Chapter 6

CHAPTER 6

CALLUM

The problem with practice was that a puck never cared who your father was.

It didn't care about the championships he'd won, the records he'd broken, or the number of times his name had appeared in sports magazines. It didn't matter that half the people who watched me play had already decided what kind of hockey player I was before I'd even stepped onto the ice. A puck had one job, and if you gave it enough room, it would make you look like an idiot.

Fortunately, I had never been particularly interested in looking like an idiot.

I caught the pass from my left, shifted my weight, and sent the puck between the defenseman's skates before he could close the gap. The move bought me half a second, which was all I needed. I drove toward the goal, waited for the goalie to commit, then snapped my wrist and sent the puck into the upper corner of the net.

The red light flashed.

“Again!” Coach barked from the bench.

I circled back without answering, my skates carving into the ice. Across the rink, Mason was watching me with the expression of a man who'd just discovered something unpleasant in his breakfast. I gave him a brief, pleasant smile.

He looked away first.

Small victories counted.

We'd been on the ice for nearly an hour, and Coach had already made it clear that nobody was leaving until our passing stopped looking like a group project nobody wanted to contribute to. The season hadn't officially started, but expectations were already crawling up everyone's backs. Every practice was a test. Every mistake was remembered. Every player wanted to prove he deserved his place on the roster.

Some of us simply preferred to do the proving without the motivational speeches.

“Hayes!” Coach shouted. “You planning to play hockey today, or are you just here to admire yourself?”

I turned toward him. “I can do both.”

A few guys laughed, Coach didn't. “Then do the first one.”

“Yes, Coach.”

I pushed off before he could find another reason to yell at me.

The next drill was a three-on-two, and Mason was on the opposite side. That meant the session was about to become considerably more entertaining for everyone except the two of us.

He was a good captain when he remembered that leading a team involved more than glaring at people until they obeyed. On the ice, he was fast, aggressive, and annoyingly difficult to read. I knew his habits almost as well as I knew my own, which was useful when we played together and irritating when we played against each other.

The whistle blew.

Mason took possession, drove down the center, and sent the puck toward his winger. I cut across the passing lane before it reached him, intercepted it cleanly, and turned up ice. Mason recovered quickly, matching my pace as I pushed toward the goal.

“Pass it!” he shouted.

I glanced at him. “You first.”

His jaw tightened.

I slid the puck to our left winger, who immediately sent it back to me. Mason closed the distance, forcing me toward the boards, but I pulled the puck behind my skate and slipped past him. His shoulder brushed mine as I accelerated into open ice.

I scored on the next shot.

The whistle shrilled, followed by a chorus of groans from the guys who'd been betting on whether Mason would actually manage to stop me.

Mason skated to a halt beside me. “You know this is practice, right?”

“Really?” I looked around the rink, pretending to be surprised. “I thought the matching jerseys were for a fashion show.”

“Keep talking.”

“I would, but Coach seems to be having a difficult enough morning already.”

“Hayes!” Coach called.

I lifted my hand. “See? He missed me.”

Mason muttered something under his breath and skated away. I watched him for a moment before turning back toward the bench, the familiar satisfaction of a clean play settling into my muscles.

I liked hockey because it was honest. You could spend all day talking about talent, reputation, or potential, but none of those things would help you when a defender came at you with a stick and a bad attitude. You either made the play or you didn't. You either earned your place or someone took it from you.

There were no family names on the scoreboard.

At least, there shouldn't have been.

By the time Coach finally called a water break, my lungs were burning, my shoulders ached, and the front of my jersey was damp with sweat. I pulled off my helmet and dragged a hand through my hair, then reached for my bottle.

“Beautiful display of sportsmanship out there,” Cole said, dropping onto the bench beside me. “Really inspiring stuff. I nearly cried when you stole the puck from our beloved captain.”

“You're welcome.”

“I was being sarcastic.”

“I know. I was being gracious.”

Cole snorted and nudged my shoulder with his. He'd been my friend long enough to recognize that arguing with me before I'd cooled down was a waste of perfectly good oxygen. Unfortunately, that knowledge had never stopped him from trying.

He followed my gaze toward the far end of the rink, where Mason was talking to one of the assistant coaches. “You two planning to murder each other before the first game, or should we wait until the season officially starts?”

“Depends. Are you volunteering to clean up?”

“Absolutely not. I have plans this weekend.”

