Power Plays & Straight A's Read online

  Still, I have plenty of time to prepare. What I don’t have time to do is become an expert on sports psychology.

  Sports.

  When I walked into that classroom and saw a wall of jocks—and yes, other people obviously, but mostly jocks—staring back at me I’d been so distracted I’d slammed right into Foster. Pretty Foster. With the big shoulders and easy smile and hair that seems to always look perfect.

  If you need help …

  I shake my head again, and if I keep it up, people are going to assume I have a behavioral tic. Patronizing Foster is a more apt descriptor. I mean, did he have to be so distracting and smug during the class? Couldn’t he tell I was trying to concentrate?

  I drop my laptop onto the table a little louder than I intend, and the girl a few seats down jumps. I shoot her an apologetic smile at my miscalculation, feeling my cheeks heat. She doesn’t smile back or nod, only stares at me, her expression unchanged, and I quickly drop my messenger bag and take a seat before I cause her any more annoyance.

  Don’t mind me. I’m over here, attempting to be invisible.

  I log onto the CU intranet. The first sports psychology assessment of the year is focused on an area of discipline I understand the least. Different people working together—different testosterone-driven alpha males—attempting to comply with a common goal. The pieces aren’t sitting right in my brain.

  Theoretically it all makes sense, but how that translates to a practical environment …

  As I’m searching the library database for anything I can find about team mentality, the girl moves one chair closer. I’m not sure if I’m meant to notice or not so I keep my attention on my screen.

  “You seem nice.”

  I blink and glance over. Her scowl hasn’t lessened, and her tufts of short black hair give the impression she cut it herself. “I am nice.”

  She chews on her thumb nail, and I tilt my head.

  “You don’t look very nice. Is it an intimidation technique?”

  Her eyebrows jump up and I stop and think about the words I just said. I think this is one of those times where stating my observations out loud is not considered socially acceptable conversation.

  She responds anyway. “Resting bitch face.”

  “Oh. Why?”

  “I can’t help it.”

  “I think an expression is a reflection of our thoughts.”

  “So you’re saying I can help it?”

  “I don’t know.” I frown. “Can you?”

  “Can you? You look like you’re thinking about baby unicorns. Your face is so sweet I could gag.”

  Her voice hasn’t changed from the flat monotone, but something about her feels like a challenge. Even I know you’re not supposed to tell people their face makes you want to barf, so what does it say about me that her comment gets a smile? “And your face looks like it scares small children.”

  For the first time her down-turned lips twitch. “I like you.”

  “Okay,” I say, not sure where that came from.

  “Okay.”

  She turns back to the book she’s reading and apparently that’s that.

  I puzzle over her for a minute, wondering what that was.

  She slides a chair closer, leaving only three between us. “You can stop looking at me now.”

  I quickly turn back to my laptop and smile. “You’re very odd,” I whisper.

  “I should hope so.”

  She doesn’t talk to me again, and it’s not until an hour later when my phone vibrates on the desk that I look up and realize she’s gone. I’m not sure I can classify what happened as a friendly conversation, but I managed to talk to someone new and not completely screw it up.

  I will take that as an excellent sign.

  Professor Lawrence’s name shows on the display. I scramble to shove everything into my laptop bag and hurry out of the library. The call drops out before I clear the doors so I hurry to call him back.

  “This is Zach,” I say as soon as he answers.

  “Good, I was hoping to catch you.” His voice is kind like always, and it’s a novelty to have a professor who isn’t irritated by, well, me. “I was thinking through your concerns over TAing that sports psychology class, and I don’t think you’re going to get over your apprehension until you rip the Band-Aid off.”

  I do not like the sound of that. “Band-Aid?”

  “Sure. After the lecture on Monday I’ll allocate twenty minutes for you to talk through the first assignment and answer any questions.”

  “Oh.”

  He chuckles. “Stage fright?”

  “Not at all.” I adjust my glasses as I lean back into the wall. “I’m more concerned about the answering questions part.”

  “Zach …”

  “Yes?”

  “You’ll do fine. I’ll send through all the information on the assignment, and I’ll be right there if you need additional input. Just have fun with it.”

  “Of course. Yes. I can do that.”

  I thank him and we hang up, but I already feel sick.

  That unsettled feeling doesn’t shift all weekend even as I pour over Professor Lawrence’s notes. I read them so many times I have them practically memorized, but I also add points to a little card just in case I get stuck. I read through the class’s assigned reading and some articles on the intranet until I feel like I’m bleeding team dynamics.

  I almost feel vaguely confident when I walk into class on Monday and remember one key piece of information I’d forgotten.

  Foster is in this class.

  He watches me from his seat as Professor Lawrence takes them through the lecture, and it makes me more determined than ever to get this right. Need help. I’ll show him.

  When Professor Lawrence rounds up the lecture and hands it over to me, I tuck my card into my pocket and stand. I’m a little jittery but nothing beyond the normal amount of nerves public speaking brings.

  Even with the wall of people looking back at me, I can’t stop my gaze from flicking to Foster. His friend nudges him, and I immediately look away again.

