Line Mates & Study Dates (CU Hockey Book 4) Read online

  I don’t know what I’m getting into by being friends with Asher, but if he’s consistent, I’m sure he’ll do something soon enough to piss me off or push me away.

  Fun times.

  Dad and Coach Dalton are on their way down from the rink, and I make a split-second decision to say something.

  “Dad, wait.”

  “I don’t have time, Kole. I have a pair of dumbasses I need to deal with.”

  “That’s what I wanted to say.” I quickly step in front of him and block his path. “You should go easy on them.”

  “What for? You of all people know there’s no fighting on my ice.”

  “Well …” Think, Kole! “Simms was provoked—we all heard it. And Asher, technically, didn’t fight. You can’t punish him for taunting, because the other teams do that all the time. Your players need to be ready for it.”

  Dad clenches his jaw so tight I can tell he still wants to explode. I don’t doubt for a second that no matter what he decides, he’s going to head into that locker room and tear into both of them. But hopefully they can get out of this unpunished.

  “You know I’m right,” I point out.

  Dad shakes his head. “They’re both on thin ice.”

  “Literally.”

  And now Dad’s scowling. How new for him. “If they pull this shit again …” He’s about to say they’ll be off his team, but he hesitates. Maybe Asher’s right that Dad wouldn’t kick him off. He’s undoubtedly the best player, and they need him.

  Dad storms off in the direction I’ve come from, and I let out a long breath. I think that means they’re okay? Dad’s intense when it comes to hockey, but he’s logical too.

  Coach Dalton doesn’t make a move to follow him. “I can’t believe you did that.”

  “What?”

  “Stuck up for Asher.” He turns to lean against the wall. “Sometimes I think I’m the only one who’ll fight for him. And I mean the only one because he won’t do it for himself.”

  “I’m getting that impression.”

  “Is he okay?”

  “Yeah, his eye is a bit swollen, but he’ll be fine.”

  Coach Dalton sighs. “I don’t know why he has to be such a hothead all the time.”

  I’m not so sure Asher is a hothead. Yeah, he gets angry, but it’s more of a calculated burst than an uncontrolled explosion.

  “He’s always been like that, but it’s gotten worse since our parents died.”

  His words hit me right in the face. “Your parents are dead?”

  “He didn’t tell you?”

  “He said they weren’t around. I assumed he meant they worked a lot.”

  Coach Dalton blinks at the opposite wall. “Normally Asher tells everyone. He shoves it in people’s faces like he’s forcing them to pity us.”

  Pity? No. Asher isn’t the type to want pity. Though I’m definitely feeling something similar toward him right now. “Or … like he’s trying to make them hurt the way he is.”

  Coach Dalton’s head snaps toward me. “You think that’s it?”

  “I have no idea. I barely know Asher.” Though I’m starting to suspect no one does. Considering he’s dealing with school and hockey on top of losing his parents and looking after his siblings … Wait, does that mean that Coach Dalton and Asher are raising those kids?

  That’s a lot to take on, and not having a support system would only make it harder.

  I think I’m starting to understand him more than I ever wanted to.

  He’s … lonely.

  Well, that, at least, I can help with.

  Asher Dalton just gained a new best friend. Whether he wants it or not.

  7

  Asher

  “Give it back!” one of the twins screams.

  “It’s my turn!”

  “Shut up, I’m trying to do homework!” Hazel yells.

  Even in the basement, I can hear my siblings. And West is always surprised when I say I can’t get any studying done. This is why.

  I’m slumped over my desk, my head in my hand as I read over the same paragraph ten times because it’s still not sinking in.

  I don’t understand because digestion is simple. Mouth, esophagus, stomach, liver, intestines, bowel. There’s a gall bladder in there somewhere too, I’m sure. My point is, shouldn’t I be learning about what foods are good and which ones are bad? So then I can be all “Carbs good. Sugar baaad” to my future nonexistent clients because I’m going to be a hockey player no matter what.

