Rand is breathing hard. Blood drips from his split eyebrow in a sticky line down one side of his face. I wince. Trager doesn’t look much better. His nose is swollen, bloody, and likely broken.
But while Rand has been reined in thanks to Ryder, Trager remains a loose cannon. He shoots forward again, and now one of his teammates, Tim Coffey, decides he’s going to be the hero.
“Dude, stop,” Coffey orders, grabbing Trager’s arm.
But Trager is still a wild beast. He pushes Coffey off him.
Hard enough that Coffey loses his balance and crashes into the coffee table, which collapses under his weight and breaks apart like a house of cards. Wood splinters fly in all directions, table legs creaking and snapping, and then a cry of pain as Coffey lands awkwardly on the floor.
Directly on his wrist.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
GIGI
Date night
I WAKE UP THE NEXT MORNING TO A STRONGLY WORDED EMAIL from the head of the athletics department.
In two terse lines, it states that my presence, along with every single member of the hockey program, is required at the Graham Center at 1:00 p.m. sharp. Any player who doesn’t show up better have a doctor’s note or be dead. I assume Chad Jensen added that last part himself because it’s very Jensen-esque.
Thanks to donations from former students like my father, the Briar Hockey complex is basically its own little kingdom on campus. We have our own gym and training center full of PT and weight rooms, saunas, hot and cold tubs. Two huge media rooms, two rinks, enormous locker rooms.
And a large auditorium where today’s emergency meeting is being held to discuss the events of last night.
The entire coaching staff of both the men’s and women’s programs stand on the stage, while their respective players fill the first three rows of cushy seats. Near the podium is a tall willowy woman in a white pantsuit. Her entire vibe screams public relations.
Coach Jensen looks like he wants to murder everyone in the room, including his own colleagues. He approaches the microphone at the podium and gets things going in a brisk, irritated voice.
“I would like to congratulate each and every one of you for ruining my Saturday plans with my granddaughter. She’s ten years old and recently developed an affinity for tiger sharks, and she cried when I told her I couldn’t take her to the aquarium today. Everyone, give yourselves a round of applause for making a ten-year-old girl cry.”
Beside me, Cami smothers her laughter with the sleeve of her hoodie.
“In other news,” he announces. “Tim Coffey’s out for at least four weeks with a sprained wrist. He’ll miss the entire preseason and likely several games.”
Jensen punctuates this with a glare at our team doctor, as if he’s the one who sprained Coffey’s wrist. To his credit, Dr. Parminder doesn’t even flinch. Tim Coffey does, however. In the front row, the freckle-faced senior hangs his head in shame. I heard he spent half the night in the emergency room getting X-rays.
“I won’t bother telling you how stupid and irresponsible you all were last night. I get it, I was young once. I enjoyed a good party in my days. I won’t lecture you about the drinking—underage drinking for many of you.” He shoots a pointed look at the lowerclassmen. “I won’t even go too hard on the fighting. But to the bonehead who decided to film the fight and post it online?”
He does a slow clap, which triggers another wave of silent giggles from Camila.
“Congratulations, bonehead—you’ve scared the boosters.” Shaking his head in disgust, Jensen stalks away from the podium.
My own coach takes his place. Adley clears his throat and addresses the auditorium.
“What Chad is trying to say is, we’re dealing with some very concerned boosters and alumni at the moment. Donors,” he says meaningfully. “In case you need reminding, donations are what pay for this state-of-the-art facility. They’re what keep your locker rooms stocked with top-of-the-line equipment. They’re what gets you several televised games a year—you see any other D1 programs receiving that perk? This school offers the most elite program on the East Coast, but that doesn’t just happen by chance. We might attract the talent, but we need the money to develop it. And now, thanks to last night’s events, we’ve got boosters calling and emailing to ask why our program is in shambles. Why our own players are breaking each other’s wrists and how will that help us make it to the playoffs, let alone win any championships.”
My fearless, smart-ass captain thrusts her hand in the air.
Coach Adley notices and nods in her direction. “Yes, Whitney?”
“I want it on the record that the women’s team had nothing to do with yesterday’s fight, and we did not bring shame upon this house.”
A few titters echo in the cavernous room.
“Noted,” Adley says. “However, that doesn’t change the fact that we’re in damage control mode. And this requires a concentrated effort on the part of both our programs.”
Adley nods toward the white-pantsuit lady, who takes over.
“Good afternoon. My name is Christie Delmont, and I’m the executive vice president of marketing and public relations for Briar University.”
Why do job titles sound so made up these days?
For the next ten minutes, Delmont lays down the law and lists all the sins we’re no longer allowed to commit. No fighting or visible hostility in public. No filming anything if hostility does arise. We’re not to conduct any interviews or release any statements without prior approval from her or the athletic department, but she has arranged for a glowing profile of the new Briar/Eastwood team that will run in all the Boston newspapers.
“You will shower praise on your teammates,” she tells the men, her tone brooking no argument. “I expect to see the most flattering, effusive ass-kissing in your individual interviews. Not even a whiff of animosity. From this point forward, you all love and adore each other.”
She flips to the next page of the small stack she’s set on the dais. “Pacifying the boosters is our main objective right now. They’ve sent me a list of upcoming fundraising and publicity events. I’ll be enlisting many of you to participate, and in the case of the Briar alumni benefit in December, you’ll be responsible for organizing several elements, including the silent auction.”
She glances at her papers again, then lifts her head and searches the crowd.
“Gigi Graham and Luke Ryder?” she calls in question. “Can you raise your hands so I can see you?”
Uneasiness washes over me. At first I consider slouching in my seat and hiding, but Cami pokes me in the side, forcing me to raise my hand. In the row ahead of us, Ryder does the same. His reluctant body language reflects mine.
“If either of you have plans tonight, cancel them,” Christie Delmont says sternly. “There’s a charity gala in Boston organized by Leesa Wickler, whose family is one of our largest donors. You two will attend as representatives of Briar University and your respective hockey programs.”
“Date night,” I hear one of the dudes chortle.
I’m sorry, what? They can’t just force me to start attending galas against my will, can they?
And why are they sending Ryder, of all people? I can easily guess why they want me. As Ryder enjoys pointing out, my last name is Graham. That carries a lot of weight.