach?”

With the remote in hand, he clicks off the game film he’s watching and waves me in before pointing to the chair parked in front of the metal desk. There are papers scattered everywhere. He pulls off his Western Wildcats ball cap and plows his fingers through his blond hair.

“Take a seat, Maverick.”

Well, hell.

That means I’m going to be here for a while.

I force myself farther inside the small space before dropping down onto the chair.

I just want to get this over with and move on with my life.

Coach steeples his fingers in front of him. “I spoke with Dr. Linstrom this afternoon.”

Yep, hit the nail on the head.

English.

“Apparently, you didn’t do so well on the last paper, and it’s dropped your overall grade to a C minus in the class.”

I shift as shame and embarrassment crash over me. English has always been a challenging subject. Anything with a lot of text to digest makes me feel like I’m drowning. It’s the worst feeling in the world.

If I thought it would get better after high school, I was wrong.

There’s even more reading in college.

More comprehending and synthesizing of information, all the while trying to make sense of it.

It’s fucking exhausting.

If Coach is aware of my dyslexia diagnosis, he’s never mentioned it. And that’s exactly the way I want to keep it.

It’s no one’s business but my own.

When he stares at me expectantly, as if waiting for an explanation, I mumble, “I’m working on getting it up.”

“You’re right on the cusp. Anything lower and you’ll be academically ineligible to play. I’d hate to see that happen with playoffs coming up.”

Tension fills my muscles as his gaze stays pinned to mine. I get the feeling this conversation isn’t going to end with a simple “work harder” speech the way I’d anticipated.

“Dr. Linstrom was kind enough to reach out to the tutoring center on campus and secure a student for you to meet with to help get this grade up. Your first session is scheduled for six sharp tomorrow after practice at the library.”

That’s definitely not what I wanted to hear.

He rips off a sheet of paper from a notebook before handing it over. I have no choice but to reach out and accept it. Everything sinks inside me like a heavy stone as the name and number blur before my eyes.

I really hate working with tutors.

And student ones are the fucking worst.

Like I need randoms all up in my business spreading gossip about me?

Fuck no.

Even if I don’t disclose my learning disability, it doesn’t take long before they figure out that there’s something wrong. Their demeanor will change and they’ll treat me like I’m in elementary school.

“Is that really necessary?” Heat stains my cheeks as I mumble the question. “I can do it on my own.”

“Yeah, I think it is,” he says with a heavy sigh. “As soon as you have a solid B in the course, you can drop the tutoring.”

My mouth tumbles open and my eyes widen. “Seriously?”

Does he realize how impossible that is?

“It’s important you get the support you need through the remainder of the season. I’m sure your tutor will be able to help with your other classes as well.”

If given the choice, I would have preferred another ass reaming for picking a fight with River Thompson than this BS.

When I silently stew, he jerks a brow. “Any questions?”

I shake my head.

He pushes away from the desk. “Okay then. We’re finished here.”

I rise to my feet and head for the door, needing to get the hell out of his office. It feels like the walls are closing in on me.

As I cross the threshold, Coach says, “Maverick?”

I glance over my shoulder and meet his gaze. “Yeah?”

“I’ll be keeping close tabs on all of your classes, but especially English.”

My mouth turns cottony as I jerk my head into a nod.

Fan-fucking-tastic.

Even though it’s tempting to slam the door on the way out, I fight the urge, taking care to close it gently.

It’s a struggle.

As soon as the lock clicks into place, I glance at the paper.

My new tutor’s name is Stacie.

Well, Stacie can go fuck herself.

I crumple the paper into a tight ball and shove it into my pocket before stalking back to my locker to pick up my duffle. Most of the guys have already taken off, which is for the best. I don’t need those nosy bastards getting all up in my business. They’re like a bunch of old ladies gossiping in a church parking lot after services.

My head is a mess as I leave the ice arena and stalk toward the lot on the other side of campus where I parked my truck this afternoon because I was running late for class.

English, to be exact.

It’s become the fucking bane of my existence.

I can’t help but think that none of this would be happening if my parents had allowed me to play juniors before entering the draft instead of forcing me to attend college. I’d already be playing professional hockey. In the grand scheme of things, this class is meaningless.

It’s so damn frustrating.

Midway across campus, my phone rings. I slide the slim device from my pocket and glance at the screen before answering.

“Hey. What’s up?”

“Not much,” Dad says. “Just wanted to check in and see how practice went.”

It’s like the man has a sixth sense where his children are concerned. He’s always able to detect when there’s a disturbance in the force.

“It was fine. Coach came down on us like a hammer after the last loss.”

“Can’t blame him for that.” Dad’s deep voice simmers with humor.

I’m sure he’s thinking about all the times his coaches busted his balls back in the day. It might not have been fun at the time, but they sure seem like fond memories now.

Who knows…maybe I’ll look back and feel just as nostalgic.

Ha!

Doubtful.

“I spoke to Reed Philips earlier this afternoon.”

My feet grind to a halt as surprise creeps into my voice. “You did?”

“Yup. I had a few things to discuss with him about Wolf and Ryder.”

