Famous Last Words: A College Hockey Romance (Holt Hockey Book 1)

The noise hits first. I look around in shock as I step inside Holt’s hockey arena for the second time. Rather than silence and the smell of stale sweat, the chilled air is buzzing with anticipation and excitement. Crowds of people mill around, families and older couples from Somerville. And then lots and lots of students.

Eve and Ben look stunned. Eve wanted to join me when she found out I was coming to Conor’s home game tonight and Ben decided to tag along too.

“I guess we should find seats?” I suggest, eyeing the packed bleachers dubiously.

They’re filled with shirtless guys with painted chests and girls in tight tops holding homemade signs. I read a few signs. It’s impossible to miss Hart and 15 are featured on most.

I lead the way up the center aisle. The stands close to the ice are all packed. There’s a space about halfway up that I aim for. Even managing that requires some jostling of spectators who already snagged seats. We should have arrived earlier, I guess. I figured it would be busier than the basketball game. I wasn’t expecting…this.

“Wow,” Eve states, echoing my thoughts as she takes the seat next to me. Ben sits down on her other side. “I had no idea anyone at Holt had this amount of school spirit.”

“Wish we had these many people show up to our film screenings,” Ben grumbles. Eve pats his arm consolingly.

“So…which number is your boyfriend?” Eve pretty much shouts the question as her attention turns to me.

The two girls seated directly in front of us both look back.

I glare at my best friend. “He’s not my boyfriend,” I hiss.

“He’s slept over at our house twice this week. I don’t think that’s the definition of a one-night stand, Harlow.”

I have no good response to that.

Eve’s right. First Conor came over after his away game on Tuesday. And then last night he stopped by after his film session. We had sex, then fell asleep.

The whole thing felt very relationship-y. But we’re not in one, which Conor made clear and I haven’t lost sight of. We’re a series of one-night stands, I guess. The sex is incredible and I like being around him. There’s no reason to put a label on it.

Players appear on the ice, and Eve gets distracted. Gray jerseys appear at one end first, then Holt’s cobalt blue on the opposite end. Both teams whizz around in rapid circles, passing pucks and sending shots at the hulky body centered between the iron posts of the goal. A few players squat on the ice closer to the circle at the center. The splits and stretches are honestly…sexual. I recall Conor coaching me about butt kicks, and smirk to myself.

I can’t find him.

I scan over the jerseys, looking for number fifteen. He’s not by the goal or one of the guys stretching.

Finally, I spot him by the bench.

He’s leaning across the boards, talking to a gray-haired man who must be the head coach. Their expressions are serious as they alternate speaking.

I’m worried something is seriously wrong when Conor suddenly grins. His coach slaps his shoulder and then he spins, putting his helmet on in one effortless motion as he eats up the end of the ice in rapid strokes.

He stops by the Holt goal, sending a spray of white shavings into the boards. Talks to the goalie, Willis, who pulls his mask up and sprays some water into his mouth, nodding along to whatever Conor is telling him. Both guys laugh, and then Conor joins the line of guys waiting to take shots on goal. One of the blue jerseys stretching gets up and skates toward him. 34 and Phillips is on the back of his jersey. Aidan, I realize.

They continue skating circles. Shooting toward goal. About half of the shots go in. I’m not sure if that’s good or not. I want Holt to score and I also want Willis to keep pucks out of their goal.

Both of Conor’s shots find the back of the net. I know they don’t count for anything, but I experience a jolt of pride each time. Like he’s mine to be proud of. Which he’s not, but I let myself pretend. Just for the game.

There are two minutes left on the giant clock above the scoreboard when all the blue jerseys gather by their goal.

“What’s going on?” Eve asks me.

“No idea,” I reply, looking for Conor.

I find him right by the opening of the goal. His helmet is off again, revealing his intense expression as he runs a hand through his hair. His lips start moving, and I realize why the whole team is gathered around him, leaning on sticks and nodding.

