The Charlie Method (Campus Diaries #3)

Chapter Fourteen Will

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

WILL

Save it for the ice

“D UDE, IS THIS GOING TO BE ON, LIKE , TSBN? I S YOUR FATHER-IN-LAW going to be talking about us on Hockey Kings ?”

“It’s a political piece,” Ryder says, rolling his eyes at Trager. “Why would Hockey Kings talk about it?”

“I don’t get it.” Trager turns to me for guidance. “What do they want to interview us about?”

I don’t even lift my head from my stall. I’ve got my phone in hand, checking the app for the tenth time today.

“College hockey, the culture, how you got into the sport,” I answer absently. “I’m sure there’ll be some bullshit questions about what it means to be a leader and how hockey builds great men.”

“Like Lego?” asks Patrick. He’s not bright, but he’s a great guy.

“Yes, like Lego,” Beckett says solemnly. “They want to interview you about building Lego hockey men.”

I open the message thread and stifle my disappointment. Still no response from Charlie. Last night, Beck and I extended an invitation to meet up for real, and it’s been crickets ever since.

“Guys, it’s just a puff piece, all right?” I set my phone on the top shelf of my locker and turn to face my teammates. “My father wants to show his constituents that his son is an upstanding college boy with upstanding college friends on their upstanding college hockey team. That’s all.”

Coach Jensen enters the locker room with our assistant coaches, Maran and Peretti. I take one look at his face and know he’s pissed off.

The source of that anger saunters in a second later: the producer of the video part of this shit show my dad has inflicted upon us.

Her name is Marjorie Neven, and she’s a tall, skinny blond in her fifties whose face doesn’t move. Literally. I can’t tell if she’s happy, mad, sad, disappointed. Her facial muscles are frozen in place by what must be pounds of filler.

She walks up wearing a powder-blue pantsuit and an excessive amount of gold jewelry that keeps catching the fluorescent lights, hurting my eyes.

“All right, boys,” Marjorie says, either smiling or frowning. “We’re going to shoot some more B-roll tonight of you getting into uniform, so no one take your pants off yet. Shirts are okay.”

“You mean this isn’t going to be full frontal?” Beckett drawls, making a big show of unzipping his jeans.

Nobody’s immune to his charm. Not even a fifty-something producer who clearly hasn’t gotten laid in at least twenty-five of those fifty years.

She titters with delight at his lewd remark. “As appealing as that would be to the female demographic—”

“And the LGBTQ+ demo,” says the cameraman.

“—I’m afraid that this is a family show,” she finishes.

Beck winks at her. “Their loss.”

Marjorie claps her hands. “All right, everyone. Ignore the camera—it’s not here. Act natural. Pretend like you’re getting ready for the game.”

Coach growls from the doorway. “They are getting ready for the game.”

“I know. I just mean—” She notices his face, that deadly Jensen stare, and stops talking.

“Listen, lady.”

Uh-oh, Coach busted out the lady . From the corner of my eye, I see Shane struggling not to laugh.

“You’re here as a courtesy,” Coach continues irritably. “We are under no obligation to let you into the locker room and invade the privacy of my men.”

She’s brave enough to voice a protest. “They all signed releases—”

“They didn’t know what the fuck they were signing. They’re idiots.”

Shane snorts loudly from his locker, no longer able to contain it.

“You’re distracting us, lady. Warm-ups are about to start. My men need their heads in the game. So get on with your little ‘segment.’” He uses air quotes. “Get your ‘B-roll,’ and get the hell out.”

With that, he stalks across the room toward the corridor leading to the PT rooms.

“I think I made him mad,” Marjorie says, looking around uncertainly.

“That’s just his personality,” Case assures her. “But yeah, I suggest you get your shots quick.”

My irritation only grows as the cameraman starts filming our pregame prep, being as intrusive as he possibly can. Meanwhile, we all “pretend” AKA actually get ready while Marjorie orders us not to look directly at the camera.

I’m on the bench, lacing up my skates, when Marjorie’s shadow falls over me. “William. Is this a good time to ask you a few questions?”

No, lady . It’s fucking not. I’m about to face one of the toughest opponents in our conference.

“Sure,” I lie.

She clips a tiny mic to the collar of my jersey, then steps out of the frame as the camera lens focuses on me. I expect a softball question.

“Tell me, William, do you think hazing is a necessary part of team bonding, or is it an outdated and harmful tradition?”

That was not a softball.

I tamp down my annoyance. “We don’t do hazing of any kind at Briar. Never have, as far as I know.”

