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

The puck finds the back of the net, and I’m immediately mobbed. Three games into the season, and we’re undefeated. Despite the hockey team’s lackluster performance on the ice in past seasons, our stands are usually packed.

We may not always win, but we’re damn entertaining to watch lose.

At least, that’s what the girls who come up to me after games we lost say.

“That’s what I’m fucking talking about!” Hunter shouts in my ear as his stick hits my back. Robby claps me on the helmet with his glove.

The guys on the bench are all standing, banging their sticks against the boards. I swoop down the line, knocking gloves.

Scoring goals is expected of me, but it doesn’t make delivering on the points any less satisfying. I’m good at hockey, but even the greatest players have off days. So far, my senior season has been a consistent stretch of the best games of my college career. The timing couldn’t be better.

There are thirty seconds left in the game, but we don’t stop pressing.

Our opponent tonight, Burham University, hasn’t even been able to pull their goalie. We’re up by two goals. I feel good, and so do the rest of the guys.

The third period got off to a shaky start. I passed to Phillips instead of Powers, and Jeff was wide open. We got called on a sloppy penalty and almost gave up a power play goal. Small mistakes like those can get in your head, gnaw away at collective confidence. But we pulled it together. We’re holding it together.

The energy in the arena hums like a live wire: raw and exposed.

Twenty-five seconds.

I pass to Hunter. He passes to Robby. Robby passes back to me.

Fifteen seconds.

The poor guy assigned to defend me grimaces. He lunges, but I’m anticipating it. I send the puck along the boards, behind the goal, and onto Aidan’s waiting stick.

Five seconds.

Satisfaction creeps up my spine and spreads, chasing away the nerves. The fear that three wins was a fluke.

Four straight sounds more dominant.

Sounds like noise. Like momentum. Like hope.

The buzzer blares and the whole team mobs me. Despite the trials and disappointments in my hockey career, I don’t think I could be surrounded by a more supportive group of guys right now. So maybe some shit works out the way it’s meant to.

Aidan is celebrating like we just won the championship itself, and the packed stands seem on board with that level of enthusiasm. Screams and shouts reverberate off the high ceilings of Holt’s hockey arena, decorated by one solitary banner from decades ago. If I have my way, there will be a brand-new, brightly colored one hanging from the rafters in a matter of months.

The euphoria carries into the locker room. I’m tempted to tell the guys to cool it, that we’ve got a long way to go, but I don’t. It’s easy to get caught up in only celebrating the bigger victories in life. But smaller ones are worth appreciating too. The next joyful moment is never guaranteed.

“Nice work, boys,” Coach Keller compliments before heading into the small office that juts off the far side of our locker room. He pairs the words with a meager smile that causes us all to burst into applause.

The office door slams shut in response.

I laugh before heading to the showers.

Hunter, Aidan, and I decide to hit up our favorite Mexican place after we’ve changed for a post-game fuel up. It’s a hole-in-the-wall spot a couple of towns over from Somerville that we discovered sophomore year. There’s no line when we arrive, and I don’t waste any time before ordering two burritos. I just burned about a thousand calories.

Hunter has a thing about anyone eating food in his car and I’m too hungry to wait until we get to the party, so I take a seat in one of the rickety wooden chairs and dig in. The tortilla is still steaming, barely containing the rice, beans, veggies, and seasoned meat filling it. I finish the first burrito in about four bites and start in on the second at the same time Aidan takes a seat across from me.

“Thanks for waiting, Hart,” he tells me sarcastically before digging into his tacos. I’m too busy inhaling my second burrito to reply.

I’m finished eating before Hunter has even taken his seat, so I get up and order some chips and guacamole.

“Damn, that was good,” Aidan states, leaning back in his seat once he’s finished eating. The wooden folding chair creaks beneath his tall frame. “Now, I just need a few beers.”

“I’m not cleaning up your puke again,” I tell him.

Aidan rolls his eyes. “That happened freshman year. Once. But I’m not planning to sleep at the house tonight, anyway.”

Hunter and I exchange an amused glance. Neither of us is celibate by any stretch, but Aidan sees more ass than a public restroom’s toilet seat. Based on his drunken rambling the same night as the puke incident, I have my suspicions he’s trying to forget someone. Despite some of the debauchery I’ve seen them engage in, Aidan and Hunter are two of the most decent guys I’ve met. But we don’t discuss our pasts. A plan I’m fully on board with, for obvious reasons.

“Rebecca?” Hunter asks.

“No, that’s over,” Aidan replies.

“How come?”

Aidan shrugs. “I’m just over it.”

I snort.

“Don’t pretend like you didn’t ask me to borrow a condom last weekend, Hart.”