  Even if I have to play for the AHL for a while. Hell, even the ECHL. I don’t care if the pay is shitty as long as I get to play.

  I stare at the words again, trying to memorize the function of the liver because apparently “It gets rid of all the toxic shit you put in your body” is not an appropriate essay answer. Don’t know why. Seems perfectly valid to me.

  Gah. I need a break.

  I close my laptop and amble my way upstairs for a drink. I’m hit with a wall of noise.

  “It’s eight o’clock. Time for bed,” I sing.

  “They haven’t eaten dinner yet,” West says from the kitchen where he’s trying to cook … I want to say taco meat? I can’t be sure.

  “I can do it.” I try to take over, but West nudges me out of the way.

  “How’s studying?”

  “I can’t concentrate with all the noise. I’ll try again when they’re all asleep.”

  “That’s going to be a while. Why don’t you go to the library at school and try to get it done? You’re dangerously close to losing your spot on the team.”

  I scowl. “You’ve been checking up on me?”

  “I’m your coach. Your professors have to report your grades.”

  Fuck that shit.

  “I’ll do it after the kids are fed.”

  “No.” West raises his voice. “You’ll go do it now.”

  I huff. “Fine. Whatever. Don’t accept my help.”

  Emmett comes into the kitchen and opens the fridge for something to eat.

  “Dinner’s almost ready, Ben,” West says.

  I grab an apple from the fruit bowl and throw it to Emmett. “That’s Em,” I tell West and make my exit.

  “Damn it. Sorry, Emmett.”

  If West doesn’t learn to tell those two apart soon, teen life with them is going to be so hard.

  I go back downstairs and grab everything I’ll need and shove it in my bag.

  Maybe being in a library will help me feel smarter, therefore I will think smarter.

  The drive is only a couple of minutes, and parking is usually a bitch, but this time of night it’s not too bad.

  I make my way inside the three-story building and automatically head for the study rooms people usually use for group assignments. Anywhere else and I’m worried I’ll get lost. Not a big shocking revelation here, but I don’t know the library well. Or … really at all.

  Kole’s head pops up from a table near the door as I enter, and … whoa. Kole’s wearing glasses. Black, square ones that frame his eyes, and all my blood flows south.

  If you’d asked me two seconds ago if I had a nerd kink, the answer would have been hell no, because someone like Foster’s boyfriend, Zach, would have come to mind. But this … tall, chiseled features, and glasses? I’ve found my new weakness.

  He’s with a group of other people I don’t recognize, but that doesn’t stop the smartass from coming out of me.

  I smile and wave. “I know, right? I didn’t think I could step inside here without bursting into flames, but apparently a library is not like a church.”

  His friends don’t seem amused, but at least Kole’s lips twitch.

  “So, this is a library, huh?”

  Still nothing. Oh well.

  And now this is awkward.

  “I’m just gonna …” I tip my head in the direction of a free desk and then follow through.

  But like at home, I can’t concentrate. Only, I can’t blame the noise this time.

  The wor
ds are there, I understand them fine, but it’s not sinking in. I don’t have a learning disability or anything like that, but it’s hard for me to retain information on things that I find mind-numbingly boring.

  I read and read and read, but all my brain is doing is going “Ooh, look, shiny things” and “I want to nap.” Then there’s the screaming in my head like “Why are you doing this to me? Please don’t make me think with the thinks. Braining is too hard.”

  I’ve barely gotten any further in the text when I sense a presence standing above me.

  “You look like you’re having so much fun.” Kole’s hazel eyes shine in amusement, even through his glasses.

  “This is worse than getting punched in the face.”

  He takes the seat next to me. “Yes, well, as we established, you find being punched fun, so …”

  I want to argue with him that it’s not so much fun, but telling him that hurting makes me feel alive is probably not that much better.

  “What are you working on?” he asks.

  “Digestion. Fun stuff.”

  “What are you struggling with?”

