Against All Odds (Holt Hockey Book 2)
Against All Odds: Chapter 6

He’s late.

I tap my pen against the wooden tabletop. Glance at the watch on my wrist, each tick of the second hand adding to my irritation.

Phillips is eight minutes and thirty-three seconds late, to be exact.

I feel like a fool, sitting alone at the table closest to the main doors so I can’t possibly miss him. Professor Carrigan’s email said to meet on the first floor of the library. No one has walked into the library since I arrived—five minutes early—so I couldn’t have missed him passing by.

I dragged myself out of my warm, cozy bed and walked here, all for him to not even show up. I have a pile of my own work to get done tonight, which, fine, is my fault for procrastinating.

Not all of my classes from Boston and Oxford fulfill Holt’s school-wide requirements. Meaning I’m enrolled in the maximum number of credits possible, which is a hefty course load.

I lean down to grab my laptop out of my backpack. If I’m here, I might as well get some work done.

At least I’ll be more productive in the library than I was snuggled under blankets on my bed.

“Hey,” a male voice says.

I glance up. Freeze.

For two reasons.

One, the guy standing a few feet from me is extremely good-looking. The sort of attractive that immediately makes you pause to take notice. Light brown hair that’s either styled or naturally ruly. Green eyes that manage to look shadowed and mysterious, even beneath the harsh fluorescent glare of the library’s lights. A tall, muscular frame fills out the sweatpants and lightweight navy jacket he’s wearing.

Two, the déjà vu. I’ve experienced this jolt before, during a cold night on a Colorado mountain.

I know exactly what’s underneath his casual clothes.

Memorized that secretive shade of green when it was reflecting the stars.

My thoughts are an endless loop of Fuck.

I was never supposed to see him again.

“Alice.” Aidan takes the seat across from me, his presence immediately overwhelming the four-person table.

Telling him to call me by my middle name seemed harmless, back when I was sure we’d never see each other again.

At least he remembers me. This would be far more humiliating if he didn’t.

He looks surprised to see me, but not the same stunned I am.

What are the fucking odds?

“It’s Rylan. Alice is my middle name.” I glance down, grabbing my pen off the table and rolling it between two fingers. “I was, uh, that was…”

I can’t think straight.

I’m rattled, which I rarely am. Mostly because I don’t make reckless decisions that might come with consequences. I make smart, logical choices after weighing my options. And I’m usually surrounded by people who coax the same caution.

Almost a year together, and I can’t think of a single time when Walker surprised me. It hurt, walking in on him with another girl. But it didn’t surprise me. I think part of me was waiting for it to happen, so I was almost relieved when it did.

When I left Aidan in that hot tub, I never thought we’d see each other again.

That was the whole point. That night was supposed to be an impulsive, thoughtless moment I could look back on whenever my life felt boring and predictable, unblemished.

Aidan, sitting two feet away, is more than a blemish.

He’s a blowtorch to the perfect memory. The harsh light of reality, dissipating a fantasy.

I clear my throat. Square my shoulders, trying to look like I’m not tempted to slide under the table into a puddle of embarrassment. “You…go to Holt?”

“Yep. And I’m here to meet my tutor. Rylan Keller.”

There’s a sudden, sinking sensation in the pit of my stomach as all the pieces click together. “Your last name is Phillips.”

It didn’t occur to me to look up who the Phillips on the hockey team was before tonight.

I assumed—logically—that we’d never met.

Now, I’m really wishing I had done some research. I could have gotten out of this tutoring arrangement before our paths ever crossed. Had some warning, at the very least.

“Uh-huh,” he confirms.

“You’re on the hockey team.”

“Right again. And you’re Coach’s daughter.”

He doesn’t phrase it as a question, but I nod anyway.

Then wait, expecting some worry or panic to appear on his face. It doesn’t, which is a pleasant surprise. I would have assumed hooking up with one of my Dad’s players would end with them begging me to keep it a secret. Aidan appears totally unbothered by the revelation my father is his coach. It makes me wonder what their relationship is like.