“Then stay out of the way.”

Cole shook his head. “You know, most people manage to play on the same team without turning every drill into a personal vendetta.”

“Most people aren't as irritating as Mason.”

“That's funny. He said the exact same thing about you yesterday.”

“Then we agree on something. Progress.”

Cole laughed, but his attention shifted toward the entrance as Coach approached with a clipboard tucked beneath his arm. The break was apparently over. I screwed the cap back onto my bottle, expecting another lecture about discipline, teamwork, or the importance of not treating our captain like a target.

Instead, Coach tapped the clipboard against his palm.

“Before we get back to work, I've got a reminder about the university's feature-writing project. Some of you have been selected for interviews with the communications students. Cooperate with them, answer their questions, and try not to embarrass the program.”

“Define embarrass,” Cole called.

“Do you want me to start with your grades?” Cole immediately became fascinated by his water bottle.

I hid a smile.

Coach continued, “They're covering the team throughout the semester. That means interviews, practice observations, and probably a few questions about the program's history. I expect you to make yourselves available when you're scheduled.”

A couple of players exchanged looks. Someone complained about having to talk to a reporter when we weren't even in season yet, and Coach shut that down with one look.

Then he glanced at his clipboard again.

“Hayes, you're first up tomorrow afternoon. Three o'clock. The student assigned to you will meet you at the facility.”

I took another drink. “Lucky her.”

“Her name is Avery Bennett.”

The water went down the wrong way.

I coughed once, turned my head, and covered it with the back of my hand before Cole could witness what was shaping up to be the most embarrassing moment of my athletic career.

Unfortunately, Cole had already turned toward me.

“Bennett?” he repeated. “As in Mason Bennett?”

“Do you know another one?”

His eyebrows rose. Then his gaze slid toward our captain, who was still standing beside the assistant coach. Cole looked back at me, and the slow grin spreading across his face suggested that he had just been handed a gift.

“Oh, this is going to be good.”

“Finish that sentence,” I told him, “and I'll make sure you spend the next practice collecting pucks.”

He held up both hands. “I didn't say anything.”

“You were thinking loudly.”

“I can't help being excited about educational opportunities.”

“Try.”

Coach looked between us. “Is there a problem?”

“No, Coach,” Cole answered immediately. “Callum is thrilled to contribute to the academic community.” I gave him a look that promised consequences.

Coach wasn't interested in our conversation. He marked something on his clipboard and moved on to the next player, leaving me with the sudden, unwelcome memory of a brunette with blue eyes, a sharp tongue, and an impressive ability to make a simple conversation feel like a competitive sport.

Avery Bennett.

Of course it was Avery Bennett.

Because apparently the universe had decided that sleeping with Mason's sister wasn't enough entertainment for one semester. It had to put her in my schedule, hand her a notebook, and give her permission to ask me questions.

I could almost hear her reaction if she'd known.

Actually, I didn't have to imagine it. I could picture the exact expression she'd wear: lips pressed together, arms crossed, eyes narrowed as if she'd caught me committing a crime against basic human decency. She'd probably demand that Coach assign someone else, then argue with him when he refused.

The thought brought an unwilling smile to my face.

She'd hate this.

That was the interesting part.

I hadn't expected to see her again so soon, and I certainly hadn't expected the university to arrange it for me. After she'd left my room, she'd made it abundantly clear that our night together was a mistake. She'd practically sprinted away from the entire situation, as though distance and a closed door could erase the fact that she'd climbed into my bed willingly.

I'd agreed that it didn't need to happen again. I hadn't promised to forget it.

There was a difference.

“What's so funny?” Cole asked.

“Nothing.”

“You've been smiling at your water bottle for thirty seconds.”

“Maybe it told a good joke.”

“Right.” He leaned closer, lowering his voice. “You know, if Mason finds out you slept with his sister, I don't think a water bottle is going to be enough to save you.”

My smile disappeared.

Cole's expression changed just enough to tell me he'd noticed. He knew about the party, of course. Most of the team had been there, and a few of them had seen Avery and me talking. But he didn't know what had happened after we left the main room, and I had no intention of giving him the satisfaction of finding out.

“Nothing happened that Mason needs to know about,” I said.

Cole stared at me and I stared back. He slowly lifted his bottle. “Interesting choice of words.”

“Drink your water.”

“Gladly. It's the only thing keeping me alive in this conversation.”