  “All of it. Sometimes I wonder if my brain is an actual brain or if maybe it’s, like, an avocado.”

  Kole laughs. “Want some help?”

  Yes. “Nah, it’s okay. Thanks though.”

  “Seriously, I’m premed. I could talk to you about the digestive system all day.”

  I bite my lip. Do I really want Kole to see how much of a dumbass I am? Then again, he saw me pick a fight for absolutely no reason, and you can’t get more dumbass than that. A smarter guy would work to put distance between us, not encourage a friendship that I’m sure I’ll screw up. “If you’re okay with it.”

  “More than okay.” He pulls my laptop closer. “I took this course freshman year. I can totally help you. I probably still have all my notes too.”

  “You … keep your notes?”

  “If I’m going to go to med school, I need to be good at note and record keeping. Okay, where should we start?”

  “I was trying to memorize all the technical terms for the functions of each organ, but I gave up on that. I can’t even remember all the parts to the intestinal tract. There are three segments of the small intestine alone.”

  Kole nods. “Okay, and what’s your problem? Is it spelling the words, remembering them, what?”

  “I’m not the type of guy to look at a text and memorize it. I don’t have a photographic memory.”

  “Neither do I. We use mnemonic devices to help remember.”

  “What’s that?”

  Kole takes my notebook and writes Intestinal Tract.

  Duodenum.

  Jejunum.

  Ileum.

  Cecum.

  Appendix.

  Colon.

  Sigmoid colon.

  A concentration line forms above his brow, and then he starts writing. “Defenseman Josi ices Crosby and chirps Sceviour. DJICACS.”

  “Sorry, what?”

  “If you remember this sentence, you’ll remember the letters the intestinal tract starts with, and then it will be easier to pull the words from your brain.”

  “So to recall words, I have to learn … more words. That makes no sense.”

  “I tried to make it hockey related.”

  “All that really told me is you’re a Pittsburgh fan, and that’s just blasphemous.”

  “Let me guess, you love Boston.”

  “Nope. Was a huge fan of Buffalo because they drafted me, but having to turn it down kind of soured me on them.”

  “Why’d you turn it down?”

  I eye him and think about how much to tell him. The smart answer: nothing. Keeping a layer of distance between us is a good thing. That doesn’t stop my mouth from answering, “Had to.”

  “Oh. Because of your parents?”

  I frown. “You know about that?”

  “Your brother told me.”

  “When did you talk to my brother? Is he telling you shit about me? Let me guess, making excuses for my bad behavior …” I don’t realize my voice is raised until someone nearby shushes me, but I don’t like the idea of Kole and West sitting around talking about me like—

  Kole’s hand lands on my forearm. “Calm down. It was the other day after your fight. We were in the corridor of the rink, and he said something about your attitude only getting shittier since your parents died. The way you talked about them, I thought they were busy working all the time. I didn’t know. I’m sorry.”

  I pull out of his hold. “Why are you sorry? You didn’t kill them.”

  Kole’s voice lowers. “Because it was a shitty thing that happened to you.”

  “Yep.” Like whenever I talk about my dad and stepmom’s accident, I’m short and to the point.

  I know it comes out cold and distant, but I need to remove myself from it emotionally.

  West always worries that I haven’t cried since their deaths. He thinks I haven’t mourned properly. But I don’t see the point in crying over something I can’t change. I’m more angry than sad. My ruined future isn’t even a blip on why I’m so pissed.

  They were happy. My siblings were happy. West and I might’ve been a handful, but with us gone and out of their house, they were living the dream of the perfect family. The house might be old, but they made it a home.

  I don’t understand why they had to die.

  Instead of making me sad, it makes me want to go to Heaven, if that place even exists, and punch God in the face. They didn’t deserve it, and the kids sure as fuck don’t deserve me and West to be their guardians.

  “Sorry. We don’t have to talk about them,” Kole says. “You kind of disappeared there.”

