The Graham Effect (Campus Diaries Book 1)

Use your words

WITHIN THREE SECONDS OF THE PUCK DROPPING, I DISCOVER Providence College came here to murder us.

It’s supposed to be a friendly exhibition. Yes, it’s played under regular conditions. We’re dressed in full gear, utilizing the lineups we’ll use during the real season. But it’s an unspoken rule that you don’t push yourself one hundred percent in these exhibitions. Why risk getting injured for a game that doesn’t even count? Just give the crowd a good show. All ticket proceeds go to a children’s cancer charity, and during intermissions, the kids whose parents purchased the more-expensive-tier tickets are pulled along in little sleds on the ice. It’s supposed to be cute and fun.

Instead, I’m literally in a primal struggle for my life.

The Providence girls apply pressure from go. They swarm past the blue line like hyenas. Our goalie, Shannon, is the carcass. Or rather, she’s still alive, but she’s injured and they smell her blood. They fire bullets at her while our defensemen race to try to bail her out.

Finally, my teammate liberates the puck from our zone only to get called for icing. Fuck. Now the face-off is to the left of our net.

We’re five minutes into the first period, and I’m sweating like I exited a steam bath at the gym.

The rival center grins at me. “Having fun yet?” she taunts.

“It’s a fucking charity game, Bethany,” I growl, crouching in preparation. “Calm your tits.”

She tsks under her breath, while the ref gets in position.

“Come on, Graham. You should always bring your A game, no matter the circumstances.”

Bullshit. They’re trying to prove something. What, I don’t know. We’re not even bitter rivals, the way Eastwood and Briar used to be. It’s supposed to be a goddamn fun evening. They’re ruining it.

The crowd screams when Bethany wins the face-off. She snaps a pass off to her right winger, who shoots and scores.

First blood goes to Providence.

It isn’t until I get back to the bench that the puzzle pieces fall together.

Cami looks at me and hisses, “The coaches from Team USA are here.”

I freeze. “What? Seriously?”

“Yeah, Neela just heard it from one of the refs.”

I turn to our teammate Neela for confirmation before realizing she’s on the ice fighting for her own life. Providence is not going easy on us.

Instead, I search the stands for Alan Murphy, Team USA’s head coach. It’s a futile exercise. One of my pet peeves is in movie scenes where there’s a huge audience, thousands of people in the stands, and somehow the hero or heroine manages to lock eyes with one specific person, the whole crowd disappearing as they maintain this very deliberate eye contact.

Lies. You can’t see anything out here. Only a sea of indistinguishable faces.

“Why are they here?” I demand.

“I don’t know. Maybe they’re involved with the charity?”

Or maybe they’re here to do some scouting.

Shit, and we’re playing like garbage out there.

The knowledge lights a fire under my ass. Adley shouts for a changeup, and I wait until my teammates reach the boards before I jump out the door.

My skates touch the ice just as Whitney passes me the puck. Providence is on their own shift change. It’s the worst possible timing for them, giving me the perfect opportunity to make a play. Badly timed shift changes can make or break a hockey game, and this is the first mistake the other team has made since the game started.

I waste no time capitalizing on their error and the breakaway it provides me. The air hisses past my ears as I fly toward the opposing net. One defenseman attempts to catch me and can’t. I outskate her, then outmaneuver her counterpart as I wind my arm back and take a shot.

Goal.

I hear the thunderous roar of the crowd. The loud tapping of sticks against the boards, my teammates’ seal of approval, echoes through the packed arena. Camila skates by and smacks my arm.

“Yes, baby!” she crows, and then we make another shift change, and the second line takes over.

When the buzzer goes off to indicate the end of the first period, we’re tied 1–1.

The second period is as high intensity as the first. It’s a battle of the defense, both offenses getting shut down hard. I’m tangled up multiple times behind the Providence net. It’s my least favorite place to be. I’m smaller than a lot of other players, which makes it hard to win battles behind the net. I don’t have the shoulders for it. My dad always makes fun of my dainty shoulders.