He’s talking to them. Leading them.

The gray jerseys at the opposite end are still circling, most of the heads turned toward Holt’s end to try and figure out what’s going on down there, why they’ve stopped warming up.

Conor says something, and all of Holt’s sticks hit the ice rapidly and repeatedly, like they’re clapping for him.

Then they’re all skating toward the Holt bench.

Most of the blue jerseys file off the ice. Conor and four other players remain on the ice, plus the hulking shape of their goalie.

This time they gather around the coach Conor was talking to before.

A loud buzzer sounds, indicating the end of warm-up time.

The loudspeaker crackles to life, welcoming everyone to the game and running through emergency procedures. The national anthem plays, only twelve players on the ice. I can’t see the back of the Holt players’ jerseys as they turn toward the flag, but I don’t need to.

I know which one he is.

The confident stance.

The way all the other players keep glancing at him.

I tune out the introductions for the other teams’ starting line-up. The rink is the quietest it’s been since we arrived.

It grows gradually louder, as Willis is introduced.

The two Holt defensemen.

Then “Robby Sampson!” Applause.

“Aidan Phillips!” More applause.

There’s a pause. A deliberate one, it feels like.

“And your captain and leading scorer…CONOR HART!”

My ears are still ringing a minute later from the eruption of noise that follows his introduction.

Eve glances at me but says nothing. Or if she does, I can’t hear it.

The players all take their positions on the ice, Conor in the very center of the rink. The referee says something that has him nodding, then there’s a flash of black as the puck gets dropped. All the players react immediately, like sprinters responding to a starting gun.

Conor playing hockey is grace and power and poetry in motion. It’s even more breathtaking that watching him circle the ice solo was. This time, I can tell how much faster and quicker he is than every other player on the ice. Witness the way he blows past them like they’re motionless. Steals the puck like it’s easy.

I’ve always viewed hockey as a brutal, bloody sport. One that appeals to base instincts and bruised knuckles. Filled with pushing and shoving and hate. There is some of that taking place, evidence of how Conor got the bruise that’s still stretching across his ribs, but it’s also…beautiful.

Precise shots.

Sprays of ice shavings flying.

I don’t think about how complicated my feelings toward one particular player have become. I don’t think about how Hugh Garrison has never seen his son play hockey. I don’t think about how much Landon Garrison would hate that I’m sitting in Holt’s rink right now.

I just…watch.

I don’t follow all the nuances. Reading game recaps or watching a game with my dad didn’t leave me with any vast understanding of what each penalty means or why the refs randomly blow whistles. I can’t hear what any of the players are saying when they argue on the ice. I have no way of anticipating what circle they will line up in. No idea why one gray jersey gets sent to the penalty box ten minutes into the game.

But I can appreciate the speed and intensity. It resounds throughout the arena with each rattle of the boards and every roar of the crowd.

I spend all of the game watching Conor. He seems to tower over all the other guys on the ice. The 15 emblazoned on the back of his jersey in white is a stark contrast to Holt’s blue jerseys, the same way each Holt player stands out against the white-gray colored ice.

He flies across the frozen surface effortlessly, hurtling toward the tiny, black circle they’re all chasing after. You don’t need to have seen a hockey game before to tell that he’s on a whole different playing field in comparison to the rest of the players.

Conor barrages the opposing goalie with shot after shot after shot. The rest of Holt’s team keeps passing to him, assisting with the single-man assault even as the gray jerseys try to congregate around Conor, knowing who Holt’s star player is. They come for Conor over and over again.

Hunter Morgan has never treated me with the same friendliness Aidan does. But I clap and cheer for him after he sends a gray jersey headed for Conor into the boards with a slam that makes my teeth rattle.

It happens suddenly.

My ears adjusted to the noisy arena, I guess, because the thunderous roar takes me off guard. So does the loud buzzer and the flash of light at one end of the ice. All of the blue jerseys are suddenly huddled in one spot.