“Then you haven’t experienced any hazing rituals during your three years here?”

“Nope.”

Marjorie throws me another hardball. “Hockey is known for its physicality. Do you think the level of violence on the ice has crossed the line in recent years?”

“Seriously? Look, I’m about to play three periods of hockey. It’s a mental game. And I don’t have the brainpower to waste on these questions.”

“It’s a violent sport,” she points out. “The fights—”

“There’s no fighting in NCAA hockey. They’re strict about that shit.”

Marjorie winces. “Can you repeat that without the profanity?”

I grit my teeth. “I’m done. I need to focus.”

“What if I feed you the lines?”

A laugh flies out. “Are you serious?”

“Your father sent us some talking points, all right?” She looks as annoyed as I feel. “So just put on a solemn face and say this: As athletes, we know that a lot of young players and fans look up to us, and that’s something we take seriously —”

“This is ridiculous.”

“Just say it. And then say… How about… Hockey is a physical game, but it’s important to show young players that aggression should be kept within the rules and used in a controlled, respectful way .”

Through clenched teeth, I repeat her little speech back at her. And it’s ironic to pontificate about the need to rise above the violence when I’d like nothing more than to hit that camera out of that dude’s hands right now.

“Perfect. Thanks, William.”

“Will,” I mutter as she strides off.

Beckett, who’s been lurking nearby, joins me on the bench. His lips quirk at whatever he sees on my face.

“Save it for the ice,” he murmurs.

He knows me well.

I try to shut out the voices. Marjorie is now interviewing Austin Pope, a sophomore forward, who looks like a deer caught in the headlights. He keeps fidgeting with the microphone on his jersey until Marjorie finally snaps, “Stop that.”

The woman recovers fast, taking a calming breath before donning her professional journalist voice.

“So, Austin,” she says. “You played for Team USA in the World Juniors last year?”

“Yeah.”

“How did it feel to represent your country in such a prestigious event?”

Austin blinks. “I dunno. I, uh, I just, you know, played hockey.”

Someone snickers.

“That wasn’t the question, Pope,” someone else calls out.

“Sorry, what was the question?” He rubs the back of his neck. “I don’t like interviews. Sorry. Can I just go now?” He glances at me with a silent plea for help.

I feel my patience reaching its breaking point. This is supposed to be our time to get in the zone, not to play nice for my father’s PR machine.

Marjorie gives up, unclipping Pope’s mic and walking over to Ryder, who looks like he wants to murder me.

She introduces herself and practically forces the mic on his collar.

“Any pregame rituals you swear by?” she asks him.

Ryder shrugs. “Started listening to whale sounds this season. My wife is really into that stuff.”

The whole room erupts in laughter, and even I have to bite back a grin. The sad thing is he’s not even messing with her. Gigi is obsessed with soundscapes and got Ryder into them. He claims it helps him focus and relax.

Coach returns a few minutes later. His gaze falls on the camera, and I swear I see the veins in his neck throbbing.

“Why are you still here?” he bites out. “Go away. I need to address my men before the game.”

Marjorie’s eyes light up, but her face doesn’t move. “A pep talk? Wonderful! I’d love to get it on film if—”

“Get out!” he roars. “Now.”

The cameraman scrambles. Marjorie stammers out an apology as the duo flees the locker room. The door swings shut, its thud reverberating in the ensuing silence.

“Thank God,” groans Trager.

Coach jabs his finger in Trager’s vicinity. “Shut up. I’m talking.”

After a short and snappy pep talk containing zero pep, the room empties out. Guys lumber into the tunnel toward the rink. I linger, grabbing my phone.

Still no message from Charlie. I guess that meetup isn’t happening. The shitty notion matches my foul mood.

I call my dad and get his voicemail. Of course. Anger sizzles up my spine as I call his assistant instead. Alessia picks up instantly. Of course.

“Will. What can I do for you?”

“I need you to pass a message to my dad,” I answer curtly. “He needs to tell his camera crew to back off.”

“Have they been intruding?” She sounds startled.

“Of course they have!” I snap, then lower my voice after I hear it bouncing off the walls. “We’ve got a game tonight. We shouldn’t be answering dumb questions, okay?”

“Will—”

I don’t even know what I’m mad about, so I just hang up on her.

Fuck.

Even when I’m only speaking to his proxy, my father never fails to make my blood boil.

