Against All Odds (Holt Hockey Book 2)
Against All Odds: Chapter 3

I lean to the left, gingerly. “I think Pierce broke a rib with that last hit.”

Hart appears unconcerned I could be grievously injured, squirting some Gatorade into his mouth as he watches the third line run through the drill we just completed. “Tape it.”

I stretch to the right. Wince. “I was thinking a massage.”

Some painkillers to help with my aching ribs and pounding head would be nice too.

I knew going out with Sampson and a few other guys last night was a stupid idea, but dumb decisions are kind of what I’m known for.

“And a nap.”

“I’m not waiting for you next time,” Conor tells me.

Since I’m still car-less, I had to rely on Hart to drive me to practice today.

Him banging on my bedroom door with his hockey stick early this morning is partially responsible for my headache. The rest of the credit goes to tequila.

“You can skip the lecture. You weren’t even home when I got back.”

“I spent the night at Harlow’s,” he tells me. “Drove home to eat breakfast and get changed before practice.”

Dammit. Had I known that, I definitely wouldn’t have gone out last night. “Tell me next time, so I know to skip the earplugs.”

“Don’t be so dramatic, Phillips.” Conor swallows more orange liquid, then glances at me. “You’re louder than I am. We shared a wall in Colorado too, remember?”

“That was only for a few nights.” I reach out, grabbing a bottle. My mind immediately jumps to the brunette in the hot tub as soon as Conor mentions Colorado, and I really need to stop thinking about that night. It’s not like I’ll ever see her again, and it’s made my hookups of late seem dull and empty. “And at least I have the decency to keep it out of the house here.”

“I’m not sure the girls you fuck in random places at parties would describe it as decency, Phillips.”

I swallow some Gatorade, annoyed this bottle is also filled with orange. My least favorite flavor. “They know what they’re getting,” I say, then take another drink.

I’m practically a campus attraction at this point. Library, coffee shop, student center, guy who guarantees a good time. I never say anything about more than one night and I never bring girls back to my room.

It’s exactly how I like my life: simple and uncomplicated. College is supposed to be about enjoying yourself—the window between being controlled by your parents and entering the real world with responsibilities.

Hockey is the one responsibility I allow to cut into my social life. Our schedule is only going to get more intense with playoffs creeping closer.

Plus, I’m going to have to start studying soon.

I grit my teeth at the unpleasant reminder. At least Hunter has kept his mouth shut like he promised. The lecture I received from Conor about how I spent last night on the way to practice this morning would have been way worse if he knew I failed a class last semester.

“You ever think about dating?” Hart asks me casually.

I cough mid-swallow. I have to clear my throat twice before I can respond. “What?”

“It’s more than just steady sex, you know. Having someone to talk to…who always has your back… I didn’t realize what I was missing out on before.”

I shake my head, smirking. “You heartless asshole. I was your pillar of support long before you pulled your head out of your ass and noticed Harlow Hayes.”

Conor laughs once, sounding unamused. “Noticing her wasn’t the problem.”

“She is super hot,” I agree.

Hart elbows me, right where my ribs are aching from my collision with the boards earlier.

“Ow!” I glare at him.

“Get your own girlfriend.”

I snort. “Never gonna happen,” I tell him.

Too forcefully, because it prompts a curious head tilt.

“Never?”

If the faded scars on my heart haven’t healed by now, I’m not sure they ever will. And even if they do, the sting of betrayal is a lasting lash.

I think Conor has an idea there’s someone in my past, probably from something I said while drunk, but he’s never explicitly asked me about it. And he’s certainly never suggested I date before.

“Why would I? I have you and Morgan for sappy shit and I can fuck anyone I want without forced small talk or holding hands in a movie theater first. Win-win.”

Conor shakes his head. “You haven’t told me or Hunter what sappy shit has been bothering you for the past couple of months.”

I look away, at the ice. “It’s nothing,” I say, same as every other time he or Hunter have asked me what’s going on.

Nothing they can fix, at least. I’d rather remain in denial as long as possible, and talking about it means I can’t pretend it’s not happening.

Hart sighs.

Coach Keller’s whistle cuts through the cold air.

Conor pops his mouthguard back in, stands, and climbs over the boards onto the ice. If the first line is up, that means I only have a few minutes left on the bench.

I stretch to the left again, wincing. Whether or not my rib is actually broken, I have a bad feeling it’ll bruise. And the only upside to having a purplish blotch on my side is that girls seem to replace it sexy. Most act like I’m a war hero returning from active combat if we hook up after I’ve recently taken a nasty hit. But even that sympathy isn’t worth the annoying ache until it heals.

The whistle sounds. I stand, swearing under my breath when I experience the sharp stab of pain along my ribs.

It was a sophomore defender who took me out, too, which is just embarrassing.

I should be faster. Should be sharper.

And my hangover isn’t entirely to blame. My head is all over the place. I’m stressed about school—the seriousness of what’s at stake in the Stats class. Dreading the engagement party that’s creeping up closer and closer. I’m still dodging my dad’s calls like it’s a sport, but I’ll have to talk to him eventually.

