The room comes to life as everyone stands and shuffles along the rows toward the aisle. Jensen calls out before I reach the door. “Ryder.”
I glance over my shoulder. “Sir?”
“A minute, please.”
Swallowing my apprehension, I walk toward him. “What’s up, Coach?”
He’s quiet for moment, just studying me. It’s unnerving and I resist the urge to fidget with my hands. I’m rarely intimidated by people, but something about this man makes my palms sweat. Maybe it’s because I know he never wanted me here.
I fucking hate knowing that.
“Is this captain thing going to be a problem?” he finally asks.
I shrug. “I guess we’re going to find out.”
“That’s not the answer I want to hear, son.” He repeats himself. “Is it going to be a problem?”
“No, sir,” I answer dutifully. “It won’t be a problem.”
“Good. Because I can’t have my team at war. You need to step up and be a leader, understand?”
My self-restraint escapes me for a moment. “Are you going to give Colson the same talk?”
“No, because he doesn’t need it.”
“And I do? You don’t even know me.”
Christ, shut the hell up, I chide myself. Challenging my new coach isn’t going to get me anywhere good.
“I know team unity isn’t your strongest suit. I know leadership doesn’t come naturally to you. We both know your former teammates selected you for your skill and not your leadership—and a choice like that only ends in disaster. With that said, I don’t typically interfere with who a team picks as their captain, and I’m not going to interfere now. But I am watching you, Ryder. I’m watching carefully.”
I manage to keep my palms flat to my sides when they want to curl into fists. “Thanks for the heads-up. May I go now?”
He gives a brisk nod.
I stalk out and release a heavy breath in the hallway. This entire situation is fucked. I have no idea how it’s all going to play out, but judging by this morning’s events, it won’t be pretty.
It takes a few moments to orient myself and figure out how to leave the building. Briar’s hockey facilities are larger than Eastwood’s, and some of the corridors feel like a maze. Eventually I emerge into the lobby, a cavernous space with pennants hanging from the rafters and framed jerseys lining the walls. Through the wall of glass at the entrance, I spot several of my friends loitering outside.
“So that was a fun morning,” Shane remarks when I join them.
“A blast,” I agree.
The sun beats down on my face, so I slide my sunglasses over my eyes. When I first moved to the East Coast from Arizona after high school, I assumed Septembers in New England were chilly. I didn’t expect the summer temperatures to linger on, sometimes well into the fall.
“Hopefully group two fares better than we did,” Mason Hawley says with a wry smile. Mason is Rand’s younger brother and, most of the time, Rand’s keeper.
“Doubt it,” Shane says. “There’s no unclustering this fuck.”
As if to prove his point, a bunch of Briar guys exit the arena and all their expressions cloud over when they spot us. They halt at the top of the steps, exchanging guarded looks. Then Case Colson murmurs something to Will Larsen, and the group strides forward.
Colson and I lock gazes. Only for a moment, before he breaks eye contact and marches past us. The group descends the front steps without acknowledging us.
“Such a warm reception,” Beckett drawls at their retreating backs. His Australian accent always becomes more pronounced when he’s being sarcastic. Beck’s family moved to the States when he was ten. America basically beat the accent out of him, but it’s always there, dancing just beneath the surface of his voice.
“Seriously, I feel so wanted here,” Shane pipes up. “All these Briar rainbows and unicorns are making me fucking giddy.”
“This fucking blows,” Rand mutters, still watching the Briar guys. He straightens his shoulders and turns to me. “We need an emergency meeting. I’m sending a group text. Can we do it at your place?”
“The second group is still at practice,” Shane points out.
Rand’s already pulling out his phone. “I’ll tell them to be there at noon.”
Without waiting for approval, he sends out the SOS. And that’s how a couple hours later, the living room of our townhouse is crammed with twenty-plus bodies.
Shane, Beckett, and I moved into this place last week. Our house in Eastwood was larger, but the pickings are slim for off-campus housing in Hastings, the small town closest to the Briar campus. Whereas I had my own bathroom before, now I share one with Beckett, who uses way too many products in his hair and clutters up all the counter space. For a fuckboy, he’s actually kind of a chick.
Speaking of fuckboys, Shane is a newly anointed one, and instead of paying attention to Rand, he’s texting with some girl he met at Starbucks literally an hour ago. Shane’s been trying to screw his way out of a broken heart since June. Though if you ask him, the breakup was mutual.
Spoiler alert: there’s no such thing.
“All right, shut up, y’all,” Rand orders. He and Mason are Texas boys, each boasting a faint twang, but while Mason has that laid-back southern demeanor, his older brother is always wound up tight. “We need to talk about this roster issue.”
He waits for everyone to quiet down, then looks at me.
“What?” I mutter.
“You’re the captain now. You need to get the meeting going.”
Leaning against the wall, I cross my arms tight to my chest. “I’d like it on the record that I didn’t want to be captain and you’re all assholes for doing this to me.”
Shane hoots.
“Yeah, tough shit,” Rand tells me, rolling his eyes. “They threw Colson’s name out there. What else were we supposed to do?”
“Not pick me?” I suggest coldly.
“We had to make a statement. Put up our best against their best.”
“It’s not their best,” Austin Pope speaks up, hesitant. The curly-haired kid stands near one of the leather armchairs with some of the other freshmen.
Rand glares at him. “What was that, rookie?”
“I’m just saying, there’s no ‘their best’ and ‘our best’ anymore. We’re all on the same team now.”
He sounds as miserable as we all feel.
“Whatever. Can we please talk about the roster now?” Rand says impatiently.
“What about it?” Beckett asks in a bored voice. He’s typing something on his phone, only half paying attention. “Jensen’s gonna pick whoever he’s gonna pick.”
“Wow, words of inspiration right there.” Our sophomore goalie snickers from his seat on the gray sectional.
“We don’t actually need to be worrying, do we?” Austin looks ill now. “He can’t cut all of us, right? What if he goes and cuts Eastwood in a clean sweep?”
Everyone just stares at him.
“What?” the teenager says awkwardly.
Shane grins. “You’re playing in the World Juniors in a couple of months. There’s no way you’re not making this team, kid.”