The obnoxious interviews should have been the end of it. But no. Dad’s cameraman isn’t done with us yet. Turns out Dean Allen gave the dude permission to film from our home bench, a last-minute decision that sends Coach Jensen into a rage spiral.

I can’t focus during warm-ups, knowing the camera is zoomed in on every move I make. Knowing I’m the reason Coach is pissed. I skate hard, trying to shake the tension. The sound of the puck hitting the boards is usually a comfort, a reminder that this is my domain, but today it feels like a soundtrack to a disaster waiting to happen. Every time I glance over at the bench, I see that damn cameraman. I didn’t even bother learning his name, that’s how resentful I am of his presence.

Finally, the first period starts, and we hit the ice, the crowd roaring. We’re facing Harvard tonight, whose roster is phenomenal this season. A lot of the juniors who weren’t quite up to par last year have developed into goddamn superstars.

The first few shifts are a blur of bodies crashing, sticks clashing, and the puck ricocheting wildly across the ice. I try to ignore the camera, but I keep catching sight of it out of the corner of my eye, like a persistent mosquito I can’t swat away.

“Larsen! Get your head on straight!” Nick Lattimore barks as we skate by each other during a line change.

I’m fucking trying. I play on the first line with our co-captains, Case and Ryder, and our two best d-men. It’s a powerhouse of a lineup, and tonight we’re not gelling one bit.

For the entire period, we’re on our heels, Harvard sensing our lack of focus and capitalizing on it. They’re relentless, ambushing our net and peppering our goalie, Nelson, with shots. I hear Coach yelling from the bench, his frustration boiling over as we struggle to keep up.

“Move the puck!” he shouts as we try to break out of our zone.

Midway through the second period, I get the puck on a rush. Normally, this is where I thrive. Speed, instinct, pure adrenaline. But as I barrel down the ice, ready to make my move, the camera flashes in my peripheral vision, and I hesitate.

It’s just a split second, but it’s enough.

The defenseman reads my hesitation, stepping up to poke the puck off my stick, and before I know it, I’m colliding with the boards, the puck flying the other way.

“Motherfucker!” I snarl, slamming my stick against the ice as I hasten to get back into the play.

It’s too late. They have a two-on-one, and Nelson doesn’t stand a chance.

The red light flashes as the puck hits the back of the net, and the crowd groans its displeasure.

“Get your head in the game!” Coach bellows from the bench as I skate toward him. “That’s on you, Larsen! On you!”

I know it was, and it burns. I slam onto the bench, ripping off my helmet and running a hand through my sweat-soaked hair. My chest is heaving, but not only from exertion. I’m livid. At the cameraman, at my dad, at myself.

The game continues, but I feel like I’m watching it through a fog. I hear the skates cutting into the ice, the shouts from my teammates, the echo of the puck as it rattles off the boards, but none of it registers. All I can think about is how much I wish my father were here so I could punch him in the fucking face in front of his fucking cameras.

Coach is losing it, pacing up and down the bench, barking orders. The team is out of sync, passes going wide, players colliding as we try to get something going. And all the while, the cameraman is there, capturing every painful second.

Another rush, another turnover. The puck is in our zone again, and we’re scrambling, trying to clear it. I see the puck bounce loose. Fucking yes . I’ve got a chance to get it out. I lunge for it—but before I can get my stick on it, the Harvard center swoops in and fires it past our goalie.

The horn blares, and the scoreboard shows we’re down by two, and the clock is ticking. The second period’s almost done.

I skate back to the bench, feeling the game slipping through my fingers. The cameraman has graduated from pesky mosquito to a swarm of bees, moving behind us to get his goddamn angles. He’s distracting everyone, including Beckett, who’s late for his shift because the camera guy is blocking the door when Jensen calls for a line change.

“ That’s it! ” Coach looks like he’s going to literally have an aneurysm. His face is beet red, his voice an incensed roar. “Get off my bench!”

The guy is wise enough to know when to cut his losses, disappearing into the tunnel. But the damage is done.

“Dunne!” Coach shouts at Beck. “If you screw up a line change again, I’m benching you for the rest of the game.”

Even though it wasn’t his fault, Beckett also knows better than to argue, but I can tell my boy is pissed . Jaw set in a tense line, gray eyes burning with anger.

Jensen switches up the lines again. Beckett and Shane, who are on the same line tonight, burst through the bench door. I can tell from Beck’s body language that he’s out for blood.

I wasn’t lying to Marjorie earlier when I said there’s no fighting in college hockey, but about twenty seconds after Beckett hits the ice, a fight breaks out.