I continue playing with my pen, working hard to hide my unease from my face. “I didn’t—didn’t know you went here.”

I’m assuming the shock on my face when he showed up already conveyed that, but I don’t want him possibly thinking I knew who he was that night.

“You’re the one who told me you were British.”

My face heats. The mysterious, mature persona I strove for that night is crumbling. And…he remembers details, not just me. “I didn’t tell you I was British. I told you I went to school in London. Which I did.”

Mentioning it was a stop before returning to attend college in my hometown didn’t seem like relevant information at the time. Didn’t fit with the fantasy.

“And now you’re here.” Aidan’s tone is matter-of-fact, no inflection suggesting how he feels about it.

“I grew up here.” My tone is petulant. I was here first, I’m saying.

He smirks. “My condolences.”

I fight the small smile that wants to appear. “Somerville’s not that bad.”

Very rich, coming from me. I fled as fast and as far as I could.

“If you say so.”

“You’re not from Washington, I’m assuming?”

“No,” is Aidan’s only response.

I know he doesn’t live in Colorado. Jess said the eight-bedroom chalet across the street from her family’s place sits empty most of the year. It’s why I was adventurous enough to venture into his yard in the first place, assuming no one was home.

I roll the pen between my fingers, refocusing on the present and why we’re both here. “So you failed, huh?”

A muscle jumps in Aidan’s straight jaw.

Part of me thought his appearance was enhanced by the moonlight and the excitement of encountering him.

No such luck—he’s still gorgeous under the library’s fluorescent lighting and the lens of my complete mortification.

“I’m bored by numbers,” he tells me, leaning back and stretching. His shirt lifts a couple of inches, flashing me the carved V and thin trail of hair that I thought was a myth until I saw him naked.

I swallow, forcing myself to focus on our conversation instead of how annoyingly attractive he is. “Bored by numbers… So, of course you’re a business major.”

“Means to an end.”

“Flunking?”

His green gaze darkens. “Visited any hot tubs recently?”

I tap my pen against the stack of papers Professor Carrigan left for me at the student center, chewing on the inside of my cheek. She too could have given me more of a heads-up, instead of referring to Aidan as Mr. Phillips in our emails.

I’m not sure how much any warning would have helped, though. His presence is…a lot. I don’t know how I could have prepared to encounter it again, even if I knew I was going to.

“Did you bring your textbook?” I ask, choosing to ignore his last comment.

The only way I’ll possibly get through this is if I switch to pretending that night was a wet dream and I’m the only one with any memory of it.

Remorse flashes across Aidan’s face, answering for him.

He came unprepared. Shocker. Between his slouch and the casual way he taps the table—not to mention why we’re here in the first place—it’s obvious Aidan doesn’t take academics seriously.

My molars grind with the realization I’m stuck with a lazy jock.

He hasn’t apologized for being eight-and-a-half minutes late, and I’m undecided if that should be a strike against him as well. He might be handling it better, but he obviously wasn’t expecting to see me here either. And I’m the one who lied during our last encounter, even if it seemed harmless at the time.

I pull my copy of the textbook out of my backpack and shove it toward him, along with the first assignment his professor sent me.

“We’re going over summation notation and measures of variability tonight. We’ll work through a couple of new topics each week, then you’ll complete an assignment on it before our next meeting that I’ll grade and get back to you. Got it?”

“Got it.” He’s scanning the paper instead of looking at me, which makes it easier to converse with him.

“Okay, let’s start with standard deviation.” I open my notebook and pick up my pen. “For the first—”

“I know how to do this,” Aidan interrupts. He flips the page over to look at the back. “Know how to do all of these.”

I exhale. “I’m trying to make this as easy as possible, okay? You don’t need to pretend—”

Again, he interrupts me. “I’m not pretending. I know how to do all of these.”

“Professor Carrigan picked the topics based on what you struggled with on the final.”

He shrugs, nonchalant. “I was more interested in fast-forwarding to winter break than taking a final. Doesn’t mean I’m dumb.”

“I don’t think you’re dumb.”

Irritating, arrogant, and distracting, maybe, but not dumb.

