Chapter 6 Harper
Monday starts off annoying and only gets worse.
The first thing I see, half-asleep and inhaling coffee from my travel mug, are posters of the hockey team plastered on the school doors.
Ridiculous glamour shots done by a professional photographer, each of the players staring seriously into the camera like they’re about to mow you down.
I guess their season is starting. It’s impossible not to hear the whispers and questions and cheers, even in class, so I’ve learned against my will that their first game is next Friday.
And Hamilton Lakes is kicking into full promo mode.
There’s Noah, blond hair gelled, blue eyes staring icily into the camera.
Brady, broad shouldered and burly, who seems to be fighting a smile against the photographer’s instructions.
Ryan, raising a saucy eyebrow and running a hand through dirty-blond waves. He turned this into his own personal photoshoot, and I almost respect it.
And Dawson. I pause in front of his poster, #47 displayed prominently below his head. School traffic flows around me while I glower at his photograph. Every plane of his face is focused, determined—high cheekbones, strong brow, squared jaw.
Too bad we’re psychologically wired to assume pretty people are also good. Dawson’s proof of just how stupid our monkey brains are.
Well, proof for some of us. A girl pauses beside me to sigh at his poster. “He’s perfect, isn’t he? People are saying he could go all the way. Can you imagine, one of our players making it to the NHL?”
I can’t help my own grudging admiration—if Dawson works half as hard as everyone says, he’s not just coasting on his dad’s name—but I do my best to squash it. “I guess. They do it sometimes.” I shrug, wanting to keep this conversation short.
Girlie’s not having it. “If anyone can pull it off, he can. He’s even better than Noah, and he’s only a junior.” She sighs, pupils practically dilating into hearts before my very eyes. “I wonder who he’ll take to prom….”
“You should ask him.” I adjust my backpack straps on my shoulders and push open the doors, resisting the urge to rip down Dawson’s poster as I go. “As long as you don’t care if he’s too focused on his stats to remember your name.”
Her jaw drops, but I’m already striding inside. I flip off the trophy cabinet by the front doors, even more irritated than usual by its display of athletic wins without a single robotics or debate spoil to be seen.
I’m doing that girl a favor. I take a long swig of coffee, my face burning from the short interaction. I’m still pissed on Marissa’s behalf, honestly. Dawson’s clearly not to be trusted in matters of the heart, and any girl who’s brainless enough to fall for him is bound to get hurt.
I pop my earbuds in and head to precalc.
I’m already grumpy from staying up late fulfilling back-to-school orders, and now I’m not at all sure how I’ll survive the only class Dawson and I share.
Unfortunately for a wannabe entrepreneur, I’m not good enough at math to make it in the honors level, so I’m simply bored in class on a daily basis.
Dawson’s already at his desk and surrounded by a small huddle of fans.
Or, I guess, classmates. Our eyes lock immediately, and my lip curls in disgust before I can control my face.
His hair’s a little damp from morning practice, and I catch a whiff of mint and eucalyptus. Probably from his postpractice shower.
He could at least do us the honor of smelling like shit. The whole front is false advertising.
A girl perches on the desk across the aisle from him, rubbing her arms in a theatrical shiver. “Is it freezing in here, or is it just me?”
Her bottom lip protrudes in a pout as she stares longingly at Dawson.
My eyes roll of their own accord. Come on, what an obvious—
But Dawson’s already shucking off his gigantic navy-blue hoodie. His T-shirt gets tugged slightly upward as he does, exposing a smooth ripple of abs that are impossible not to stare at. Even my eyeballs are stuck to them like they’re magnetized. How does one get ridges like that?
“Go ahead,” he says, not showing a glimmer of awareness that he’s currently the number one show in the classroom. “I run hot.”
“I bet you do,” she murmurs, all but licking her lips as she accepts the sweatshirt greedily.
A snort escapes me before I can hold it in, and her eyes flick over to mine. Her whole expression darkens, and as everyone’s gaze follows hers, the temperature in the room drops at least twenty degrees.
I hold up my hands as I slide by to my seat in the back, signaling my best none of my business, nothing to see here vibes. I know I’m not the most popular person in this room, but jeez, usually I don’t get that cold of a welcome. Sometimes people even say hi!
Luckily, the girl’s quickly distracted by snuggling into Dawson’s hoodie.
It does look very soft and warm. But Dawson keeps watching me, shooting me a weird look.