Luckily, I’m fast, so I can usually get myself out of jams. Rather than battle, I try to pass to Cami at the point, only for it to be intercepted. The next thing I know, we’re chasing them again. The rest of the third period is like that. Deep pressure. High speeds.

Providence leads us 2–1 all the way until the last forty seconds, when Neela makes a play behind the net. Unlike me, she thrives back there. She keeps their goalie distracted, then manages to get the puck in front of the net, directly into Whitney’s waiting stick for a one-timer.

The charity organizers whisper to Coach Adley that they don’t want this ending in a tie, so we hold a tiebreaker shootout that Briar handily wins because nobody can outshoot me. Nobody.

And just like that, we win the charity game, a.k.a. the Death Match.

“Jesus Christ,” I groan on the walk to the locker room. “That was ridiculous.”

All my teammates appear equally exhausted.

“I thought I was in shape!” Neela squawks. “Like, I’ve been lifting hard in the offseason. My arms feel like jelly.” She lifts them up, then lets them drop down like wet noodles.

Coach strides into the locker room before everyone starts to change.

“That was some damn good hockey,” he tells us, looking around in admiration. Then he rolls his eyes. “Although I’m not sure which part of ‘Save your energy for our season opener’ you didn’t understand,” he finishes, referring to the speech he gave before the game began.

“You know us, we leave nothing out there on the ice,” Whitney chirps.

He sighs. “Someone told you Brad Fairlee was in the stands, I presume?”

“Yup,” she says, and everyone laughs.

Everyone except me. Because my blood has run cold.

Brad Fairlee?

Anxiety tugs at my belly, twisting into a knot. “What happened to Alan Murphy?” I blurt out.

“He’s out,” Adley says. “The higher-ups are saying medical reasons. They’re being hush-hush about it, but I think he might’ve suffered a heart attack or several.”

“Jeez, is he okay?” asks Whitney.

“I believe he’s still in the hospital, but that’s all I know. USA Hockey gave the job to Brad Fairlee, their offensive coordinator. He’s good. Well-deserved promotion.” Adley heads for the door. “All right. Get dressed. I’ll see you on the bus.”

Everyone starts talking amongst themselves again as girls drift toward the showers. My nervous energy only intensifies while I shower the sweat and exhaustion away. I don’t wash my hair, just throw it up in a wet topknot, get dressed, and hurry out of the locker room.

I want to find Brad Fairlee, but I’m not sure what to say to him. We haven’t spoken in a few years. I suppose I could pretend I’m asking about his daughter, Emma, but depending on how much she’s told her dad, he might see through that ruse. Because I don’t give a flying hoot how Emma Fairlee is doing.

Still, I can’t just let the head coach of the national team leave this building without at least trying to gauge where his head is at. I should have heard something by now. That is, I should have heard something if they were considering me for the team. I know one girl from Wisconsin was already asked to train with them, so they must be in the process of finalizing their roster. They have to; all the big games are coming up, like the 4 Nations Cup in November and the USA-Canada Rivalry game in February. And then next February is the biggest game of all. The Olympics.

God. I fucking want this.

I don’t ask for a lot of things. I was never one of those spoiled girls who asked Daddy for ponies and demanded an elaborate Sweet Sixteen party. Granted, Wyatt and I spent our sixteenth birthdays watching our dad win Game Seven of a critical playoff series. His team didn’t win the Cup that year, but it’s still pretty cool to spend your birthday in the owners’ box at TD Garden.

This, though. I want it. Want it so bad I can taste it.

To my surprise, there’s no need to hunt Fairlee down like a bomb-sniffing dog. He calls out my name the moment I enter the lobby.

“Mr. Fairlee, hey,” I call back, trying to tamp down my eagerness. “It’s been a long time.”

“It has,” he agrees. “What is it now? Three years?”

“About that.”

I close the distance between us, my hockey bag slung over my shoulder.