Aidan picks up the paper again. “Is Carrigan grading this, or you?”

“Uh, me.”

Aidan looks up, focusing all his intensity squarely on me. He leans forward, the motion sending a whiff of spicy cologne my way. I resist the urge to inhale deeply, wishing he smelled like stale sweat or body odor instead. Wishing something about him was repellant, aside from his lackluster work ethic.

“Let’s skip the lecture today, then. If I bring this back next week and I got better than an eighty, you trust me when I tell you it’s a topic I already know. If I don’t, you can walk me through the entire class for all I care. I’m saving us both time.”

I should be relieved. Instead of an hour of his company, it’s maybe been five minutes since he showed up.

But instead of pleased, I’m offended he’s so obviously trying to get away from me as quickly as possible.

He barely let me get more than a few sentences out, but I don’t think I’m that terrible of a tutor. I already looked over the syllabus and I’m confident I know the material well enough to help him pass.

I cross my arms. “Eighty-five or better, and you have a deal.”

Aidan flashes me a heart-stopping grin. “Deal.”

He leans back and stretches again, then winces like he just got kicked. Shoves the textbook back toward me. “Same time next week?”

“If by same time you mean ten minutes late, I’ll be leaving after five next week.”

“I’m sorry,” he says seriously. “I didn’t mean to waste your time.”

Aidan apologizing strikes me as a rare event.

He’s hot, rich, and charming. Any one of those dismisses responsibility.

The combination of all three? I’m guessing he gets away with whatever the hell he wants.

“See ya.” He grabs the assignment paper and then strolls out of the library as quickly as he appeared. At least three people turn to watch him leave.

I stare after him too, releasing a shuddery exhale before sinking against the hard back of the chair.

I thought my first one-night stand was a total success.

Turns out it was a complete failure.

Even if Aidan had told me his last name when we first met, I wouldn’t have put the pieces together. My dad mentions his players sometimes, but I’m rarely paying close attention. I don’t have the roster memorized. I still would have climbed into that hot tub…with one of my father’s players. With a guy I’m stuck spending an hour a week with.

What are the odds we met more than a thousand miles from here and end up in the exact same place again?

I shake my head, then start packing up my stuff. I won’t be able to focus here, not with Aidan’s presence still lingering in the air. The chair he sat in is half-crooked from his hasty exit, the delicious scent of his cologne surrounding me.

I probably won’t be able to refocus anywhere until I sufficiently freak out about this, but I’d rather not focus from the comfort of my bed.

Chilly air nips at my cheeks as I step outside the library. I bury my hands in my pockets and tuck my chin as far inside my coat as it’ll go, my steps hasty as I head for the path past the parking lot that’s my quickest route home.

Since I’m trying not to think about it, that night in Colorado is all I can focus on.

It replays in my memory through the filter of the new details I’ve learned about the guy I was with that night—his last name is Phillips, he’s “bored by numbers,” and, most importantly, he plays hockey for my dad.

A hot flash of humiliation creeps across my skin, recalling some of the things I said to him. He’d been drinking that night, so hopefully his recollection isn’t as vivid as mine is.

Unfortunately, I can recall our entire interaction perfectly. Everything I said. Everything I encouraged—begged—him to do.

At least my embarrassment will keep me warm on the cold walk home.

I’m so caught up in my own thoughts, it takes me too long to notice the tall figure standing near one of the light posts. My heart starts racing, first from fear and then from dread.

Aidan pulls the phone from his ear, then shoves it into his pocket.

His expression is harsh, brows pulled tight and his jaw clenched tight. Whatever he was listening to, it wasn’t pleasant.

“I thought you’d left,” is all I can think to say.

“Not yet.”

I nod. “Okay. Well, night.” I debate waving, for some absurd reason, but thankfully opt to keep my hands warm in my pockets. Then turn and continue on the path.

“You’re walking?”

I’m too close to pretend I didn’t hear him. I glance back. “Uh, yeah. It’s not far.”

Before I can escape, he says, “I’ll drive you home.”

I’m surprised by the offer, but don’t let it show. “I’m good, thanks.”

