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

We lost.

We fucking lost.

I prepared for this possibility, or at least I thought I had.

There are never any guarantees in sports. I know that better than anyone. Ever since we started the season, I’ve known that losing a game could happen. At first, I thought it was inevitable. But at some point, the longer it didn’t happen, the more I felt invincible. The more I thought it could not happen.

And I wanted that undefeated season. Wanted it so badly I could taste it.

And it’s gone. Just like a professional career probably is.

I drop my head in my hands, staring down at my skates and waiting for the rest of the guys to come into the locker room. The insulation in here is terrible. I heard the final buzzer a few minutes ago. They’re probably shaking hands right now.

I should be out there. I won a fucking leadership award last night, and I can’t put on a brave face and take one loss without hiding away.

I just…couldn’t. Couldn’t stare at the red numbers displaying that final, losing score, knowing it would be burned into my brain forever. If I don’t get signed, if this season is my last one, I know I’ll trace it back to this moment. To the beginning of the end.

Maybe I would have never made it anyway. But I’ll never know. This will always haunt me as a what if. Captain of an undefeated team sounds a hell of a lot better than captain of a team with thirty-four wins and one loss does.

If Edgewood was better, it would have been one thing. If they’d deserved the victory, I could have stomached this loss better.

But they didn’t deserve it. We could’ve beaten them. Should’ve beaten them.

And it’s my fucking fault.

I didn’t prepare this week, the way I should have. I didn’t get more than a few hours of sleep last night, because every time I got a glimpse of my cum leaking out of Harlow, I’d get hard all over again. And after she left to go out on Sam’s boat this morning, I lay awake, trying to decide what to say to her at dinner tonight.

I was sluggish and distracted, and now I have to face the team of guys who I just let down.

The sound of skates trampling rubber reaches me. I lift my head and square my shoulders.

The team files in slowly.

I got used to celebrating in here. It’s been almost a year since we were last in here as losers. The two freshmen on the team have never lost a game in their entire college careers. Every dejected face I see makes me feel worse.

Aidan squeezes my shoulder before taking a seat on the bench beside me, and it’s worse than anything he could have said. There’s no smile. No joke about how I’m too serious.

“That was a shit call,” Hunter tells me. “Driscoll played it up.”

I nod, acknowledging his attempt to cheer me up. But all I can hear in my head is the echo of what he said when he found out about me and Harlow.

We’re all busting our asses, trying to get you your shot. You wanna tell the guys you were too busy getting laid to focus on winning?

That’s exactly what I have to tell them. Or imply, at least.

Hockey is a team sport. And as long as I’ve been playing, I’ve had coaches tell me, There’s no I in team.

It’s true, and not just literally. Every guy in this locker room contributed to us getting this far in the season without taking a L. But there is an I in winning. And on every team I’ve ever played on, I’ve always been the star.

Football was more popular than hockey in Claremont, and Holt’s program hasn’t won a championship in forty years. Me scoring goals matters, and my only point tonight was an assist. Not only that, I took a sloppy penalty and left us short-handed when we should have been able to pull Willis and gain a man advantage.

I clear my throat. “My fault today, boys.”

Murmurs fill the locker room, of “You played well” and “We’ll get them next time” and a “Fucking Edgewood” from Aidan.

They’re all trying to make me feel better, and it makes me feel like shit for all the times I wished I was playing at a more competitive school with more talented teammates.

I don’t deserve to play with these guys, who relied on me to do my part while they did theirs. I wanted to win for them, not just for me. Wanted to be the one who put Holt Hockey on the map. Wanted people to hear the school’s name and say That’s where Conor Hart went. Maybe I’m being dramatic as fuck, but it feels like that all just slipped away.

Coach Keller steps into the locker room last, his clipboard tucked under one arm. He scans the room.

Usually, he comes in here and has to tell us all to settle down. Remind us of an early practice tomorrow and tell us not to get too rowdy celebrating tonight. Say there’s a long time until playoffs begin and throw in some adage about a cart not going before the horse. Stay gruff and unsmiling and act like we’re a bunch of immature idiots who never won a hockey game before.

Today? You could hear a pin drop on the rubber mats.

We’re all totally silent as the door slams shut behind Coach Keller.

“Tough loss. No way to sugarcoat that. We knew Edgewood would be a tough team, and they were. Get showered, get some food, and get some sleep. Tomorrow’s a new day, and it’s one we’ll start with an eight a.m. practice. Wanting has never been enough to earn anything, boys. And losing is a good incentive to work harder. I’m proud of you all. We win as a team, we lose as one too.”

Guessing that last sentence is aimed at me.

Coach Keller heads into his office, and the guys start to move and undress. Most of them have already showered by the time I start pulling off my equipment. I’m moving slowly on purpose, wanting the time alone. By the time I leave the showers, the locker room is empty. I get dressed in sweats and am zipping up my bag when the office door opens again.

“It’s not over yet, Conor.”

I nod, acknowledging the words even though they bounce off me like I’m wearing Kevlar. This was an ending.

Three years of coaching me, and Coach Keller has never used my first name before. He knows I’m beating myself up. Knows whatever criticisms he might make tomorrow are better than what I’m telling myself right now.

“See you tomorrow, Coach.”

He nods, his usual serious expression looking less severe.

Aidan and Hunter are waiting for me in the hallway, leaning against the wall. They each drove here separately, and my throat thickens at the silent show of support.

I’m sure they both heard me and Harlow last night, but there are no accusations. No told you so’s. Just quiet camaraderie as we head for the lobby. Neither of them says anything at all, which I appreciate. I’m not in the mood to talk. I need to sulk for a while, and then I’ll probably come back here after the arena’s been fully cleared out. Skate in circles until some of this weight on my chest lifts.

Our next game is Thursday. Almost a week for me to shake this funk and double down. Shoot harder. Skate faster.

“Are those Harlow’s folks?” Hunter’s question causes me to look up.

Harlow’s standing near the rope that’s been set up by the trophy case. She’s wearing my away jersey, just like she said she would, and my body automatically reacts to the sight.

But then I see who she’s standing next to, and everything around me tunnels.

The Garrisons are here. Landon is standing next to Harlow, saying something to her. Allison is talking to a couple of other women in the lobby. Based on their ages and her level of enthusiasm, I’d bet they’re people she knows from going to school here herself. If I’d had more options, I would have chosen a school with no connection to the Garrisons at all, but it was better than attending Brighton.

And my father?

Hugh is looking right at me, a sympathetic smile on his face that tells me he saw the game. That my dad watched me play for the first time, and this was the game that he witnessed.

There’s a hot creep of shame across my skin. Followed by disgust, that I even give a shit what he thinks. Anger that he came here, to my school, and is forcing me look at him for the first time in years.

Harlow spots me too. Steps forward, a smile forming on her face.

I keep walking.