Chapter 5

If any of us harbored notions that Coach Jensen might take it easy on us after securing our berth into the NCAA Division One championship semi-finals, that delusion is quickly put to rest when we take the ice for Monday morning skate. From the first whistle, Coach has been on a rampage like he just found out Jake Connelly knocked up his daughter or something. We spend the first hour on speed training, skating until our toenails bleed. Then he calls a series of shooting drills and I take so many shots on net it feels like my arms might melt out of their sockets.

Whistle, skate. Whistle, shot. Whistle, kill me.

By the time Coach orders us to the media room to study game footage, I’m all but crawling off the ice. Even Hunter, who’s tried his damnedest to maintain a positive attitude as team captain, is starting to look like he wants to call his mommy to come pick him up. In the tunnel we share a pitiful look. Same, dude.

After a bottle of Gatorade and one of those jelly nutrition tubes, I’m feeling half-alive at least. The media room offers three semi-circular rows of plush chairs, and I’m in the first row with Hunter and Bucky. Everyone is slouched over from exhaustion.

Coach walks over to stand in front of the projector screen with the static image of our game against Minnesota bleeding onto his face. Even the sound of him clearing his throat gives me the jitters.

“Some of you seem to think the hard part’s over. That you’re just going to coast to a championship and it’s all champagne and afterparties from here on out. Well, I got news for you.” He slams his hand twice against the wall and I swear the whole building shakes. We all snap upright in our seats, wide the fuck awake. “Now’s when the work begins. You were running on training wheels until today. Now Daddy’s dragging you to the top of the hill and giving your asses a good shove.”

The footage rolls in slow motion on the screen. The D-line gets caught out of position on a breakaway and gives up a shot on net that pings off the post. That’s me there on the left, and watching my dumb ass scramble to chase down the shooter puts a pit in stomach.

“Right here,” Coach says. “We checked out mentally. Got caught puck watching. It only takes a second to lose focus and then bam, we’re playing catch-up.”

He fast-forwards the tape. This time it’s Hunter, Foster and Jesse who can’t string their passes together.

“Come on, ladies. This is basic stuff you’ve been doing since you were five. Soft hands. Visualize where your teammates are. Get open. Follow through.”

Around the room, we’re all taking hits to our overinflated egos. That’s the thing about Coach; he doesn’t suffer divas. For a few weeks now we’ve felt damn near invincible on our rise to the top. Now that we’ve got our fiercest opponents ahead of us, it’s time to get our feet back on the ground. That means taking our licks in practice.

“Wherever that puck is, I want three guys ready to take it,” Coach continues. “I don’t ever want to see someone standing around looking for an open man. If we want to square up to Brown or Minnesota, we need to play our game. Quick passes. High pressure. I want to see confidence behind the stick.”

My coach back in LA was a real son of a bitch. The kind of guy who burst into a room screaming and shouting, slamming doors and throwing chairs. At least twice a season he’d get ejected from a game, then come to the next practice and take it all out on us. Sometimes we deserved it. Other times, it was like he needed to exorcise forty years of shame and inadequacy on a bunch of dumb kids. No wonder the hockey program was shit.

Because of him I almost didn’t bother going out for the team when I transferred to Briar, but I knew the program’s reputation and had heard good things. Coach Jensen was a relief. He can be hard on us, but he’s never malicious. Never so focused on sport he forgets he’s coaching real people. One thing I’ve never doubted is that Coach Jensen cares about every one of these guys. Even busted Hunter out of jail last semester. For that, we’d follow him anywhere, toenails be damned.

“Alright, that’s it for today. I want everyone to check in with the nutritionist and make sure you’re clear on the meal plans for the next few weeks. We’re going to be pushing ourselves harder than we have all season. That means I want you guys taking care of your bodies. If you’ve got bangs and bumps, get with the trainers and have them evaluated. Now’s not the time to hide any issues. Every man needs to know he can count on the guy next to him. Okay?”