“Rylan.”

All he says is my name, and it stills me into a frozen state. Hearing that voice that I’ve replayed in my mind like a favorite song say my first name…it twists my insides into knots.

“If something happened to you, Coach K would kill me.”

Annoyance sparks as soon as he mentions my father.

“If you’re worried about my dad’s opinion of you, you probably shouldn’t have fucked me in a hot tub,” I snap.

Wait for the obvious rebuttal—he didn’t know who I was when that happened.

Instead, he asks me, “Do you want to stand here and keep arguing about it, or do you want to get home in half the time?”

If the offer of a ride had come from anyone else, I’d be reacting very differently. It’s cold and dark out, and I’m not thrilled about walking home. But I’m nervous, honestly, about being alone in a car with him.

Aidan has an effect on me I’ve only experienced with alcohol, effortlessly washing away my inhibitions. I’m not shy but I can be reserved, especially around people I don’t know very well. I don’t know Aidan, well or otherwise, but he made me act more thoughtlessly than anyone else has ever managed to.

“Fine,” I say.

“Fine, what?”

“Fine, you can give me a ride home.”

“Lucky me.” He grins, then starts walking toward a black SUV.

It’s an older model with a couple of dents in the back bumper. Knowing what his family’s second home looks like, I’m shocked it’s what he drives.

He unlocks the car, then climbs into the driver’s seat.

I round the rear and open the passenger side, staring at the purple sweatshirt flung on the passenger seat.

A horrifying possibility occurs to me. “Do you have a girlfriend?” I blurt.

I assumed not, since he initiated things between us.

But it’s possible he’s one of those guys who thinks if they don’t ask, don’t tell is an acceptable policy. Finding out I not only have to interact with my one-night stand but that I also might have been the other woman that night would be a real low point to start the semester.

“No.” Aidan’s tone is short, his expression annoyed.

And I realize there are two ways to take that question. That I just heavily implied he’s a cheater.

“Sorry,” I mutter.

“Just because your ex was an asshole doesn’t mean that I am.”

I somehow forgot I’d mentioned Walker to him. At least I didn’t say how long it had been since we’d broken up, so he has no clue those scars should be healed by now.

“That’s probably Harlow’s sweatshirt. This is Hart’s ride. I’m just borrowing it.” Aidan starts the car. “Check the registration in the glove box, if you don’t believe me.”

The vehicle we’re in makes a whole lot more sense, all of a sudden.

“Why are you borrowing your friend’s car?”

“My truck is in the shop.”

“What’s wrong with your truck?”

“If the mechanic knew that, I’d be driving it.”

“Where did you take it?” I ask.

“Dave’s Auto. Why?”

“Just curious. Take a left here,” I instruct. “It’s the brown house at the end of the block, on the right.”

He flips on a blinker before taking the turn, which makes me smile for no reason. I assumed he was the type of driver to take stop signs as a suggestion.

“So…you’re a math major,” he says.

“Yep.” My tone is short, because his is more amused than admiring. I doubt he’ll come up with any nerd jokes that I haven’t already heard before.

“Because…”

“Because I’m good at math.”

“I’m good at hockey, and I’m not majoring in it.”

I don’t state the obvious—that hockey isn’t a major Holt offers. “You’re good, huh? Are you in the top five for scoring leaders?”

The question is a gamble, because I have no clue what his stats are. But my impression of Aidan from our first tutoring session is that he does the minimum and not much more. It sounds like flunked his final because he couldn’t be bothered to put much effort into taking the exam. That’s not the personality of an aggressive, hungry player who tops leaderboards.

Aidan’s silence answers for him, and I wish I’d kept my mouth shut.

Antagonizing or insulting him isn’t conducive to getting through this tutoring arrangement as painlessly as possible.

The uncomfortable quiet only lasts a few seconds, thankfully, before the car stops in front of my house.

I scramble to grab my backpack out from between my knees and climb out of the car. “Thanks for the ride.”

If Aidan responds, it’s not before I’ve shut the door and started up the walk toward my front door.