Eve figures out what happened before I do.

“We scored!” she screams.

Under most circumstances, I would tease Eve for her enthusiasm. She spent most of the basketball game we went to discussing art with Mary, despite it being her idea to go to the game in the first place.

But I’m too busy yelling right along with the crowd to judge anyone’s reaction. Even Ben seems to have gotten over his irritation about the disconnect between Holt students’ appreciation for cinema and hockey. He’s clapping and whistling right along with the rest of us.

The loudspeaker crackles to life. “Holt University goal scored by number fifteen, Conor Hart. Assisted by number twenty-two, Hunter Morgan. Time of the goal, thirteen minutes and thirty-two seconds into the second period.”

Conor’s goal seems to set off a domino effect. Aidan Phillips scores a couple of minutes later. Then a sophomore whose name I don’t recognize. Then Conor again.

Holt is ahead by four goals to nothing with only three minutes left on the clock. Fifty-seven seconds tick by, and the other team pulls their goalie. Conor gains possession of the puck and zips down the ice like a blue bullet. I wait for him to shoot it between the pipes, but he doesn’t. He passes it across the ice to a player wearing the number seventeen.

I didn’t memorize the team roster, so I have no idea who number seventeen is. But whoever he is, he sends the puck right into the net, prompting a fresh roar from the euphoric crowd. Five to nothing. That’s still the score when the time expires.

“Oh my God! We won.” Eve sounds half-shocked, half-happy. “We actually won!”

“The team is undefeated this season, Eve,” I tell her.

She sticks her tongue out at me before turning back to watch all the blue players celebrating on the ice as a line of gray disappears from sight.

I’m only focused on one.

“Wow,” Eve says, appearing in the opening that leads to the kitchen when I walk into the living room.

“What?” I say, grabbing my down coat off the hook and pulling it on over my sweater.

“You straightened your hair. Showered. You did the smoky eye you complain takes you twenty minutes. You’re wearing your sweater that shows the most cleavage. And…” She sniffs. “You used that fancy perfume your mom’s best friend got you.”

“So?”

“You like him, Harlow. You did not go through this much effort to hang out at a bowling alley.”

“It’s been a while since I dressed up. I just…felt like it.”

“Uh-huh.” Based on her tone, Eve is not buying it. Nor should she.

This is the problem with living with someone who knows you well. They know what music you want to listen to and your favorite brand of chocolate. They also know that you only straighten your hair for occasions deemed to have some special significance. To put those in context, I haven’t bothered to in months. Not since the party the oceanic research firm I worked at this past summer threw for my final day.

I’m very nervous about tonight. I told Conor it’s not a date. He doesn’t consider it a date. It’s a favor I’m still surprised he agreed to.

But tonight feels like a date. I thought there was a better chance of going out with a Hollywood actor than with Conor Hart.

But here I am, waiting for my best friend’s half-brother to pick me up. Because he offered to for our non-date.

Eve watches me closely as she moves around the kitchen. Probably fixing herself a bowl of popcorn to watch this uncomfortable scene unfold. I plop down on the couch and pull my phone out to avoid her discerning gaze.

The doorbell rings minutes later.

I stand and smooth my sweater. Eve returned from the movie she went to with Ben about ten minutes ago, so she wasn’t home to witness the embarrassing length of time it took to pick out the jeans and sweater I’m currently wearing. The simple outfit is deceptively well thought out. The jeans are my favorite: stretchy yet snug. The sweater I’m wearing is casual but not bulky enough to look careless. Underneath it, I’m wearing a lacy top.

Conor is standing with his hands in his pockets when I open the front door, staring off into space. He glances toward me when the hinges creak. Living in a perpetually damp climate means a lot of rust, I’ve learned.

He says nothing at first, just looks at me. The old bulb in the porch light is too dim for me to tell much from his expression. But it’s more than a cursory glance. Instead of his usual sweatpants, Conor is wearing jeans and a red Henley visible beneath his Holt Hockey jacket.