“Hey, Coach?” Hunter speaks up. He sighs, cringing. “The guys were wondering if we could get an update on the mascot situation.”

“The pig? You idiots are still on about the damn pig?”

“Uh, yeah. In the absence of Pablo Eggscobar, some of the boys are experiencing withdrawals.”

I snicker under my breath. Not gonna lie, I kinda miss our stupid egg mascot too. He was a cool dude.

“Jesus Christ. Yes, you’re getting your damn pet. Sometime in August, last I heard. There is an absurd amount of paperwork involved in the acquisition of a swine for non-agricultural purposes. Okay? Satisfied, Davenport?”

“Yup yup. Thanks, Coach.”

We all start getting up to leave, conversations breaking out while guys head for the doors.

“Oh, hang on,” Coach booms.

Everyone halts, like good little soldiers.

“Almost forgot. Word’s come down from the higher-ups that our attendance is required at some alumni grip-and-grin Saturday afternoon.”

Groans and protests erupt.

“What, why?” Matt Anderson calls from the back of the room.

“Oh, come on, Coach,” Foster whines.

Beside me, Gavin is pissed. “That’s bullshit.”

“What’s a grip-and-grin?” Bucky asks. “Sounds like we’re supposed to be jerking them off or something.”

“Essentially,” Coach replies. “Listen, I hate these things, too. But when the provost says jump, the athletic director says how high.”

“But we’re the ones doing the jumping,” Alec protests.

“Now you’re getting it. These things are all about kissing ass for cash. The university counts on these little dog-and-pony shows to support things like athletics and building you princesses fancy training facilities. So get your suits pressed, comb your hair, for fuck’s sake, and be on your best behavior.”

“Does this mean I’m going to be getting my ass pinched by rich cougars?” The whole room laughs when Jesse raises his hand to speak. “Because I’m cool with taking one for the team, but my girlfriend is the jealous type and I’m gonna need a note or something on letterhead if she asks me about this.”

“I’d like to go on record as stating I find this premise sexist and exploitative,” Bucky chimes in.

In a flat tone that suggests he’s well sick of our shit, Coach digs his fingers into his eyes and recites from what I assume is Briar’s code of conduct.

“It is university policy that no student shall be required to behave in an unethical or immoral manner, or that which may conflict with their sincerely held religious or spiritual beliefs. The university is an equal opportunity institution based on high academic achievement and does not discriminate on the basis of gender, sexual orientation, economic status, religion or lack thereof, or the temperament of your girlfriend. Satisfied, everyone?”

“Thanks, Coach!” Bucky says with an exaggerated thumbs-up. Dude is going to give him an aneurism one of these days.

But Jesse and Bucky aren’t that off base. There’s something fundamentally broken about a system that has us paying fifty grand a year to still be treated like prostitutes. Those of us who aren’t here on a free ride at least, like myself.

If there’s one thing I’m good at, though, it’s playing the boy toy.

I’ll say this much for these bunch of goons, we sure clean up nice. The team came looking sharp in our best attire on Saturday afternoon. Beards trimmed. Hair gelled. Bucky even plucked his nose hairs, as he made sure to inform us all.

The alumni luncheon is being held in Woolsey Hall on campus. So far, it’s consisted of listening to a bunch of people get up and talk about how Briar made them the men and women they are today, giving back, school spirit, blah, blah, blah. The assigned seating cards have split up the athletics department, along with representatives of the Greeks, student government, and a handful of other notable student organizations, among the many tables with the alumni guests. Mostly it’s been smile, nod, laugh at their bad jokes, and tell them, yes sir, we’re taking the championship this year.

It’s not all bad, though. The food’s decent and there’s plenty of free booze. So at least I’ve got a little buzz going.

No matter how good I look in a suit, though, I still feel like they can smell it on me. The stench of poverty. The hospital stink of new money. All these rich assholes who probably spent most of their college years snorting coke through hundred-dollar bills from trust funds that have been earning interest since their ancestors were involved in the slave trade.

