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

“What are you doing?” Hunter asks as he walks into the kitchen, glancing over my shoulder and squinting at the screen of my laptop. “You don’t even have class today.”

“I know,” I reply. Any senior who has a Monday class is either an overachiever or slacked so much up until now, they didn’t have a choice. “Just doing some research.”

“On distance running? Why?”

Hunter heads toward the fridge, pulling out a carton of orange juice.

I sigh and shut my laptop.

Aidan has a big mouth. Hunter will hear about it eventually.

“Because Harlow Hayes asked me to train her for a marathon.”

Hunter coughs mid-swallow. “What? And you agreed?”

He’s incredulous, and I don’t blame him one bit. If I understood how it happened myself, I might try to explain it to him. I didn’t intend to agree to train her. I just felt guilty and decided to apologize for shooting her half-assed request down. Somehow that resulted in me browsing marathon training forums this morning.

“Yeah. Phillips chewed me out about being nicer to her.”

True. But I didn’t just agree to help her. I ended up being the one practically begging her to let me, and I’m still trying to figure out how the fuck that happened.

She gave me an out. Multiple of them, actually.

“Is that why you said hi to her last night?” Hunter asks.

“I guess.”

For the first time, ignoring her felt wrong. It was a relief, actually, not having to pretend like I wasn’t aware we were in the same place.

“I run already,” I say. “It’s good cross-training. Who cares if she jogs alongside me a few times?”

Hunter’s eyebrows rise. “So, what? You just mysteriously got over your weird issue with her?”

No. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Uh-huh. Do you have a thing for her?”

“What? No, of course not.”

“No, of course not? You’ve seen her, right?”

“So she’s hot. Whatever. I don’t want Williams’s sloppy seconds.”

I feel guilty as soon as the words leave my mouth, and they’re ineffective anyway.

Hunter appears unconvinced. “Speaking of Williams, are you going to tell him about this? He looked like his dog died when we saw her out on a date last night.”

“There’s nothing to tell. I’ll make sure she knows how to avoid getting shin splints and that will be that.”

“If you say so.” Hunter still looks doubtful. “This is the season, Hart. Are you seriously willing to risk your shot at the pros for a chick you claim to have no interest in?”

He’s right. I know he’s right.

But I still say, “I’m not risking shit.”

Technically, Harlow didn’t even agree to show up later. But I’m betting she will. She may not want to, the same way I don’t know if I really want her to.

But she’s curious about me, the same way I am about her.

Despite what I just told Hunter, I know that’s dangerous.

I avoid meeting Hunter’s worried gaze when I leave the house a few hours later.

Half the team is over at our place hanging out before our evening skate. None of them ask where I’m going but Robby smirks as I head for the front door, letting me know where he thinks I’m off to.

“Don’t be late, Hart!” Aidan calls after me. “I’m not doing suicides for you again.”

I was late to hockey practice for the first time—ever—yesterday. When I was a little kid, I’d have my mom drop me off a half hour early to make sure I was the first one on the ice. I’ve shown up on time hungover. With the flu. In a snowstorm.

One conversation with Harlow Hayes, and I forgot there were twenty-seven guys and one extremely pissed-off coach waiting on me. I’ve gotten a lot of shit from the team about it, but it would be ten times worse if they knew there was a girl involved in my tardiness. Distractions don’t win championships.

I jog through the drizzle to my SUV. The engine roars to life, as it very well should after the three hundred dollars I just dropped getting it fixed. I know nothing about repairing cars. Learning how to change the oil or put on a spare tire sounds like the type of thing you do with your dad in the driveway.

Maybe that’s why I don’t know how to do either.

The drive to the football stadium only takes a few minutes.

Rain-splattered glass blurs the landscape into gray, brown, and green. I park right next to the bleachers. There are still a couple of weeks left in the football season, but the stadium looks as though it’s been abandoned for years.

Probably because the football team is neither successful nor entertaining. The crowds that swarm our home games are notably absent. At least, that’s what I’ve been told. I’ve never been to one myself. Never seen the appeal of sitting on hard metal and watching a bunch of guys spend minutes lining up for mere seconds of action.