“Hey, Hayes,” he greets.

“Hi, Hart,” I reply, closing the door behind me.

It’s misting out—of course. I pull my hood up, so the fifteen minutes it took me to straighten my hair weren’t a total waste.

Conor says nothing else as we walk to his SUV. It’s the first time I’ve ever been in his car. There are a couple of empty water bottles in the cupholders, but the front seat is mostly clean. He’s got one of those cheap pine air fresheners you can buy at a gas station hanging from his rearview mirror.

A folded paper falls out of the door pocket and into the footwell when I close the car door. I pick it up as Conor tosses the water bottles into the backseat, my eyes drawn to a large, red A. My eyes widen. I glance up to find Conor’s on me.

“What?” he asks.

I turn the paper so he can see what I’m looking at. “Impressive.”

Conor shrugs, nonchalant.

I scan the heading. It’s for an African American literature class. “You’re an English major?”

“Yeah,” he confirms.

“I would have guessed business,” I admit.

Conor’s lips quirk as I call out the stereotypical jock course of study. “I wouldn’t have guessed marine biology. Did you see any whales this morning?” he asks.

There’s a funny flip in my stomach, realizing he remembered how I spend my Saturday mornings and is bothering to ask about it.

“Not this morning, no. Sam got a good haul in though. He, uh, he said to tell you congrats about the win last night. So, congrats.”

“What did you think of the game?”

“It was great. You were great. The team played great.”

I cringe, after possibly setting a record for using the word great in a very short time span.

I didn’t text Conor after going to his game last night, and I’m not sure why. I couldn’t come up with anything more original to say than good game. And it felt like I should say something more meaningful. Since I couldn’t come up with anything I sent him nothing.

Part of me thought he might have texted me. But he didn’t. I assume he celebrated with the team last night. Maybe with other people too.

“So…great?”

There’s a teasing lilt to his lips when I glance over.

“I don’t really know how to describe it. It was nothing like I was expecting. It was so loud and exciting and it was…you were one of the guys playing.”

“Did I forget to mention I was on the team, or something?”

I huff a laugh. “It was different seeing you play, that’s all.”

“Different how?”

“I don’t know. I cared more about how it ended, I guess.”

I’m saying way too much. I don’t just care about the score. I was invested…in him.

“I’m glad you came,” Conor says.

“Yeah, me too.”

We drive in silence for a few minutes.

He speaks first. “You didn’t tell me Thomas asked you out.”

I glance over at him, not expecting the subject change. “Why would I? And how do you know that?”

“It came up.”

“Came up with who?” I ask.

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Then why are you mentioning it?”

“It just would have been nice to know, before I agreed to this,” he tells me.

“Why? I thought you were friends with him.”

Conor mutters something that sounds like Not anymore.

“We had a humanities class together last spring.”

“Did you go out with him?” Conor asks.

“No.”

“Did you…sleep with him?”

My mouth drops open. “Are you—are you serious right now? How the hell is that any of your business?”

“We’re going on a double date with him. I’m just trying to figure out how awkward this is going to be.”

Conor pulls into the bowling alley’s parking lot. I climb out of his car as soon as it’s stopped.

“Harlow!”

I keep walking.

“Harlow!” Conor grabs my arm, forcing me to spin around. He must have jogged to catch up to me, but he’s not even winded. Stupid, in-shape guy.

“What?” I snap.

“I’m sorry, okay? It’s none of my business. I just…” He exhales. “I saw Thomas last night and he said some shit about you and it—I’m sorry.”

“What sort of shit?”

Conor’s jaw works. “Let’s just say he’s not coming on this outing because he’s interested in your friend.”

I look away. “Do you think he’ll say something to her?”

“No. Thomas doesn’t like to rock the boat. He just wanted to make sure you were going to the hockey team party later.”

“Well, I’m not.”

Conor’s forehead wrinkles. “What do you mean, you’re not?”