Seven months ago I showed up at Briar a punk-ass kid from LA. Exactly the type the good folks of Ivy institutions prefer to have mopping their floors rather than attending classes. A stepfather with deep pockets, however, does wonders for one’s image in the eyes of the admissions board.

Yeah, I clean up nice, but shit like this reminds me I’m not one of them. I’ll never be one of them.

“Mr. Edwards.” The older woman seated next to me has what looks like the entirety of the Queen’s jewels hanging off her neck. She slides one boney hand over my thigh and leans into me. “Would you be a dear and see if you can rustle a lady up a gin and tonic? Wine gives me a headache.” She smells like cigarettes, peppermint gum, and expensive perfume.

“Sure thing.” Hoping she can’t pick up on my relief, I excuse myself from the table, thankful to break away for a bit.

Outside the main ballroom I find Hunter, Foster, and Bucky at the cocktail bar, where the catering staff is packing up after the hors d’oeuvre reception.

“Can I bother you for a gin and tonic?” I ask the bartender.

“Yeah, no problem.” He starts pouring the drink. “More bottles I empty, less I have to carry out of here.”

“Gin and tonic? Bro, when did you become my grandmother?” Bucky jokes.

“It’s not for me. It’s for my cougar.”

Hunter snorts and sips his beer.

“Please don’t laugh. A couple more gin and tonics and she’ll legit be trying to hop on my dick.” I nod at the bartender for permission, then steal one of the Stellas he’s got sitting in a box on the floor.

“From what I hear,” Foster says, “your dick’s been pretty busy this week.”

I pop the cap on my beer with the ring I wear on my right middle finger. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Way I hear it, you spent the night with a Kappa last Friday and jumped right into bed with a Tri-Delt on Thursday.”

It sounds crass when he says it that way. But yeah, I suppose that’s how it looks. He doesn’t know, of course, that Taylor and I shared a lovely platonic evening of conversation. And I can’t defend her honor without also blowing her cover. I trust these guys, but it’s inevitable that anything I say gets back to their girls and, well, people talk.

“Who told you about the Delta hookup?” I ask curiously, because Natalie’d snuck me into the sorority house after midnight. Apparently the Delta house has some ridiculous rule about dudes sleeping over.

“She did,” Foster answers, snickering.

I furrow my brow. “Huh?”

Bucky slides his phone from his pocket. “Oh yeah, we all saw that pic. Hold on.” He taps the screen a few times. “Yeah, here it is.”

I peer at Bucky’s Instagram feed. And yup, there’s Natalie in a selfie giving the camera a thumbs-up while I’m in the lower corner of the frame, sound asleep. Below it, the caption reads, Look who scored. #Briarhockeyhottie #StickIt #BuzzerBeater #Goooaaalll

Real nice.

“I give it high marks for lighting and composition,” Foster says, laughing. Jackass.

“Hashtag puckbunny,” Bucky adds. “Hashtag—”

I take the gin and tonic from the bartender and head back inside to deliver it, shooting a middle finger at the guys as I leave.

It’s not the ribbing that bothers me. Or even the picture, really. I just feel kind of…cheap. Someone’s fuck for likes. I might be a little promiscuous, but I don’t treat women like conquests. A simple exchange of physical pleasure, where everyone gets what they want and no lies are told, is perfectly healthy. Why go and make the other person feel like a piece of meat?

Then again, I guess it isn’t any more than I deserve. Act like a fuckboy, get treated like a fuckboy.

When I return to the ballroom, the concert jazz band is playing and the plates from lunch have been cleared. Most of the guests have taken to the dance floor now, including my bejeweled cougar. I set the drink on the table and have a seat, praying that nobody comes over to force me to dance. So far, so good. I sip my beer and people-watch. Soon, a conversation a couple tables away catches my ear.

