So with a sigh, I tell Logan about my F in Ethics and what it could mean for the team.
“Drop the course,” he says instantly.
“Can’t. I missed the deadline.”
“Crap.”
“Yup.”
We exchange a glum look, and then Logan flops down on the stool beside mine and rakes a hand through his hair. “Then you gotta shape up, man. Study your balls off and ace this motherfucker. We need you, G.”
“I know.” I grip my fork in frustration, then put it down, my appetite vanishing. This is my first year as captain, which is a major honor considering I’m only a junior. I’m supposed to follow in my predecessor’s footsteps and lead my team to another national championship, but how the hell can I do that if I’m not on the ice with them?
“I’ve got a tutor lined up,” I assure my teammate. “She’s a frickin’ genius.”
“Good. Pay her whatever she wants. I’ll chip in if you want.”
I can’t help but grin. “Wow. You’re offering to part with all your sweet, sweet cash? You must really want me to play.”
“Damn straight. It’s all about the dream, man. You and me in Bruins jerseys, remember?”
I have to admit, it’s a damn nice dream. It’s what Logan and I have been talking about since we were assigned as roommates in freshman year. There’s no doubt in my mind that I’ll go pro after I graduate. No doubt about Logan getting drafted, either. The guy’s faster than lightning and a goddamn beast on the ice.
“Get that fucking grade up, G,” he orders. “Otherwise I’ll kick your ass.”
“Coach will kick it harder.” I muster up a smile. “Don’t worry, I’m on it.”
“Good.” Logan steals another piece of chicken before wandering out of the kitchen.
I scarf down the rest of my food, then head back upstairs to find my phone. It’s time to ramp up the pressure on Hannah-not-with-an-M.
3
Hannah
“I really think you should sing that last note in E major,” Cass insists. He’s like a broken record, throwing out the same unreasonable suggestion each time we finish running through our duet.
Now, I’m a pacifist. I don’t believe in using fists to solve your problems, I think organized fighting is barbaric, and the idea of war makes me queasy.
Yet I’m thisclose to punching Cassidy Donovan in the face.
“The key is too low for me.” My tone is firm, but it’s impossible to hide my annoyance.
Cass runs a frustrated hand through his wavy dark hair and turns to Mary Jane, who’s fidgeting awkwardly on the piano bench. “You know I’m right, MJ,” he pleads at her. “It’ll pack more of a punch if Hannah and I end in the same key instead of doing the harmony.”
“No, it’ll have a bigger impact if we do the harmony,” I argue.
I’m ready to rip my own hair out. I know exactly what Cass is up to. He wants to end the song on his note. He’s been pulling shit like this ever since we decided to team up for the winter performance, doing everything he can to single out his own voice while shoving me into the background.
If I’d known what a fucking prima donna Cass was, I would’ve said hell no to a duet, but the jackass decided to show his true colors after we started rehearsals, and now it’s too late to back out. I’ve invested too much time in this duet, and honestly, I truly do love the song. Mary Jane wrote an incredible piece, and a part of me really doesn’t want to let her down. Besides, I know for a fact that the faculty prefers duets to solos, because the last four scholarship-winning performances have been duets. The judges go cuckoo-bananas for complex harmonies, and this composition has them in spades.