“I wasn’t invited.”

“Wasn’t invited—” He laughs. “Harlow, come on. What are you talking about?”

“I didn’t know the hockey team was having a party tonight. I figure it was last night, and that’s where you were.”

“I was with Aidan and Hunter,” Conor tells me.

“And Clayton.”

“Yeah, he and a bunch of guys showed up for beer and video games later.”

“Sounds like a blast.”

Conor studies me for a few seconds. “I don’t know what you’re upset about,” he finally says.

“Nothing. I-I just thought you might text me last night.”

“I was going to. Then the guys showed up and I just… I figured you were busy.”

That’s flattering, I guess. Because I was busy staring at my phone, alternating between wondering what to text him and wishing he’d text me. Pathetic.

“You’re invited tonight, all right? This is me, inviting you.”

“Hart! Harlow!”

We both turn, watching Clayton approach. He slaps hands with Conor and then hugs me. Conor’s hands fist at his sides before he shoves them into his pockets.

The parking lot is dark and chilly, so we head inside to wait for Mary to arrive.

It smells like a concession stand inside, trays of greasy pizza and rotating pretzels to the left as soon as we walk in. The carpet is a swirl of orange and purple. There’s a long counter spanning a dozen feet to the right. A middle-aged man is standing at it, looking like he’d love to be elsewhere.

We all give our shoe sizes and he hands the ugly shoes over.

It’s been a long time since I’ve been bowling. Probably at a birthday party when I was little.

Mary shows up a couple of minutes later, blushing bright red as soon as she sees Clayton. I’m relieved when he hugs her, then leads her to the counter to get her shoes.

I glance at the lanes, watching a father help his daughter lift a ball from the rack. My chest squeezes, the way it often does when I see little kids with their parents. I got seventeen years, I remind myself. That’s more than lots of people get. And a hell of a lot better than nothing.

“Are you any good at bowling?” Conor asks me.

“No,” I reply. I keep my eyes on the lanes instead of looking over at him. I’m still unsettled from our conversation earlier, and I have no idea how to act around him as a result.

“Do you think Mary is any good?”

“She’s more artistic than athletic.”

“Good. Then we’ll probably beat Thomas.”

“If you want to win, why don’t you play with him?” I snap.

“Because we’re on a fake date, Hayes. And if I play with Thomas, I can’t beat him.”

“I thought you two were friends. That’s the whole reason I invited you, to make this less awkward. Not more.”

“Yeah, well, I started feeling a lot less friendly toward Thomas last night.”

I finally look at him. “What the hell did he say to you?”

Mary and Clayton join us before Conor can answer. I’m not sure he would have, anyway.

We move to our assigned lane and swap out street shoes for the uncomfortable bowling ones.

“Why couldn’t they be cute?” I groan as I pull the left one on. “Or just more comfortable. I feel like my feet are strapped to a wooden board.”

Mary smiles sympathetically. The guys ignore me.

I still have no clue what happened between Clayton and Conor last night, but there’s definitely some strange, hostile energy humming in the air.

“I’ll start off?” Clayton suggests.

“Sure,” I say.

Clayton heads toward the ball rack, grabbing a red one off of it and pausing at the top of the lane. Then he flings the ball forward. It starts straight, then veers toward the right. Only one pin gets knocked down before the ball drops out of sight. Clayton grabs another ball, throwing this one with a little more force. This time, he hits two pins.

He turns back toward us with a grimace. “Three out of ten. Not great.”

“Sounds like your season record.”

I shoot Conor a Cut it out look for that comment.

“I’m gonna go grab a beer,” Clayton says. “Anyone else want one?”

“No, I’m good,” I reply. “Thanks.”

“I’ll take one,” Mary says.

“Hart?”

“Nah, I’m good,” Conor replies.

Clayton nods. “I’ll be right back. Want to come, Mary?”

She nods eagerly.

“What the hell are you doing?” I hiss at Conor, as soon as they’re out of earshot.