  “Uh, hello. For those of you I haven’t met yet, I’m Zach. In case you haven’t checked through the course material and set work for the semester, there’s an essay on team dynamics due in week four.” I pause and force myself to take a breath. As I talk them through the framework for the essay and the criteria that will be assessed, my nerves start to lessen.

  I know this. I know the material and I know the work, and everything I spent the weekend reading is still in my brain. This isn’t so bad.

  I manage to smile and slow down my words because when it comes to talking about research, the words come fast and easy.

  I’m on a roll, sure I’m impressing even Foster with my prowess …

  And then I ask if there are any questions.

  A guy in the fourth row raises his hand. “The essay wants us to focus on how the individual works within team dynamics. Can you explain that a bit more?”

  My nerves come flooding back. I take a deep breath and remind myself I know this. “Yes. When an individual joins a team, they become compelled to comply due to a common goal.”

  “Where do the conflicting goals come into it?” a girl near the front asks.

  I pause. “What do you mean?”

  The first guy takes over. “Okay, so my football team, we want to win our games, yeah?”

  “Of course,” I say, despite the feeling I’m walking into a trap.

  “Except, I want to be the one who wins them. And so does our QB, and every other guy on our team. We all want to impress scouts … or girls.” He winks at the girl in the front. “I have people competing for my place on the field. We might all want to win the game, but we also want our individual wins.”

  Ah … what he’s saying isn’t a complex theory, and I understand the words, but the motivations behind that mentality escape me. I subtly wipe my sweaty palms on my jeans. “Umm … was there a question?”

  “Yeah, how d
o they fit together?”

  Okay, I can do this. I start to regurgitate the textbook to them. “It’s much simpler if you look at humanity’s tribe mentality in general. We seek out the strong to secure survival and focus on basic needs. Food, water, shelter—”

  “Sex?” Foster’s friend cuts in.

  My thoughts stall, my heart pounds, and that’s when the stammering starts. “W-well … I’m not so sure s-sex is essential to survival.”

  “You’ve clearly been doing it wrong, then,” someone else says.

  Or not at all.

  My throat clogs up. “Moving on!”

  “It’s a good question though,” a blonde says from the back of the hall. “Tribe, team, whatever. If people look to the strongest, how does it work on a team of alphas, like his football team?”

  “Yeah,” the football guy continues. “We all think we’re the strongest. We all want to win—and not just games. We want the recognition, the title, the fans.”

  “Umm …”

  Sweet Jesus.

  I can parrot a whole text back to the class, yet I can’t figure out how to answer a basic question. This, right here, is why I could never go into something like clinical psychology or even lecturing. As soon as I don’t know something, my mind goes blank. Completely empty. Everything I’d memorized disappears and I’m just staring back at a sea of expectant faces. My hand hovers over the prompt card in my pocket, but I know the answer I need isn’t on there. It’s suddenly becoming very clear to me that I’m in way over my head.

  My focus flicks toward Foster, sure I’m going to see the smug expression of someone who was right.

  Instead, he winks. “It’s like Zach just said. Individuals make the team better as a whole. I want to win out there, and when I’ve got that puck and a clear shot on goal, I make sure I don’t miss. Same with Jacobs. And Beck. And every other guy on our team. We want to shine, which pushes all of us to work harder. But as long as everyone on the team knows the W is more important than all the other shit, it works.”

  “And that’s it for today,” Professor Lawrence says from behind me.

  With the class’s attention on him I shift until I catch Foster’s stare. He didn’t have to do that. He could have let me struggle just to prove his point. And instead of directing a pitying look my way, he gives me a soft smile.

  Thank you, I mouth.

  His smile grows.

  Professor Lawrence dismisses the class, and during the commotion he gives me a light pat on the shoulder. “Good practice.”

  We both know he’s just being nice, but for some reason he thinks I can do this, and I really don’t want to prove him wrong.

  Foster’s already out the door before I catch up with him.

  “So it’s possible I didn’t know the answer.”

  “I got that impression.” He shifts his bag on his shoulder. “You okay?”

  “Not really. I don’t … I don’t understand. I mean, I conceptually understand the teaching, and all the words make sense, but the way you just explained it … how? How does that work?”

  “We can talk about it later if you want. I’ve got to go meet with one of my professors right now.”

  I can’t believe what I’m about to say. “I think I need help.”

  He nods because he’s known that the entire time. “Come to the team’s first practice tomorrow night.”

  “Oh, I don’t, I don’t think—”

  “Trust me. Can you do that?” He starts to back down the hall.

  I still don’t have an answer by the time he disappears from sight.

  5

  Foster

  Our practices are usually closed to the student body unless given specific permission, but the first practice of the year is always open to the public.

  Our coaches insist on having an audience the first time we hit the ice as a team because they’re convinced we try harder when we get the chance to show off in front of a crowd.

  They definitely know how to work an athlete’s ego and competitive nature to their advantage. Being captain means I’m pushed the hardest.