I stood before he could ask anything else and returned to the ice when Coach called us back. The rest of practice passed in a blur of drills, shouted instructions, and skates scraping against frozen water. I kept my focus where it belonged, which was on the puck, the players around me, and the small details that separated a clean play from a disastrous one.

Still, Avery's name lingered at the back of my mind.

Not because I was waiting to see her again. That would have been ridiculous.

I was simply curious about how she intended to survive an entire afternoon asking hockey players questions when she'd spent our first conversation treating the sport like a personal inconvenience. She'd told me enough at the party to make it clear that Mason's name could turn an otherwise pleasant conversation into a battlefield. And judging by the way she'd looked at me the morning after, she wasn't particularly fond of being reminded that she had a life outside the carefully organized version she'd presented to her brother.

I wondered which version of Avery would show up tomorrow: the girl who'd challenged me at the party or the one who'd looked ready to climb out of her own skin when she discovered my name.

Either way, the interview promised to be entertaining.

Practice finally ended after Coach was satisfied that we'd all suffered enough. The guys scattered toward the locker room, filling the corridor with complaints about sore legs, missed shots, and the coach's apparent hatred of happiness. I stayed behind long enough to take a few extra shots, sending each puck toward the corners of the net until the goalie threatened to file a formal complaint.

By the time I joined the others, my muscles had begun to loosen, and the day had settled into something close to normal. I showered, changed into a black T-shirt and dark jeans, and checked my phone while Cole argued with someone about dinner plans.

There was an email from the communications department confirming the interview schedule. The subject line was painfully straightforward: Feature Project — Interview Arrangements.

I opened it, skimmed the instructions, and found Avery's name again.

Student interviewer: Avery Bennett.

Interview time: 3:00 p.m.

Location: Hawthorns Hockey Facility.

I locked my phone.

Three o'clock tomorrow. Plenty of time for her to change her mind, panic, or attempt to negotiate her way out of the assignment. I wouldn't have blamed her for trying. If I were assigned to spend an afternoon interviewing someone I actively wanted to avoid, I'd at least consider faking my own disappearance.

Unfortunately for Avery, Professor Callahan sounded like the sort of man who'd track her down and drag her back to campus by the strap of her bag.

I slung my duffel over my shoulder and headed out with Cole, leaving the rink behind us. The afternoon sun had begun to dip, casting long shadows across the campus pathways. Students crossed the quad in clusters, laughing over conversations I had no interest in joining, while the distant sound of a ball bouncing on the outdoor courts drifted through the warm air.

Cole was still talking about dinner when my phone buzzed again. I glanced down, expecting another message from one of the guys, but it was only a reminder from the university calendar.

Tomorrow, 3:00 p.m. — Avery Bennett interview.

I stared at it for a moment before dismissing the notification.

“Tell me you aren't actually looking forward to this,” Cole said.

“I look forward to very few things.”

“That's a depressing way to live.”

“And yet, here I am. Thriving.”

He shook his head, laughing, and changed the subject. I let him. By the time we parted ways, I had almost managed to forget about the interview, which was impressive considering how determined my brain seemed to be to bring it up every five minutes.

Almost.

The following afternoon, I arrived at the facility earlier than usual. The team had a lighter session scheduled, and Coach wanted a few of us available for some additional work before the next full practice. I changed into my training gear, checked the equipment we'd be using, and helped move a stack of spare pucks toward the bench.

At two fifty-five, I glanced at the clock above the corridor.

Five minutes.

I had no intention of waiting around for Avery. If she arrived on time, fine. If she arrived late, I could only assume she'd spent the extra minutes trying to convince herself that she didn't know me.

At two fifty-eight, I heard footsteps outside the entrance.

I looked up from the equipment bag in my hands.

The door opened, and Avery Bennett stepped into the facility with a notebook clutched against her chest and a pen tucked between her fingers. Her brown hair fell over one shoulder, and she wore a determined expression that might have convinced someone who hadn't met her before. Her gaze swept across the room, taking in the benches, the equipment, and the wide corridor leading toward the rink.

She hadn't seen me yet.

For a second, I watched her take in the place she'd spent years avoiding. She looked composed enough from a distance, but her fingers kept adjusting the edge of her notebook, and she paused just inside the doorway as though she were mentally rehearsing the first question she planned to ask.

I couldn't help myself.

“You look nervous, Bennett.”