“What?”

“You, turning a bowling game into a pissing match. Who cares what the basketball team’s record is?”

“Not me,” Conor says. “And not many people. I think they’re more like two and twelve by now.”

“If you’re going to be a dick, you should just leave.”

“I’m your ride.”

“I’ll walk home. Or get a ride with Mary.”

Conor exhales. “I won’t say anything else, okay?”

I don’t reply. Because, pathetically, I don’t want him to leave.

“Do you drink?” he asks suddenly.

“What?”

“Alcohol. Do you drink alcohol?”

“I—what?”

“You turned it down just now, and I realized—I’ve never seen you drink.”

“Yeah, I do. Just not that often.”

He nods.

“What about you? Why aren’t you drinking?”

“I don’t drink during the season,” Conor tells me. “And even if I did…I wouldn’t tonight.”

“Why not?”

“You’re probably the last person I ever thought would be promoting drinking and driving, Hayes. If you’re in my car, I’ll be stone fucking sober.”

I look away. I keep forgetting Conor knows my past. And I try not to care, that he wouldn’t have anything to drink before driving me, but it’s not very successful.

“Want to show me your bowling technique while the competition is off getting wasted?” he asks.

“No.”

I glance toward the concession stand, just to make sure that Mary is good. She’s beaming, I’m relieved to see. But there’s no sign of anyone at the bar, which makes me think this will be an extended delay. We haven’t even gotten through one frame yet.

“Fine,” I say. “I’ll bowl once and then you can give me pointers.”

I stand and grab a purple ball from the rack.

The pins have all been replaced at the end of the lane from Clayton’s turn. I stick my fingers into the three tiny holes and test the weight of the ball.

I line up in the center on the lane, relax my fingers so they’ll slip out of the ball, and am about to send it flying toward what I hope will be a strike when a hand curves around my waist. I startle, almost dropping the heavy sphere I’m holding on my foot.

“What are you doing?” I snap at Conor. “I was in the zone.”

“You were about to throw a gutter ball,” he informs me.

“No, I wasn’t! I was perfectly lined up to—”

“Throw a gutter ball,” Conor finishes.

I grit my teeth. “Do you boss the hockey team around this much?”

“Yup,” Conor replies cheerfully. “Checked our season record lately?”

“The deal was I bowl and then you provide commentary.”

Conor sighs. “Fine.”

He steps back. I let the ball fly…directly into the gutter. When I spin back around, Conor doesn’t make any attempt to mask his smug smile. At least he doesn’t say I told you so.

Instead, he steps forward again, handing me another ball. I’m expecting his hands to touch me this time, but my body reacts like it’s a surprise. Goose bumps erupt on my skin as his touch somehow sears through the two layers I’m wearing.

“Turn your hips like this. Drop your shoulder…” Conor makes the adjustments to my body himself, so I tune out the specific instructions. I just listen to the murmur of his deep voice speaking so close to my ear.

His hand lingers on my waist, then slides toward my ass.

I hiss his name. “There are little kids right next to us.”

There’s a low chuckle.

Next, his thumb is rubbing along the exposed skin between my sweater and jeans. I lean back into him without deciding to, my body responding to the touch that’s become familiar. Conor shocks me by kissing the top of my head before stepping away.

“Try it again.”

My anger has dissipated, my body missing his. But I refocus, the wooden lane, the people around us, the ugly carpet all rushing back into my awareness.

This time, I knock down eight pins.

A flock of butterflies appears in my stomach when I see Conor’s proud expression.

Clayton and Mary return with frothy cups of beer. Mary bowls next.

Just as I predicted to Conor, Mary’s bowling isn’t all that impressive. She rolls a gutter ball on her first try. I smile when Clayton gets up to help her with her second attempt down the lane. She manages to hit four pins and they celebrate together.

Conor rolls a strike on his first try.

Clayton chugs half his beer.

And despite what I assured Conor, I feel like I’m on a date.