The Charlie Method (Campus Diaries #3)

Chapter Fifteen Charlotte

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHARLOTTE

Downright feral

“I JUST DON ’ T UNDERSTAND WHY THEY KEEP JUMPING IN AND OUT LIKE that without anyone blowing a whistle,” I complain.

“Because they make line changes during the state of play,” Blake explains. Somehow, she’s shown nothing but patience in spite of the thousand and one questions I’ve barraged her with.

“That seems incredibly dangerous. And in the two or three seconds it takes for them to jump in, you’re, like, a man or two down!” I have to shout over the latest roar from the crowd.

“That’s what makes hockey so exciting,” she shouts back.

She’s not wrong. This is way more thrilling than I anticipated. I’ve never actually been to a hockey game. But I have been to football games, where after literally every play, they blow the whistle and then everyone stands around for forty-five minutes while they reset.

That said, I have no idea what’s going on down there. I agreed to come to the game because I’m trying to be a good mentor for Blake, but as I sit here in the stands, surrounded by die-hard fans in Briar jerseys, I feel like I walked into a secret club where everyone but me knows the handshake.

“You really do this in your spare time?” I call toward Gigi Graham, a fellow senior who’s good friends with Blake.

“Hockey is life!” she calls back. She’s on Blake’s other side and hasn’t taken her eyes off the game since we sat down.

Her intensity is a bit unnerving. Hell, so are her looks. This woman is stunning. She has big gray eyes, perfect features, and thick dark hair arranged in a side braid. She’s wearing a Briar jersey with the name RYDER on it.

“Hey,” I say, poking Blake in the ribs. “You need to get a football jersey that says Grant on the back.”

“I’m sorry—what?” Gigi’s head swings toward us. She stares at Blake, and whatever she sees on the freshman’s face causes her jaw to fall open. “No! You agreed to go out with him?”

“Yes. And don’t you dare tell your parents. Then they’ll tell mine.”

I laugh at Blake’s deadly tone. “Your moms like to gossip?”

Gigi snorts. “Our dads. They have an entire group thread called Dad Chat.”

“Ha! That is totally something my dad would be part of,” I say with a grin.

“You want to know the most horrifying part?” Gigi says.

“I’m kind of scared, but yes.”

“Once a month, everyone has to post a picture in the chat for Dad Bod Day.”

Yikes. I’m picturing love handles and pot bellies when Gigi bursts that bubble by adding, “They like to argue about who has the most abs.”

“Oh, right. Your dad’s a hockey player,” I say to Blake. “Yours is too, Gigi?”

She shrugs. “Yeah, he dabbled.”

Blake snickers, which tells me Gigi is underplaying it and her dad is probably the greatest player of all time.

“Okay, back to this horrible decision you’ve made,” Gigi says. “You can’t go out with a football player, Blakey. He’s only going to break your—” She cuts herself off, eyes widening. “That was tripping!” she shouts, jumping to her feet.

Other fans are screaming their agreement. But there’s no whistle. The players keep skating and smashing into each other. It’s hard to make out the names on their jerseys. I can only catch a glimpse when they’re in the face-off, crouched over, but it seems like the one always handling it is Ryder.

“Don’t make me come down there!” Gigi yells at the ref.

“Uh-oh,” Blake says. “Wife mode activated.”

“Wait, what?” I’d noticed that Gigi was wearing a ring, but it didn’t occur to me it might be a wedding ring.

Although it is on her wedding ring finger…

My inner bitch is quick to mock me. Sharp as a tack, Charlie. There’s a reason you’re in STEM.

In my defense, I don’t know a lot of married college seniors. I’m sure they exist, but nobody in my circle is married at this age.

“That’s my husband down there,” Gigi explains, flopping back into her seat after her tantrum. “Number 62. Ryder.”

“So you’re Mrs. Ryder?” I tease.

“Mrs. Graham-Ryder, thank you very much. I promised my dad that I won’t drop the Graham unless Wyatt gets married and has kids to pass the name along to.”

That sends Blake into a fit of laughter. “Because that’s happening.”

“Hey, there’s a chance.” Gigi grins at me. “My twin brother is not the settling-down type. So if he stays eternally single, my kids will just have to be Graham-Ryders.”

As the two of them continue to chat about Wyatt, an itchy sensation travels along my spine. The feeling that I’m being watched.

I glance around, trying to pinpoint where the intense stare energy is emitting from, but everyone in my vicinity is focused on the game. The only exception is a solo guy whose face I can’t make out because he’s engrossed in his phone. All I see is a head of black hair and a dark eyebrow that either has a white scar running through it or it’s just the bright lights reflecting off it.

I still can’t shake off the weird sensation, but I force myself to ignore it.

There’s a face-off on the ice below. The puck drops, and Mr. Graham-Ryder snaps it up. The players zoom after him with a speed that leaves me dizzy. I can barely keep track of who has the puck, let alone what they’re supposed to do with it. I watch as the little black disc flies across the ice and players chase after it like their lives depend on it. Every few seconds, someone is slammed into the boards, and the whole crowd cheers or groans, depending on which team did the slamming. It seems like the whole point is to hit people as hard as possible and then occasionally remember to try to score.