Mr. Fairlee isn’t a tall man, but he’s built like a tank, with a barrel chest and thick neck. He played hockey in his youth, but didn’t find much success in the pros, mostly because of his height. Eventually he went into coaching, where he did find success. A lot more of it now, apparently.

“Congratulations on the win.”

“I wasn’t expecting such a competitive game,” I answer ruefully.

He nods. “Good job on that shootout.”

“Thanks. And I hear congratulations are in order for you too. Coach Adley told us you were named head coach of Team USA.”

Pride fills his eyes. “Yes, thank you. I’m looking forward to heading up the team. Winning some medals.”

“Sounds great…” I pause, hoping he’ll fill that space. Praying he’ll tell me something, anything, any hint about where he’s at in terms of building a team.

But he says nothing.

Awkwardly, I go on. “I mean, I guess it goes without saying, but I would love to be considered for the roster.”

Another nod. “Of course. We’re looking at several players right now. There’s a really dynamic group of college players this year.”

Bullshit.

I swallow the word, trying not to bristle. I am by no means arrogant, but I know every single player in NCAA hockey, including the new crop of freshmen. Some rookies are showing potential, but for the most part there are only a few standout players among all the D1 programs. And I’m definitely in the top ten, if not five.

“Well, that’s good to hear. I don’t know how many college players typically make the roster, but—”

“About thirty, forty percent,” he supplies.

That shuts me up.

Damn. That’s a brutal stat. Considering the size of the roster, if there are only a few open slots, that means he’ll be choosing two, maybe three college players.

“Like I said,” he continues after he notices my expression, “we’re looking at several players, but of course, you’re one of them. Your talent is undeniable, Gigi. Sure, there are minor issues to work on, but that applies to everyone.”

“What issues?” I ask a little too quickly then realize it might sound like I’m offended by the criticism. So I hurry on to add, “I’d love any pointers you might have for me. I always want to improve my game.”

He purses his lips. “It’s the same issue you’ve always had. You’re not effective behind the net.”

This time I do bristle, because he’s acting as if this “issue” is some Achilles’ heel that’s been plaguing me for years, holding me back from having any success. That’s nonsense. Every player has their strengths and weaknesses.

“That’s great feedback, thanks. I’ll talk to Coach Adley about that.” Then, because I know it’ll be conspicuous if I don’t ask about her, I force myself to inquire, “How is Emma doing, by the way? She’s at UCLA, right?”

“She’s doing well. Really thriving on the West Coast. She landed a small role in a pilot.”

“Cool,” I lie.

It bothers me to hear good things are happening for her, and I hate that streak of pettiness. I don’t like thinking of myself as petty.

“I’ll tell her you asked about her.”

Please don’t, I think.

But the slight edge to his voice tells me he wasn’t going to pass my regards along anyway. Yeah…she totally poisoned this well.

“Well, it was good to see you, Gigi. I see someone else I need to speak to.”

He pats my arm. Then, to my utter horror, he marches toward Bethany Clarke, the captain of the Providence team.

Is this a joke? Bethany might have played a good game today, but she’s nowhere near the caliber of player that I am. It’s like a slapshot to the face. My throat is tight with jealousy and resentment as I stalk outside. I still feel cold even as I step into the humid air.

I’m halfway down the front steps when I hear my name again.

“Gigi, wait.”

I look over my shoulder to find Luke Ryder loitering at the bottom of the staircase, off to my left. He walks toward me, long legs encased in faded denim. He’s also sporting a black T-shirt and a Bruins cap with the brim down low, nearly shielding his eyes.

A wrinkle appears in my forehead as I descend the rest of the way to meet him on the sidewalk. “What are you doing here?”

He shrugs.

“Use your words, Ryder.”

I’m not in the mood for his caveman conversational style right now. Brad Fairlee’s dismissal of me still burns like battery acid in my blood.

Ryder lifts his hat and runs one hand over his hair to smooth it before shoving the cap back down. The move draws my attention to his right wrist and the bracelet there. Woven from black and gray string, like those friendship bracelets at island resorts that the locals try to scam you into buying. It’s old and frayed, as if he’s been wearing it for ages.