Problems I temporarily solved last night by getting drunk and hooking up with a blonde whose name I already forgot.

Today, I’m paying the price.

The blades of my skates scrape as I move into position for the drill we’re running. The frozen surface is marred, the ice carved and covered with sprays of shavings from the past hour. Today’s practice has been brutal.

Dean Zimmerman, the assistant coach, sends a puck to Ace Carter, my right winger, to start the play. Carter enters the zone first, me and Tyler Yarrow, my left winger, trailing slightly behind him so we don’t trigger an offside call for crossing the blue line before the puck. Carter passes to Yarrow. Yarrow circles, then passes to me.

I miss, the puck whizzing an inch past my waiting stick. I hustle after it as fast as my aching side and hungover muscles will allow.

My maximum speed is too slow. Andy Pierce, who’s responsible for my throbbing ribs, reaches the puck before I can and sends it straight out of the zone.

Another sharp whistle pierces the cold air.

I swear under my breath as I skate back to the bench and take a seat next to Conor. He says nothing, which is worse than anything he could have commented. His silent disapproval saturates the chilly air, suffocating me. I hate disappointing him. Hate worrying I’m the weak link letting down the team. And the more I worry about it—about everything that’s weighing me down—the more tempting an escape sounds.

Grow up, Aidan, is what my dad would say if he could see me slumped on the bench right now. And he doesn’t even like hockey. Couldn’t care less how many passes I miss.

The fourth line finishes the drill, and Coach blows his whistle for a final time.

“That’s it, boys. See you tomorrow.”

I’m pissed and relieved. That was a terrible fucking way for me to end practice, but I’m so exhausted I’m not sure I could have made it through another shift.

All I want is a hot shower, a cold pack, and to be relaxing in bed.

Everyone hustles off the ice, except for me.

I skate slowly, irritation about missing that pass dulling the throb of my side a little.

“Phillips.”

I pause, reluctantly, just past the bench. Coach Keller is standing with Coach Zimmerman, the two of them comparing notes on a clipboard.

Coach Zimmerman heads toward the opposite end of the bench.

Coach Keller stays put, rubbing his chin as he studies me. “Did you hear from Professor Carrigan?” he asks.

I nod. “She emailed me.”

Short and to the point, letting me know my tutoring sessions would be taking place on Tuesday evenings, and to meet my tutor on the first floor of the library.

I’m obviously not her favorite student.

Wonder why.

“Good.”

Coach doesn’t mention the whole your tutor is my daughter aspect of it, which is a relief. Considering I actually need to pass this class, I’m grateful to him for interceding and ensuring that I have a tutor who a.) knows what she’s talking about and b.) I won’t hook up with.

Coach continues to study me, and I resist the urge to fidget under his scrutiny.

This is the one and only way in which he reminds me of my father. A commanding presence with the ability to wield silence like a weapon.

“Break is over, Phillips,” he tells me. “Seems like you could use the reminder.”

I nod, running my tongue along the backs of my teeth.

Technically, break for anyone playing a winter sport ended two weeks ago. We’ve had daily practice and a few games while most of campus was still off enjoying themselves. But as of tomorrow, classes resume. My final semester of college will start, and I don’t feel any closer to figuring out the next phase of my life than I did when I committed to attending Holt.

It seems like everyone else already does. Or at least has some clue.

I’m not sure exactly what Conor will do if he doesn’t get signed as a free agent, but he’s majoring in English and, unlike me, gets straight As. Hunter is majoring in Political Science and is waiting to hear back from the graduate programs he applied to. Jack Williams is moving back to LA to join his family’s accounting firm. Robby Sampson just got offered a job as a market research analyst.

Basically, it feels like everyone except for me has some sense of what they want to pursue, and I somehow missed out on how that gets decided.

But that’s not Coach’s problem, and I’m trying to pretend it’s not mine either. Semi-successfully.

“Just an off day,” I tell Coach, assuming he’s referring to my pathetic performance during practice today.

Another few seconds of uncomfortable appraisal, then he nods. “Go shower, Phillips,” he tells me, then calls, “Dean! Meet me in my office so we can go over those plays again.”

I take the dismissal, stepping off the ice and stomping along the rubber mats that lead into the locker room. It’s in its usual state of chaos, guys pulling off their gear, guys leaving the showers, guys headed into the showers.

I keep my head down as I walk straight toward my locker.

My mood is the same dark one that’s fueled by a thundercloud I can’t seem to shake lately.

It started following me around in November, when Jameson proposed to Parker. When I realized the shit between my brother and my ex wasn’t just sticking around, it was becoming permanent. And got worse when I realized my dad’s lectures had a kernel of truth to them. Jameson is only eighteen months older than I am. He’s got a job track that will lead all the way to future CEO and he’s got the wife lined up. His entire life—personal and professional—is decided.

There’s no part of me that wants my whole life mapped out that way.