“What, you wanted it back?” Hunter laughs, glancing between the two of us. “I didn’t say a thing, Phillips. As long as it doesn’t affect hockey, you can fuck the whole state for all I care.”

My aversion to commitment is well known on the team. When it comes to women, at least. I have no issues dedicating elsewhere. Even if I hadn’t grown up with constant reminders of how a supposedly monogamous relationship can backfire, I doubt I’d be enthused about the idea of dating. When girls throw themselves at you on a regular basis, limiting your options doesn’t seem like the smartest move.

“Is Sarah coming tonight?” Hunter asks me.

“How the hell should I know?” I dunk a chip in guacamole.

Truthfully, if I bothered to read my unopened texts, I could tell him most, if not all, of the people who will be in attendance tonight.

“The Hartbreaker strikes again,” Aidan comments.

He got wind of the fact some girls on campus re-appropriated my last name at the start of the semester and has brought the stupid respelling up at least once a week since.

I know some guys who string girls along, worried they won’t get any if they don’t act like there’s a chance they’ll be in it for the long haul. I’m the exact opposite. I won’t hook up with a girl if she’s acting like she wants anything serious.

I’ve seen the destruction lies about intentions leaves behind, and I want no part in it.

“Conor the Hart-less,” Hunter adds.

I ball up my burrito wrappers and roll my eyes. “Are you two finished so we can leave?”

“Yeah, let’s go.”

Most of the hockey team is already in attendance when we arrive at the sophomore house. Sports teams tend to live together based on class year. Almost a third of the team this year are seniors, so Aidan, Hunter, and I got our own place. Tonight, the five sophomores are hosting. Their house is across the street from ours and close to downtown, meaning there will be a big influx once Gaffney’s stops serving. Our parties draw a large crowd regardless of their location, though.

I wander through the living room, stopping to talk with a few of the guys and rehashing parts of the game. Despite his small smile, I know Coach will have plenty of criticism to dish out at practice tomorrow morning. For now, I soak in the sweet sensation of victory along with the rest of the guys.

None of them are as serious about playing as I am. I’m a one-man wrecking ball headed for a championship trophy.

They all knew I would be. Know this season is it for me.

Knowing something and watching it take place are two different things, I guess.

Tonight, I felt my energy coursing through the rest of the team for the first time this season. Maybe some of them had doubts about whether we could pull it off. But I’m no longer the only guy on the team with trophy-shaped stars in my eyes.

It both eases the pressure and enhances it. A group goal is more achievable than a singular one. If the rest of the team is working just as hard, that takes some of the burden off of me to perform. But if we lose, I won’t just be letting myself down.

I eventually head toward the kitchen to grab a soda. I don’t drink any alcohol during the season. A few hours of loose inhibitions aren’t worth the headache or the sluggish skating the following morning. It’s never resulted in fantastic decision-making skills, either. The one time I didn’t remember to tell a girl it was just sex before the sex was after too many Heinekens sophomore year. I don’t think she appreciated the reminder mid-hook-up.

Sarah Clark approaches me as soon as I enter the kitchen.

“Hey, Conor.” She flashes me a bright smile that makes her dimples pop.

“Hey,” I reply, grinning back.

Sarah has always taken the just-sex line like a champ, and it’s the main reason she’s the closest thing I have to a regular hook-up. I’m mostly certain she wants nothing more from me. I’m completely certain I’ve made the fact I want nothing more clear to her.

I open the fridge and grab a can of soda out.

“Want anything?” I ask Sarah.

Contrary to what Harlow Hayes thinks, I can be a gentleman. I’m not a total ass. I do have a tendency to display some ass-ish traits around her, though. Something Aidan chewed me out for after the basketball party last weekend.

My life would be easier if she’d chosen a different college. Or better yet, remained in another country.

“Nah, I’m good. I just did a couple of shots,” Sarah tells me.

“Hunter?” I ask.

She laughs. “Yup.”

I roll my eyes. Hunter has a bizarre obsession with Jell-O, and it has resulted in every party the hockey team has ever thrown featuring alcohol encased in jiggly gelatin.

I see no appeal. Just another reason to stay sober.

More of my teammates wander into the kitchen, including Hunter, who starts making the rounds with his tray of wiggling cups. Some of the basketball guys approach, trailed by their own fangirls. I’m talking to Clayton Thomas when I catch a flash of red out of the corner of my eye and stiffen.

I’m distracted by a warm body rubbing up against me. “Conor, you played so well,” Emily Orens gushes.

“Thanks, babe,” I reply, then take a sip of soda.

Clayton grins. Hunter rolls his eyes from his spot next to me. I want to roll my eyes right back at him.