My disdain for football might be colored by the fact that the athletic half of my DNA came from a former wide receiver.

If holding grudges were a sport, I’d be better at it than hockey.

I climb out of my car and into rain that’s suddenly falling faster. I’m wearing the same sweatpants and jacket I pulled on early this morning. They’re soaked within minutes, so I don’t bother walking under the bleachers’ cover. I lean against the chain-link fence that surrounds the running track and wait.

Harlow shows up five minutes later, parking in the spot next to my car.

She doesn’t get out right away, and I wonder if she’s considering leaving.

She stays.

Harlow climbs out of her car in the ugliest jacket I’ve ever seen. It’s bright yellow—a stop-and-stare shade that burns my eyes. Paired with her vivid hair, she stands out against the muted landscape of brick buildings, bare trees, and grass.

Her hood remains down as she walks toward me, appearing unbothered by the rain saturating her red hair and dripping down her face.

“How was it?” I ask when she reaches me.

“Huh?” She looks confused.

I barely manage to tamp down the smirk that desperately wants to form. “The ugly raincoat competition you just came from. Did you win?”

She flips me off, but I catch a lip twitch.

“Is this your Halloween costume? The McDonalds logo?”

“You hate the coat. I get it. And no, I’m dressing up as Elle Woods.”

“But you’re not blonde,” I tell her.

“So…”

“It’s literally in the title. Legally Blonde.”

Harlow stares at me. “You have not seen Legally Blonde.”

I nod. “Sure, I have.”

She crosses her arms. “Prove it.”

“Okay.” I think for a minute. “This is the dance they do in the hair salon, right? The bend and clap or whatever?”

I pull off a pretty flawless rendition of it, if I do say so myself. I even remember it’s a snap, not a clap.

Harlow stands frozen for a few seconds. Then she doubles over and bursts out laughing. It continues for a while. She has to clutch her stomach. Wipe tears from her eyes.

It’s at my expense. But I’d do that stupid shimmy all over again, just to watch her laugh like that.

“I can’t believe you did that. That you’ve seen it. You play hockey.”

I arch one eyebrow. “Way to stereotype. I can’t watch a comedy if I play hockey?”

“No, I just…” Harlow shakes her head. “Never mind.” She mutters something under her breath. All I catch is some mention of cooking.

“My mom loves that movie.”

I don’t know why I say it—why I share that—but I do.

Then I head for the gate that leads onto the running track. I open it and gesture for Harlow to walk through first.

She doesn’t; she remains in place.

Our silent stand-off lasts for thirty seconds before she walks through the opening onto the track. She wasn’t anticipating any gentlemanly behavior from me, clearly.

I normally thrive on being the cocky player people expect.

Surprising Harlow Hayes might be my new favorite hobby. Watching her green eyes try to figure me out. Making it difficult for them to do so.

Once we’re on the track, I switch to business mode. “Okay, I did some research. You should start with six to twelve weeks of base training. Begin by running three or four times a week. You should start with only a couple of miles, then slowly start adding mileage. Goal will be to get up to five or six miles by the end of base training. Build slowly, and it’s about hitting the distance, not speed. If you need to alternate running and walking, then do that.”

Harlow nods. She’s listening carefully, and it feels different than when I coach my teammates through a drill or tell them to add on more reps. I’m conscious of every word I’m saying.

“Once you’re through base training, then you begin adding mileage. One longer run a week, plus several shorter ones. By then, you should start upping your diet and doing rest days. Cutting back on swimming. But we can figure all that out later. For now, consistency is key. And stretching, so you don’t injure yourself. Leg swings are popular, lateral and front-to-back. Like this.” I demonstrate both. “I usually do walking lunges. And butt kicks. You can also—”

Harlow suddenly smirks.

“What?”

“Nothing. I just never thought I’d hear you say the words butt kicks to me. It was kind of funny. Keep going.”

I say the first thought that pops into my head. “If you’re laughing at butt kicks, you must be a real riot in bed.”

She snorts. “Stop saying butt kicks. And yeah, it’s gotten awkward a couple of times.”