  This is the newbies’ chance to show the team, and everyone at this school, what they’ve got.

  We start with a warm-up skate, and I almost feel sorry for the new guys on the team for what they’re about to endure. Hell, even seniors don’t handle it well. Especially those of us who haven’t been on the ice all summer at hockey camps and those who let themselves go over the break. The first practice is always brutal. Our head coach’s motto is: If you’re not throwing up, you’re not pushing hard enough.

  All I know is I’m happy to be back on the ice. I could skate every single day and not get sick of this.

  The coaches take us through skating drills and puck handling exercises, but that doesn’t stop me from checking the stands every couple of minutes to look for a head of dark hair that doesn’t belong.

  I told Zach to come watch, but he hasn’t shown up yet. I wonder if he’ll show at all.

  When everyone started firing questions at him in class, I saw him shrink into himself, which sucks because he’d started strong. For a while, I thought he was going to prove me wrong, and I was … proud of him.

  But it’s clear he’s in way over his head. I don’t think he knows how to act in a room full of people, let alone how to work in a team. And watching him struggle brought out my protective instincts. I might have questioned his abilities, but when others did it, the urge to save him was as instinctual as chasing a puck on the ice.

  That’s why I want to help him.

  Well, that, and this totally falls under the jurisdiction of looking out for him like Seth asked.

  “Grant! Quit daydreaming and move your ass!” Coach yells.

  I get my head back in the game and skate up to face off with one of the rookies.

  He’s a new kid I haven’t met yet other than at the official first team meeting last week. I think his name is Greggs. Or Pimms? No, wait, Simms.

  Whatever his name is, I grin at him as we take our positions opposite each other.

  “Aren’t you the gay guy?”

  I smile wider. “Interested, pumpkin?”

  Nothing makes a straight guy back down faster than a good old game of gay chicken. Also, I have my target for the night. The sooner I can work this guy so hard he pukes, the sooner we can all go home.

  I’ve played on this ice for three years. This is my home. These are my coaches. I know what they’re gonna do before they do it, and it’s all muscle memory at this point.

  I have about ten seconds before the puck drops. “If you’re trying to psych me out, kid, there’s one thing you should know.”

  Three … Two …

  “What?” he asks.

  The puck hits the ice, and without even looking, I pass it to where a teammate would be waiting if this were a real game. Simms doesn’t have a chance to blink.

  “Never take your eyes off the puck, sweetheart.” I stand to my full height and skate to the back of the line, but not before blowing him a kiss to piss him off.

  “Quit playing with the newbies,” Jacobs says.

  “He started it,” I mumble.

  “Mature, Captain.”

  “I’ve never—”

  Movement in the stands catches my eye.

  My stomach flips.

  Zach’s here.

  “You’ve never …” Jacobs prompts.

  “Huh?”

  “You were going to tell me something.”

  “Was I?” I’m still watching as Zach walks down the stairs to a free seat in the stands.

  Coach blows his whistle so fucking loud we all jump. “Scrimmage!” He divides us into lines, pairing experienced guys with a mix of newbs on each line.

  I’m up first, with Beck and a new kid on defense, and Jacobs and Cohen as my wingers. Opposite me is my favorite new recruit.

  This is gonna be fun.

  “Learned your lesson, hot stuff?” I ask at the face-off.

&nb
sp; “Would you quit it?” he grumbles.

  “Earn it.”

  When the puck drops, the little shit manages to strip the puck and take off with it. He shoulders past me, knocking me on my ass. I don’t know whether to be proud or mad.

  I’m back on my feet and flying down the ice in a flash.

  The kid is fast, but his footwork is sloppy. I catch up to him without breaking a sweat.

  He passes to one of his linemates and skates behind the net. The second the puck is back in his possession, I check him into the boards in a totally legal move, and he goes down.

  The puck is mine, and my teammates protect me as I make a break for our blue line.

  I pass to Cohen and deke defense, putting myself in front of the net right next to our backup goalie. Cohen passes back to me, and I put it right between Schofield’s legs.

  When the small crowd of students and visitors cheer, my gaze goes straight to Zach.

  Huh. No smile. No cheer … passive Zach as always.

  “That’s what you have to keep up with if you’re going to stay on this team!” Coach says. When I skate past him to get into the team box, he slaps my back. “Good hustle.”

  I take my helmet off and shake out my sweaty hair. “Thanks, Coach.”

  Then he yells next to my ear. “Next line. You’re up!”

  And now I’m deaf.

  I know I should be watching the scrimmage. I should be checking out my new teammates and trying to place which players they’ll gel with. With all the seniors who graduated last year, we have a lot of spots to fill, and we need the right lines to be able to go far this season.

  I want to make it to the Frozen Four my senior year. I don’t ask much. The team has made it one other time since I’ve been at this school. It was during my freshman year, so I only got about two minutes of ice time and we were knocked out in the first round. I want to go all the way this season.

  Yet, while the action in front of me goes on, I can’t keep my eyes off Zach, sitting in the stands with a cute concentration line across his forehead as he tries to follow what’s happening on the ice.