I’m frowning as Hunter and I reach the front door. “The boyfriend?” he prompts.

I nod slowly. “I guess he got his car going with jumper cables, but the battery is still messed up? I’m not sure. I don’t know much about cars.”

“Sounds a bit shady,” remarks Hunter. “Using the ol’ car broke down excuse to avoid seeing someone.”

“Really?” I challenge. “Do you often lie about your car breaking down to get out of a date?”

“Often? No. Have I done it? Yes.”

I glare at him. “Well, not everybody is a liar like you.”

He doesn’t take offense. Just grins. “Gee. I didn’t mean to hit a nerve.”

“You didn’t.”

“Uh-huh. Anyway. My boys are waiting. Later, Semi.”

I practically shove him out the front door. Maybe if I get rid of him fast enough, that little seed of doubt he created won’t take root.

 

 

5

 

 

Hunter

 

 

I’m the first one to arrive for Thursday afternoon’s team meeting. I never used to be early for these things, but now that I’m team captain I’m trying to lead by example, so here I am, alone in the media room.

The Briar hockey facility is top-of-the-line, so we have a sweet A/V set-up. The large auditorium-style room offers three rows of tables with huge padded chairs, and a massive screen to watch game tape on. We’ve been studying film on Eastwood College all week. They’re our conference rivals, and we’re matched up against them for tomorrow’s first official game of the season.

I’m not too worried. Eastwood’s roster is not particularly strong this year—ours is. Even with Fitzy, Hollis and Nate Rhodes gone, the team still has a solid lineup. Me, Matty, an excellent goalie, and some of the hottest high school players Coach Jensen recruited for the freshman class.

After the team voted me to take over for Nate, our former captain, I called him up asking for tips on how to keep morale up, how to motivate the boys, how to actually lead, but he didn’t have much advice. He said the dynamics change every year with the ebb and flow of new faces, and that I’d learn as I go along. It’s simply a matter of navigating your way through thirty-odd egos, and keeping everybody pumped up and focused on the task at hand: winning.

Speaking of new faces, there are quite a lot of them this season. At the end of August we held open tryouts, an event that serves to showcase players who weren’t recruited out of high school or those who try out for the hell of it. One of my new favorite teammates is the result of those tryouts—Conor Edwards, who saunters into the room as I’m settling in a chair in the front row.

Con’s a self-proclaimed fuckboy, but he’s not as douchey as you’d expect. He’s actually quite decent, with a dry sense of humor that I appreciate.

“S’up, captain,” he says before yawning hugely. He rakes a lazy hand through his sun-streaked blond hair, drawing my attention to the purple hickey on his neck.

He reminds me of Dean, the older brother of my roommate Summer, and a good friend (and former mentor) of mine. Dean was unapologetically sexual when he attended Briar. He didn’t care if everyone knew he was constantly hooking up. And his manwhore ways didn’t hurt his reputation either, because every chick who met him wanted to get naked with him. But his girlfriend Allie is the only one to ever steal his heart. They’ve been living together in NYC for the past couple of years.

Conor sits beside me. A few seniors stride in and settle in the top row. “Yo,” they greet us, nodding hello.

We nod back.

Matt Anderson enters next. With Fitz and Hollis gone, I guess Matty’s my best friend on the team now. He’s the only black player on the roster, drafted by LA last year. I hope he officially signs with them, because it’s a great franchise to play for.

“Hey,” Matt says.

The room begins to fill up. We’ve got about two dozen starters, and then the rest of the roster is made up of benchwarmers and guys who still need a lot of development. And although Mike Hollis graduated, there is always, without fail, a Hollis type on every team. The lovable idiot, as Brenna calls him. The honor this year goes to a sophomore named Aaron, except everyone calls him Bucky because he looks like that character from the Marvel movies.

Bucky hates it, but the thing about nicknames is, they stick—whether you want them to or not. Just ask our senior left-winger Treeface, sometimes shortened to Tree or T, who one time four years ago got drunk and lamented how sad it is that trees don’t have faces and can’t see the birds who make nests on them. I’m pretty sure John Logan is responsible for that nickname.

Munching on a bran muffin he probably grabbed from the team kitchen, Bucky approaches the front row. “Did you talk to Coach about it?” he demands while chewing with his mouth open.

I play dumb. “About what?”

“The pig, dude.”

“The pig,” echoes Jesse Wilkes, a fellow junior. He was on his phone, but now he’s focused on our conversation.

Fuck. I was hoping the subject would quietly be forgotten.

“No, not yet.” And I don’t plan on it, I want to add, but I haven’t found a way to finagle out of this one yet.

The guys are insisting we need a team mascot, while I personally don’t see the point. I mean, if we were somehow able to strap a pair of skates on a polar bear and have him perform double axels on the ice between periods, then, sure, great. Bring it on.

Short of that, who the fuck cares.

Coach’s arrival spares me from humoring my teammates. He strides in and claps his hands sharply. “Let’s not waste time,” he barks. “Eyes on the screen.”

Chad Jensen is a total hard-ass—he doesn’t mince words or indulge us. When we’re in this arena, we’re required to be all business or else GTFO.

“Pay attention to Kriska on this first play,” Coach orders as a hi-def video pops up on the projection screen. He’s at his desk, using his tablet pen to circle Eastwood’s goalie, Johan Kriska.

The freshman is rumored to be one of the best college goalies on the east coast. I’ve been studying the handful of his high school games that were televised, as well as all of Eastwood’s preseason games. I need to be prepared when I face this kid. Not to sound cocky, but I’m the best forward on the team. And the top scorer, for sure, judging by last season’s stats lines. Nate and I were tied for goals, but my former captain had me on assists. I guess that’s another captainly requirement—Don’t hog the glory.

I’m slowly compiling a list of captain dos and don’ts.

Despite his stellar rep, I’m not overly concerned about Kriska. I’ve already found a weakness. “His glove is slow,” I pipe up. “Kid has trouble with the high shots. Maybe a thirty percent save rate, if that.”

“Yes,” Coach confirms. “That’s why we’ve been running those concentrated shooting drills this week. But I’m sure they’re prepping just as hard, and Kriska knows his own weaknesses. I want to see a shit ton of low shots on goal tomorrow. He’ll already be overcompensating for the weak glove, and he may be so focused on stopping those shots that we’ll catch him off guard and push one through the five hole.”