I blink at her. I was expecting her to get offended or tell me it’s none of my business. Not agree.

“Awkward how?”

“How do you think?” Harlow raises one eyebrow. “Killed the mood. You know.” She holds a finger straight out, then drops it.

Now I’m the one snorting.

I’ve never discussed sex with a girl while we’re both fully dressed with no intention of having sex. Never had a girlfriend or a girl who was a friend.

It’s entertaining. Or maybe that’s just Harlow.

“Your turn,” she says.

“My turn for what?”

“To tell me something embarrassing about you.”

I raise both eyebrows. “How was that embarrassing? That you’re a boner killer?”

“Yeah. Exactly that, Conor.” She rolls her eyes.

“If you were laughing, they were doing something wrong. Not you.”

It wouldn’t happen with me. Thankfully, that’s a thought I keep to myself.

Sex with Harlow will not be happening. I’m not even sure if she’s interested. I shouldn’t be interested. She’s Williams’s ex. Landon’s best friend.

Most importantly, she distracts me.

My phone buzzes with the timer I set earlier, and I’m shocked. That means it’s already been thirty minutes since she got here. We’ve done nothing.

“I’ve only got ten minutes before I have to leave for practice,” I tell her. “Do fifteen of these.” I show her a knee hug. “Then we’ll jog a few laps.”

Harlow nods. She lifts her leg and pulls it into her chest, drawing my attention to her bottoms for the first time. I was so distracted by her ugly raincoat I didn’t notice the black, tight leggings she’s wearing.

“Hold your knee for a few seconds,” I say, tearing my gaze away from her ass.

Those guys are idiots. Even if she kept the awful raincoat on, I could easily get hard.

But those are the exact opposite of the thoughts I’m supposed to be having, so I force myself to focus on her form.

Harlow finishes stretching, then we set off at an easy jog.

Neither of us says anything. There’s just the sound of the rain and the pounding of our feet against rubber.

“Are you really not going to tell me something embarrassing?” she asks me after two laps.

“Hayes, I didn’t ask to know about your sex life. You’re seriously asking about mine?”

“Let me guess. You don’t have an embarrassing story. Models magically fall into your bed, and you pound them into the headboard.”

“Jesus, Hayes.” I laugh, continually surprised by the stuff coming out of her mouth. It’s a flattering perception, I guess. “Of course I have stories.”

“Great. Go.”

I glance over to make sure she’s still good with this pace. We don’t have long, so I’m running about the average speed I usually do. She’s keeping up. There’s a tiny kernel of pride, like I have anything to do with it.

“Freshman year, this girl was giving me a blowjob. She hadn’t had anything to drink, but I guess she had a gag reflex. Threw up all over my dick and the carpet. My roommate was pissed. Our dorm room smelled like vomit for a couple of weeks.”

“That’s disgusting, not embarrassing.”

I exhale. “Aidan called me Puke Dick for the rest of the semester.”

“I still don’t feel bad for you.”

“Okay, fine. In high school, I was hooking up with this girl in the backseat of my mom’s car and I got a nosebleed. She was traumatized and I had to explain to my mom why there was blood all over the seats back there.”

“What did you tell your mom?”

“The truth. That I had a girl back there.”

“And she was cool with that?”

“No. She grounded me for a month. But that was mostly because I lied and told her I was going to a friend’s house.”

“Okay, that’s worse,” Harlow says. “But still not that bad.”

“Well, I’m out. Other than that, it’s been all models and broken headboards.”

She laughs, and I want to savor the sound.

“What did the guys say?” I ask.

Immediately, her laughter stops. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Come on, I gave you details.”

“Fine. One guy started talking about my body like I wasn’t even there. Like sorta describing it? He had a lot to say about my boobs, and I started laughing. He was super embarrassed and never talked to me again. The other was right…” She exhales. “Right after my parents died. He knew about it, obviously, and I think he thought I needed more help getting in the mood or something? He started talking like he was narrating a porno, and again… I lost it. He apologized for five minutes.” She pauses. “I’ve never had a serious boyfriend. The longest I’ve dated a guy was Jack, and that wasn’t…the feelings weren’t there for me. He was such a gentleman and I didn’t know how to…” She exhales. “I can’t believe I’m telling you this.”