  Like I always do, I play it off like I don’t care. “Eh. Shit happens.”

  His eyes narrow. “Okay. Umm, about those mnemonic devices.”

  I sigh. “Thanks for helping, but I don’t know how much good it’ll do. Do you think if I take a puck to the head repeatedly, I could get information to stick that way?”

  “Uh, no. I highly don’t recommend you try that.”

  I slump.

  “Tell you what. I’ll room with you at away games, and we can work on it together.”

  My gaze flies to his. “What?”

  “You need help. I have to be at away games because I’m your bag bitch—”

  “Don’t use that term. It’s offensive.”

  He rolls his eyes. “I don’t have much time outside of my required hours at the rink, but I can help you. If you want. What are friends for?”

  I want to take him up on his offer, I do. But it’s becoming more apparent he’s a really nice guy, and I’m … not.

  “Come on. It’s impossible to turn down a hot guy offering to tutor you.”

  I know. That’s the problem. Us. Alone. In a hotel room. I can’t bank on me not doing something Asher-like.

  “I’ll take your lack of response as a yes. Besides, even if you said no, I’m the one who controls the rooming assignments anyway. You’re stuck with me.”

  I like the sound of that. I shouldn’t, but I do.

  “Ooh, and speaking of games, are you ready for the pre-preseason game against UVM?”

  “You’ve seen us on the ice. What do you think?”

  “Things with Simms aren’t any better?”

  “Yeah. He came over for a sleepover, and we braided each other’s hair and sang Carly Rae Jepsen. Fun times.”

  “You’re not going to win if you guys can’t gel.”

  “I know that, but he’s a dick.”

  “Oh, and you’re a pure ray of sunshine?”

  “Exactly.”

  Kole pats my shoulder. “Keep thinking that, buddy.”

  8

  Kole

  When it comes to Colchester U, there isn’t a huge divide between the jocks and the rest of us mere mortals like at some other colleges my high school friends went to. For the most part. The hockey team is a totally different story.

/>   Over the years, they’ve steadily grown in popularity and fan base, and then along came Foster Grant. Insanely talented, yes, but also out and proud and completely confident in who he is.

  I remember the first time Dad mentioned him. Foster was only a freshman, and I was still in my ugly-duckling phase. I maybe, sort of, developed a crush, but Foster had no idea I even existed. It was around then I quit hockey and started to work out who I was beyond Coach’s kid.

  It wasn’t until Foster’s senior year, when CU made it to the Frozen Four, that campus literally exploded in support. More queer players came out. Beck and his boyfriend, Jacobs. Richie Cohen. The campus magazine went wild with it.

  The hockey team has had more articles written about them than the football and swim teams combined.

  I hated that I had to go to a hockey school. I hated how proud Foster made Dad. I hated his team and their popularity and the overall arrogance that came from a dude bro wearing a Mountain Lions hockey jersey.

  I thought they had it made.

  But now, grudgingly, I’m starting to understand a little better.

  With notoriety comes pressure.

  And damn, this year’s team is under pressure. The closer we get to actual preseason, the more Dad’s stress levels spike.

  Katey cringes from beside me as we watch the last team practice before the UVM game tomorrow. “You’re right. They kinda suck.”

  “I didn’t say suck. They just …”

  “No, no. They suck. And at this point, you wouldn’t even be mean to say it—it’s fact. Are they planning to play together against UVM, or do they think if they confuse the other side enough, they’ll be handed the win?”

  I drop my head forward onto my folded arms. Katey finished classes early today, so decided to come and hang out at the arena so we could go to dinner once practice was done. She didn’t believe me that the team was a mess.

  Well, exhibit A.

  “Oh shit. Did he actually bodycheck his own line mate?”

  I don’t even need to look up to know who she’s talking about. Asher or Simms is my guess, and when Dad blows his whistle, screams so loud people across campus can probably hear him, and sends them both to the team box while he reorganizes the lines, my suspicion is confirmed.