But it’s emphasized how blank my future is. Not only lacking direction, but any paths at all.

“Big plans tonight?” Cole Smith asks as I take a seat in front of my locker to unlace my skates. His is right next to mine. “I heard last night was pretty wild.”

“My big plans are to sleep.”

Cole laughs. “With who?”

“An ice pack, probably. Pierce fucked up my ribs.”

“Sorry, Phillips,” Andy calls from across the room.

The kid sounds genuinely remorseful, so I resist the urge to flip him off.

Not Pierce’s fault I’m slow and unfocused.

I finish pulling off my gear and head for the showers.

Holt’s athletic facilities are not what anyone could call new or luxurious with a straight face, but they’re clean and well-maintained. The white tile is scrubbed so clean that it gleams under the overhead lights as I replace an open stall. The plastic dividers are a half-hearted attempt at privacy, since you can see right into them and most of us walk to and from the showers naked. The humid air dampens everything, so it’s not worth wearing or carrying clothes in here unless you want to change twice.

I rinse off, soaping my hair and watching the white suds wash down the drain before shutting off the water and grabbing a clean towel.

The school must have bought some new ones, because they’re less threadbare than they used to be.

I rub it through my hair, wrap it around my waist, then head back into the main section of the locker room. A lot of the guys have left, my chat with Coach slowing my post-practice progress down.

I check my phone, my stomach hollowing when I see the new voicemail from Do Not Answer.

I press play and tuck the phone between my ear and shoulder as I pull on a clean pair of sweats. Might as well see if there’s any variety in his pestering.

“Aidan, it’s your father. I’m very disappointed by your behavior. Your brother’s engagement party is only a couple of weeks away and I expect you to—”

Nope.

I pause the message, then delete it and toss my phone into my hockey bag.

My dad doesn’t need to worry I’ll show up and cause a scene. All I want is to get in and out of there as quickly as possible. The only reason my family cares about me showing up is that my absence would be noticed, and they don’t want to have to answer any questions about it.

“You failed a class?”

I turn toward Conor’s voice, belatedly realizing it’s just me, him, and Hunter left in the locker room.

I glare at Hunter. “Way to keep your mouth shut, Morgan.”

He shrugs. “Hart asked me what your meeting with Coach was about. I hate lying.”

I shouldn’t have mentioned my meeting with Coach in front of Conor.

I figured Coach was trying out something new, talking to all the seniors before playoffs start or something. Had I known the real reason, I wouldn’t have mentioned anything about the meeting to him or Hunter. I already had to deal with Morgan’s judgy eyebrows when I went out last night. Now I’ll get disapproval from Hart too.

“Don’t blame Hunter,” Conor says. “He told me, not the entire campus. And I should know, as your captain.”

I scoff.

“And best friend,” he adds.

I snort. “Absentee friend would be more accurate.”

Conor sighs. “I’m sorry the trip to Colorado sucked, okay? And I know I’ve been spending a lot of time with Harlow lately—”

“Which is fine,” Hunter interrupts, frowning at me.

Great. Now I feel guilty.

Harlow stole all of Conor’s attention that wasn’t attached to hockey long before they officially started dating.

But Hunter is right—Conor’s happiness is nothing I should be criticizing him for. What I should be doing is explaining to my two best friends why I’m in such a shitty, short mood lately.

Except it’s not a conversation I’m ready to have. And if anyone gets that, I think Conor might.

Up until a couple of weeks ago, he’d never mentioned his own father or that they’re estranged. Maybe one day we can commiserate over our crappy dads, but today isn’t that day for me.

“I’m glad you and Harlow worked things out,” I tell Conor. “Really. I was the one telling you to fix it with her, remember? Just…don’t dip in because you’re worried about me flunking. Coach set up the thing with his daughter. It’ll be fine.”

Conor’s gaze sharpens. “What thing with Coach’s daughter?”

I glance at Hunter, who’s focused on tying his sneakers. Fuck, I should have known he’d be sparing with details. Of the three of us, Morgan is by far the least chatty. And he probably felt guilty telling Conor anything at all when I’d asked him to keep it to himself.

“She’s my tutor,” I say, yanking on my sweatshirt.

“His daughter? Coach has a daughter, and she goes to Holt?” Conor sounds torn between surprise and suspicion that I’m making this all up.

“Apparently. He set it up.”

“And she’s tutoring you.”

“Yep.”

“Don’t even think about—”

I know exactly where he’s going with this. “I’m capable of keeping my dick in my pants, Hart.”

“News to me,” Hunter mutters.

Not my fault he’s usually home when girls come looking for me, whereas Hart is always out.

It’s common knowledge on campus where the three of us live. It’s not like I’m handing out my home address after every hookup.

“If you say so.” Conor also sounds dubious.

“I won’t touch her.”

I might be generally unreliable, but they can trust me on this.

I’ve never hooked up with a freshman. Certainly not a math nerd.

And even if she was neither of those things, she’s Coach Keller’s daughter.

In other words, off-limits.