“This is way more aggressive than I expected,” I say over the cheers. “Why is it so aggressive?”

“Because it’s hockey!” Gigi laughs, clearly loving my confusion. “It’s all about getting physical.”

Physical is one way to put it. I wince when I notice a particularly jarring hit against a Harvard player.

I raise a brow. “That seemed unnecessary.”

“Nah. Beckett’s just showing them who’s boss.” Gigi’s eyes are bright with approval. “Considering how laid-back he is, he’s a shockingly good enforcer.”

I grimace. “Ugh. Beckett? I know that guy. He’s in my environmental science elective.”

“Not a fan?” Gigi sounds amused.

“He flirts too much and thinks he’s more charming than he actually is.”

“I mean…isn’t that most men?”

“Fair point.”

Her gaze is once again drawn away from us. “Shit. Coach looks pissed .”

I lean forward in my seat, craning my neck to get a better look at the Briar bench. “Does he coach the women’s team too?”

“No. Our coach actually knows how to smile.”

“I don’t blame Jensen for losing his shit,” Blake says, also peering down at the ice. “Is that camera allowed on the bench?”

“Oh! Right!” Gigi says. “Will was telling me about this. His dad’s on one of his PR crusades and forcing Will to do a bunch of interviews, including a TV spot. I guess this is part of it.”

“Yeah, well, Jensen’s about to clock that cameraman,” Blake predicts.

She’s right. The angry man with the buzz cut is not having this. From up here, it looked like the cameraman just interfered with their line change. One of the players is late to get on the ice, and I fear the coach might have a coronary.

With his clipboard tucked against his bulky chest, he stalks to the other end of the cramped bench where the cameraman leans against the plexiglass. Jensen smacks the clipboard on the guy’s chest and gets in his face. I can’t hear what he’s saying but I can guess.

A moment later, the cameraman is scurrying to safety.

“That would have been Beck’s pass,” Gigi complains when the puck is scooped up by the other team near the home bench.

The opposing player goes tearing off on his own, all the Briar guys hurrying after him in a blur of black and silver. It’s no use. Harvard scores. The entire rink lets out a collective groan and series of boos.

While the other team is celebrating, a new kind of roar explodes from the crowd. Beckett is shoving one of the Harvard players. The guy stumbles but doesn’t fall. Instead, he flings his gloves off and digs his fists into the front of Beckett’s jersey. As he’s being yanked forward, Beckett elbows the guy in the chin. Hard.

I gasp when the fists begin to fly. They’re fighting. Like, actually fighting. Punches are landing, helmets knocked askew.

I should be horrified, and I am—kind of. But at the same time, this entire showdown is…

Hot.

They’re so aggressive. Raw. A strange thrill shoots through me as Beckett lands a solid blow that sends his opponent on his ass, and the crowd goes wild.

I can’t tear my gaze off him. Something about the way he holds himself, the sheer force of it all, keeps me riveted.

Maybe I don’t understand all the rules of hockey, but I’m starting to get why people love it. There’s something primal about it, something that crawls under your skin and makes you want to keep watching, no matter how brutal it gets.

“I thought they weren’t allowed to fight,” I shout at Blake.

“They’re not.” Her expression is grim. “He’s going to get in so much trouble for that.”

Sure enough, after the players and refs step in and pry the two young men apart, a panting Beckett skates back to the bench to suffer the wrath of his coach.

Beckett’s face is downright feral. Will skates over, his boy-next-door features stretched taut. The intensity rolls off both guys in waves. It’s incredibly sexy.

My pulse is still racing, and I’m more than a little embarrassed by how much I’d just enjoyed watching two grown men beat the crap out of each other.

Will stops Beckett before he enters the bench and whispers in his ear. Whatever it is, it seems to loosen some of the tension in Beckett’s shoulders.

“Look at the dog whisperer over here,” I remark.

Gigi snickers. “Yeah, Will knows how to calm him down.”

“I still don’t get it,” Blake says. “They’re not hooking up?”

“I don’t think so. But they like to share.”

My head swings toward her.

I’m sorry—what?

She must mistake my shock for confusion, because she offers a smile and an explanation, “They enjoy, ah, threesomes.”

“With who?” Blake demands.

“No clue. They’ve never named names.”

My insides begin twisting into tight, uneasy knots. My gaze returns to the ice, where Beckett is being reamed out. The coach gestures for him to get out, his face red and sweaty.

“Shit, he’s been ejected,” Gigi says.

Beckett marches toward a shadowy corridor without a backward look. My gaze shifts from his retreating back to the line of hunched-over players on the bench. Will is taking a seat beside Ryder. I stare at the back of his jersey.

It reads Larsen.

Lars.

How did I not put this together?

Or maybe there isn’t anything to put together. Maybe it’s just a coincidence. Maybe—

Lars and B! my brain shouts at me. Larsen and Beckett.

The names line up. The abs line up.

Those tight, rippled abs…

A groan of distress rises in my throat. Is it possible that I’ve been chatting with two Briar hockey players?