Dad reps both of my teammates through his sports management agency. He’s negotiated their contracts with the franchises they’ll be playing with next season.

There’s a moment of silence before he clears his throat. “He did, however, mention your English grade.”

Seriously?

It’s gradually that I suck in a deep breath before releasing it back into the atmosphere as my gaze scans the surrounding area. At this time of the evening, campus isn’t nearly as crowded. There are only a few pockets of students.

“I suppose he told you that I’ll be working with a tutor,” I grumble.

Just saying the words pisses me off all over again.

“He did. It certainly can’t hurt.”

I press my lips together in silent disagreement.

“Mav?”

I huff out a sigh. “Yeah?”

“It’s not the worst thing in the world.” There’s a pause as his voice softens. “We both understand that.”

He’s talking about Mom’s breast cancer diagnosis.

Nothing could be worse than that.

I don’t even like to think about how terrible that year was. Every time I do, a pit the size of Texas takes up residence at the bottom of my belly. Even though I try not to dwell on it, in the back of my mind, I’m always concerned that the cancer will roar back with a vengeance, and she’ll no longer be in remission.

Every time she gets a blood draw, I worry.

Every time she goes in for a mammogram, I hold my breath until the scans come back clean.

You know what I hate more than anything?

Fucking cancer.

And the way it blew our lives apart in the blink of an eye.

On the outside, everything might look like it’s returned to normal, but that’s not the case. Our family has been forever changed by this insidious disease.

“Yeah, I know,” I mumble.

“I’m just asking that you keep it in perspective, all right? Control what you have the power to change.”

His soft words leave me feeling like a sulky teenager.

From the corner of my eye, there’s movement near one of the academic buildings and my head swivels in that direction. The fine hair at the nape of my neck prickles as I narrow my eyes, straining against the setting sun.

My heart leaps before slamming against my chest.

I blink and there’s…

No one.

Whoever it was is now gone.

Or maybe I’m hallucinating.

For just a second I’d thought…

“Maverick? You still there, or have you chucked your phone into a snowbank?”

I snort out a laugh. “Totally chucked it.”

“That’s what I thought.” His voice turns serious again. “You know I struggled with the same issues in school. It wasn’t easy, but I did get through it. And you will too.”

The tension filling my muscles drains. “So you keep saying.”

“Just work as hard as you can. That’s all Mom and I can ask of you.”

“I’ll try.”

“We’ll see you tomorrow for dinner?”

“Yup.”

“Looking forward to it. Just remember that we love you and we’re proud of all you’ve accomplished, Mav.”

I drop my voice as warmth spreads through me. “Love you too, Dad.”

With that, I end the call and slip the cell back into my pocket. Some of my previous irritation at the situation melts away, leaving me feeling resigned. Talking to my dad always helps me get my head on straight.

As I pick up my pace, my gaze slides to the building where I thought I saw her.

It’s so tempting to look up River’s socials, because I’m willing to bet that I’d find the hot blonde somewhere on there.

Maybe then I could figure out who she is.

As soon as the sneaky little idea pops into my brain, I quash it.

I’ve never looked up a chick on social media.

It seems stalkerish.

And that’s the last thing I am.

Girls have always chased after me.

Not the other way around.

The cell burns a hole in my pocket as I hit the parking lot and click the locks on my truck.

No way in hell am I breaking down and doing it.

I shove the thought from my head and yank the door handle before sliding behind the wheel. One press of the ignition and the vehicle roars to life. Instead of hauling ass out of the parking lot, I sit and stew as an internal struggle takes place in my brain.

What I need to do is forget all about that chick.

Not make things worse by finding out who she is.

And where I can find her.

I mean… I do have her necklace, though.

She probably wants it back.

My hand rises to touch the tiny W pendant that hangs from the delicate silver chain.

So, maybe I should—you know—return it.

And the only way I can do that is⁠—

Before I can finish the thought, I’m sliding my cell from my pocket and opening the home screen. I bring up Insta and type in River’s name. A tiny icon of him on the ice pops up, along with a few other people with similar names.

Just as I’m about to hit the icon, my thumbs pause, hovering over the screen.

Am I seriously going through another dude’s socials to find some girl who snuck out of my bed after we slept together?

Am I?

Fuck it.

Apparently I am.

I tap his name and wait for his profile to load. Information and images in a grid pattern populate the screen. My gaze slides over the photos until it lands on one with her in it. My heart stutters before slamming against my ribcage as I stare at them. Their arms are wrapped around each other’s shoulders and they’re both grinning at the camera.

That’s all it takes for jealousy to explode within me.

All I have to do is tap the photo, and she’d probably be tagged in it.

That’s the reason I did this, right?

To figure out who she is so I can track her ass down.

Fuck.

Fuck.

Fuck.

If this photo is anything to go on, the place I’ll find her is warming River Thompson’s bed.

I hit the line at the bottom of the screen and swipe my thumb upward until the images dancing before my eyes disappear and I’m back to the home screen.

Irritated with myself, I toss the phone onto the passenger seat and shift into drive before squealing out of the parking lot.