Like Hunter can judge. His pickup lines are terrible. Just tonight, I’ve heard him use Here I am. What are your other two wishes? and I seem to have lost my phone number. Can I have yours?

I’ve never put effort into picking up a girl. They’ve been flinging themselves at me since middle school.

But I’m not paying any attention to the girl doing so right now.

To any girl—except one.

Harlow is standing in the corner of the kitchen, and my eyes keep flickering over there.

I can’t focus on anything else. Not Emily rubbing up against me, not Hunter trying to talk me into downing one of his disgusting shots, not Sarah nodding toward the stairs, not any of the people coming over to congratulate me on the win.

Harlow talks to a blonde girl, then to Cole Smith, and then she’s all alone.

Fuck it.

I shake Emily’s hand off my forearm and approach Harlow’s spot by the stove. She’s looking at her phone, but not in the way one does when they’re bored and have nothing better to be doing.

Twin lines of concentration are furrowed between her eyebrows as she scrolls through something on the screen. Maybe she’s looking at one of the fifty-seven training apps designed for novice runners to learn how to increase their mileage. One guess on how I know that. Eight minutes of my life I’ll never get back.

“Why’d you ask me?”

Harlow startles.

A rap song is blaring from the speakers in the living room, but it’s the sound of my voice that has her jumping. She almost drops her phone, makes a desperate grab for it, then bangs her elbow on the edge of the marble countertop.

I almost apologize when she winces, but don’t.

She looks me up and down, and I think there’s a flicker of heat in her expression. But this is Harlow Hayes, so I’m probably misreading things. She did stare at me in the gym for a lot longer than necessary, though. Stupid as it sounds, second-guessing a girl’s attraction is a novel concept to me.

“Aidan.” Harlow shrugs like that’s a complete answer.

As if I don’t know why Phillips called me over when he was talking to her last weekend. As if she isn’t aware my teammates have no clue what my issue with her is or how deep the resentment runs.

“I play hockey. I’m not a runner.”

Things she knows.

Things I didn’t need to say.

Another small shrug. “You’re athletic.”

Harlow manages to make the simple statement sound like an insult. I’m surprised she’s bothering to respond to me at all. Equally shocked when I choose to keep the conversation going.

“So are the other guys on the team. You’re buddies with most of them.” I make how I feel about that friendliness clear in my voice.

Harlow rolls her eyes. Ones I’m just noticing are green. “I wouldn’t ask any of them.”

“But you asked me?”

“Obviously I asked you, or you wouldn’t be over here badgering me about it.”

She crosses her arms, drawing my attention to her chest. Unlike most of the half-dressed girls here, she’s wearing a cotton T-shirt that barely shows any cleavage. Unfortunately, the top still looks good on her. Really good. I’d never hook up with her, but it’s an unfortunate reminder…she’s hot as hell.

“Something on my shirt, Hart?”

Busted.

Harlow has more sass than I was expecting.

It should be a turn-off. It’s not.

“What? You’re allowed to check me out but I can’t return the favor, Hayes?”

She doesn’t deny it, which I’m annoyingly pleased about.

“I was looking for the bathroom,” she tells me.

“It’s down the hall on the left.”

“No, not here—” Red creeps across her cheeks as she abruptly stops talking.

“Oh. You were referring to the other time you checked me out.”

She bites her bottom lip. More red spreads. But she meets my gaze defiantly, eyes the color of pines bearing into mine.

This is when I should walk away. Take Emily or Sarah upstairs. Maybe even down one of Hunter’s disgusting shots, just to wash away the weirdness of this encounter. Do something to shake this strange compulsion to remain exactly where I am.

Harlow sighs. “Look, Aidan saw me out running that morning. He was asking about my training. He called you over. I knew you’d say no. You did. End of the story.”

She’s eager to end this conversation, that much is obvious. Waiting for me to walk away. I wonder if it’s because she’s aware other people in the kitchen are glancing over at us. Our private feud is only common knowledge among the hockey team, but people pay attention to who I talk to.

I move on to the other part of her request that’s been bothering me. “Why the hell would you sign up for a marathon, anyway? Especially if you’ve never run before?”

She keeps looking at me but says nothing. I’m being appraised—judged—for this moment and for many others. It’s uncomfortable.

I don’t leave, though. I wait.

Finally, she answers.

“It doesn’t matter why I’m doing it.” Harlow grabs a green can of ginger ale off the counter. We’re probably the only two sober people at this party. She taps it against the soda I’m holding. “Congrats on the win, Hart. If you’d passed to Powers at the start of the third, it would have been 5-2.”

She smiles mockingly, then walks away and leaves me standing here.

And I suddenly know with absolute certainty that wasn’t the last conversation I’ll have with Harlow Hayes.

Just the first.