“I asked.”

Harlow is silent for a minute. I was going to keep track of how many laps we’ve run, but I lost count a while ago.

“So, your plan is to play professionally after graduation?” she asks.

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

No one’s ever asked me that. “Why?”

“Yeah. Why do you want to play hockey professionally?”

“Money, fame, women, glory?” Harlow says nothing. It forces an honest answer out. “Life is simpler on the ice. Stuff that I’m worried about—upset about—well, it can’t follow me out there. I’ll chase that feeling as far as I can.”

She still seems unsatisfied by my response.

“You don’t have anything that makes you feel that way?” I ask.

“No, I do.” She doesn’t elaborate.

“You’re moving back to Canada?”

She gives me a questioning look as I mention her future plans. I guess Harlow has forgotten I know just as much about her as she thinks she knows about me.

I shrug in response to her silent question. “People in Claremont gossip.”

“Oh. Right.” We’re getting uncomfortably close to the shared history between us. Closer than I ever thought we might get together. “Yeah, probably. That was always the plan. Come here for university and then go back.”

“It was?”

“Yeah. Kinda flipped the rebellious teenager stereotype. I wanted to be just like my mom, and she always raved about her time here. It’s how she met Allison. They were in the same dorm freshman year.”

“Oh.”

She did it.

She mentioned them. Just Allison, but still.

Weirdly, I’m more occupied by another piece of her past falling into place. I assumed she resented ending up at Holt for college, not that it was her first choice.

“I also liked the location.”

I look around at the scenery. Past the sad, empty bleachers, the grass is a vibrant green. The sky is gray, which makes the orange and red leaves pop.

“Yeah, it’s nice, I guess.” Not as nice as white ice and boards.

Harlow follows my gaze. “I meant the Sound. I’m a marine biology major. I like being this close to the ocean.”

“So you’re a swimmer who likes water, huh?”

She glances at me, eyebrow raised. There’s a strange jolt when our eyes connect, and I tell myself my heart rate is only accelerating because I’m exercising. “You’re a hockey player who likes ice, huh?”

My phone buzzes in my pocket again.

My steps slow as we approach the gate where we entered the track, and Harlow’s do too.

I pull my phone out and silence the alarm. Keep staring at the screen, pretending I took my trainer role more seriously than losing track of time talking to her. “Seven thirty mile. Not bad. You could aim for four and a half hours as your target time.”

“My target time?”

Harlow reaches up to collect the red strands that have escaped from her ponytail. I force my eyes away from the strip of stomach the motion reveals.

“Yeah. Your goal time to finish in.”

“My only goal is to cross the finish line, Hart.”

“And you’re running a marathon…why?”

She looks away. “It’s stupid. Bucket list shit.”

“Bucket list shit?” I echo. “If you want to start running, why not aim for like, a 5K?”

“I didn’t think I’d need to explain the concept of competitiveness to Holt’s all-time leading scorer in hockey.”

I don’t take the bait. Don’t jump on the compliment she just offered up on a silver platter. I don’t let myself wonder what her knowing my stats means, either.

“Fine.” I’m annoyed with myself for being annoyed she won’t tell me the real reason why. “I’ve gotta get to practice. See you.”

“Conor.”

I pause, three steps away. “What?”

The rain eased off while we were running. Now it’s picking up once more, soaking my damp clothes all over again.

“Was this…it?”

I glance back at her. There’s no sign of the teasing smile or the vulnerability on display when we were running together. She looks serious.

“Do you want it to be?” I ask.

“I should.” Harlow steps closer. Holds out a hand. “Give me your phone.”

Silently, I unlock it, then pass it to her.

She types something quickly, then returns it to me.

I glance down at a phone number. Hers, I’m assuming.

“I know you’re busy. But if you have time to meet again and want to text me…” She bites her bottom lip. “I’ll show up.”

“Okay. Bye.” That’s all I say. I need to get my ass to practice—now.

I spin and hurry away.

Leaving her standing on the track in the rain.