“Oh please. Don’t give her so much credit. It was a dare, okay? It’s not like he was hitting on her or something.”

“Trust me,” a girl’s voice answers, “I heard what was going on in there. He saw those porn star tits and ass and probably figured as long as he fucked her from behind, he wouldn’t have to look at her butter face.”

“I’d bang Taylor’s body with your face,” a dude responds.

My fingers tighten over the beer bottle. These asshats are talking about Taylor?

“Are you kidding me, Kevin? Say that again and I’ll put your balls in my flat iron.”

“Damn, Abigail, I’m kidding. Down, girl.”

Abigail. Taylor’s sorority sister who made her take that stupid dare?

I spare a quick peek over my shoulder. Yeah, that’s her. I remember her standing in the hall at the Kappa house when I made my walk of shame that morning. She’s sitting with a group of Kappas I recognize from the party, and a few other guys. Taylor was right; she’s a grade-A bitch.

Assuming she must be here somewhere, I scan the room for Taylor, but I can’t find her.

“You know she wants to be a teacher?” another girl says. “She’ll totally end up like one of those chicks who gets pregnant banging their students.”

“Oh, dude, she should do teacher porn,” one of the guys responds. “Those double Ds would make mad money.”

“How does anyone still make money on porn? Isn’t that shit free now?”

“You should see the stuff we have on video from pledge week. It would crash your spank bank.”

It isn’t until the cougar returns for her gin and tonic and leaves a smudged lipstick print on my cheek that I realize my fists are clenched under the table and I’ve been holding my breath. I’m not entirely sure what to make of that. These people suck, yeah, but why I am getting all bent out of shape about a girl I knew for one night? My teammates always joke that nothing ever fazes me, and normally they’re right—I’m very good at letting shit slide off my shoulders. Especially when it doesn’t directly pertain to me.

But this entire conversation is pissing me off.

“You see that Delta’s post on Insta? Conor wasn’t even coming back to Taylor for seconds.”

“Some girls are just made to be one-night stands. That’s her place,” Abigail says, her tone smug. “Landing a guy like Conor is an unattainable goal for Taylor. The sooner she realizes that, the happier she’ll be. It’s sad, really.”

“Omigod! I bet she’s already doodling Taylor Loves Conor on her notebooks.”

“Writing Taylor Edwards in blood in her diary.”

They laugh, rolling all over themselves. Assholes.

It crosses my mind to go over there, confront them. Taylor didn’t do anything to deserve this shit. She’s a cool chick. Smart, funny. It’s been a long time since I’ve actually wanted to spend a whole night talking to a total stranger. And not because she was a pity case or I needed an alibi. I had a legit good time with her. These assholes aren’t allowed to talk smack about—

Speak of the devil.

My shoulders stiffen when I catch sight of Taylor walking in my direction. Her head is bent, engrossed with her phone. She’s wearing a knee-length black dress, a short pink cardigan buttoned up to her neck, and her hair in a messy bun at the nape of her neck.

I remember the way she’d lamented about her curves, and I honestly don’t get it. Taylor’s body is a thousand times more appealing to me than, say, Abigail’s scrawny one. Women are supposed to be soft and curvy and squeezable. I’m not sure when they were brainwashed into thinking otherwise.

My mouth goes a bit dry as Taylor approaches. She looks really fucking good tonight. Sexy. Elegant.

Undeserving of these people’s scorn.

Something compels me. A sense of justice, maybe. The triumph of good over evil. I get a tickle on the back of my neck, the one that says I’m about to have a stupid idea.

As she passes the table beside mine, unaware of me sitting here, I jump to my feet to catch her.

“Taylor, hey! Why didn’t you call me?” I say loud enough to draw the attention of Abigail and her group two tables away.

Taylor blinks, stunned and rightfully confused.

Come on, babe. Play along.

I implore her with my eyes as I repeat myself, my tone extra forlorn. “Why didn’t you call me?”