“Just checking out your game.”

“All right. Weird. But okay.” I eye him, bemused. “Did you enjoy it?”

His shoulder begins to move in a shrug, but then he sees my face and stops himself.

“It was more dramatic than I expected,” he says drolly. “Also didn’t need to go to shootout.”

“You think it should have ended in a tie?”

“No, I mean just what I said—it didn’t need to go to shootout. You could have won the game for your team in the third.”

“You know, most people would compliment me on the fact that I won that shootout,” I point out.

“Is that what you need from people? To be told what a good girl you are?”

His mocking words send a bolt of heat directly between my legs.

Wow.

Okay.

I didn’t expect my body to react like that. And I don’t love that it did. Especially since I should be angry right now. He literally just told me I’m the reason we went to a shootout in the first place.

“I’m not sure if you missed it,” I say tightly, “but the pressure they had on us was nuts.”

Ryder doesn’t answer.

“What?” I grumble.

Still nothing.

I drop my hockey bag on the pavement, and it lands with a thud. Crossing my arms over my chest, I shoot him a dark glare. “Go on. Tell me your thoughts.”

He meets my eyes. “You panic behind the net.”

The censure slices into me like a dull knife.

Normally I would gently take that in, absorb the criticism, and view it as constructive, not let it cut me this deeply. But he’s echoing Fairlee’s sentiments, and that’s the last thing I need right now.

Now I have two men telling me I suck behind the net? Sᴇaʀch Thᴇ (ꜰind)ɴʘvel.nᴇt website on Gøøglᴇ to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.

“When you’re under pressure in their zone and there’s no other option, you should automatically be moving the puck to the back of the net,” Ryder says when I don’t respond. “Instead, you panic and try for poor passes and get intercepted. Like you did in the third.”

I think I like him better when he doesn’t talk.

My jaw clenches so tight that my molars begin to throb. Ignoring his blunt assessment of my suckiness, I unhinge my jaw to ask, “Why are you really here?”

His dark-blue eyes flicker with what appears to be discomfort. I expect him to stall, or not answer at all, but he surprises me by being direct. “Your father was at our practice yesterday.”

“So?”

Ryder adjusts the brim of his cap again. “He said he runs a Hockey Kings camp every summer. I was hoping—”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.” I know exactly where this is going and it chafes me to no end. “Seriously? You too?”

“What?”

I pick up my bag and throw the strap over my shoulder. “Do you know how many dudes have hit me up over the years just to get close to my father? This isn’t my first rodeo.”

I shake my head, swallowing the rising animosity. I will say, at least Ryder is upfront about it. He’s not trying to take me to dinner, where he’ll hold my hand and whisper sweet words to me and then ask for the favor.

Despite my best efforts, that bitter feeling surfaces. I was already in a bad mood before he ambushed me, and now I feel a thousand times worse.

“I knew you were a dick, but this is next level. You show up here, insult my game, and then want to use me to get to my dad?”

He gives his trademark shrug.

“What?”

“Like you haven’t been using him too?”

I stiffen. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“We practice in a building called the Graham Center.” He laughs without much humor. “If that’s not nepotism in action, I don’t know what is.”

My cheeks are scorching. I know they’re turning redder by the second. “Are you implying I couldn’t get into Briar on my own merit?”

“I’m saying you’re good, but I’m sure it doesn’t hurt what your last name is.”

I struggle to calm myself. Breathing deep.

Then I say, “Fuck you.”

And walk away, because I’m thoroughly done with this conversation. I won’t even entertain it.

He doesn’t follow me, and I’m seething when I climb onto the team bus a minute later.

Ryder’s wrong. My last name isn’t why Briar—and half a dozen other big hockey schools—begged me to attend. They wanted me because I’m good. No, because I’m great.

I know I am.

But that doesn’t stop the dam of insecurity from bursting open and a flood of doubt from seeping into my blood.