I ignore him and his abs, setting up my stuff for today’s lesson.
Liv’s the only person I’m friendly with in this class, but her lips are moving silently, head bent over a packet of paper.
Must be memorizing lines. I give her a quick wave and do my best to enjoy my bubble of solitude.
After a few minutes, Ms. Moore projects a word problem on the screen with a smile, and I reluctantly pause my podcast on shady wellness MLMs to tune in. “Since hockey season is starting up, I thought I’d get creative today!”
A ripple goes through the classroom. She must not know there’s currently Peak Hockey Drama afoot. Seriously, Ms. Moore? I thought you were cool. I thought this was a safe space. Don’t we get enough of the jock discourse in the halls?
A few people turn to look my way with murder in their eyes, so I must’ve let out an audible groan. I duck my head to my notebook to scribble down the problem as she reads it out. Whatever. I’m not letting hockey get the best of me in math class, too.
“In how many ways can six hockey players be chosen from a group of twenty if the playing positions are (a) considered? Or (b) not considered?”
“What about if (c), you can’t tell them apart?” I mutter.
Desks creak as twenty students shift in their seats. When I look up, half of them are turning around to stare at me.
“Sorry.” I wince. I didn’t mean to say it so loudly, and for a minute, I feel guilty.
Until Dawson glowers at me from the front row. “Kinda poor taste, given… well, everything.” The students around him nod their support, one girl even shaking her head my way in disappointment.
I frown. Never mind about that guilt. “Sorry my sense of humor is that offensive?”
“Nah.” Dawson shakes his head. “It’s more your destruction of people’s livelihood.”
I’m left blinking, stunned. The air’s been sucked out of the classroom. Even Ms. Moore’s wide-eyed, glancing back and forth between us, notes dangling in her hand.
My stomach drops as I connect the dots between today’s cold shoulder and Dawson’s aggression. Surely he’s not…
I straighten up and narrow my eyes at him. “Is this about Coach Red?”
His gaze bores into me. “Do you even have to ask? Listen, Harper, hockey might not mean anything to you, but it means a lot to the rest of us.”
I shake my head, cheeks burning. How dare he?
He’s convinced Noah’s unfounded conspiracy theory is accurate and he’s confident enough to accuse me in front of everyone?
He doesn’t even have enough decency to hold this conversation in private.
One girl has her hand over her mouth, and I swear some guy is filming the exchange.
Maybe this is what all those weird looks were about. Is everyone talking behind my back, speculating about my alleged sabotage?
My vision tunnels in on Dawson. Maybe it’s the outrage flooding my veins, but I snap back, “I don’t get it. If your team’s as good as you think you are—as good as everyone says—why does it even matter who’s coaching?”
Dawson’s jaw drops, and I take momentary pleasure in finally stunning him speechless. Everyone else is watching with wide eyes. “Wow,” a girl whispers from the back. “That’s cold.”
It’s only then that I realize what I said might be taken as an admission of guilt.
Ms. Moore claps once for our attention, seemingly snapping back to her senses at last. “Enough! Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to talk about permutations and combinations today. Unless you’d prefer a pop quiz?”
Dawson slowly turns around to face the front.
I do my best to refocus, but I don’t take a single coherent note for the rest of class.
I’m too busy ignoring the death glares people are sending my way, pretending I don’t notice them texting each other under their desks.
Texting about me? All because of the fight Dawson picked and his ridiculous, unfounded accusations in defense of his criminal coach?
I spend the next hour staring hard at the back of his head, hoping it gives him a migraine.
It’s a beautiful, crisp fall day, the sky a crystal-clear blue and the leaves on my favorite oak tree just starting to turn.
But when I meet Marissa under it for lunch, relieved to finally make it to the safe haven of our friendship, even the part of my brain that would normally be taking inspiration from the jewel tones of autumn is buzzing with stress.
Underclassmen file by on their way to the courtyard for lunch, seniors hurrying past us so they can grab a quick bite off campus. If I were them, I’d be hustling to make the most of a short lunch period, but somehow they still have time to slow their footsteps to glower at us.
“Narc,” some guy mutters.
A familiar voice adds loudly, “Only people who don’t have a life spend their time ruining other people’s.”
I whirl to confront them, mouth half-open, but Josie’s already raising a challenging eyebrow at me. “And you can forget about that commission,” she adds.
She’s gone before I can protest or defend myself.