Chapter Five
Monroe
I groan into my pillow. I had planned on cleaning the rink this morning, heading to my first class of the semester, then spending the rest of the day holed up in my apartment, decompressing from the extreme socialization I’d been forced to participate in over the last week and a half.
She left me on read.
My first communications class is at nine-thirty on campus, so now I have a little extra time to kill. Despite being out of the early-morning practice routine for months, my body surprised me with a muscle memory for getting up before the sun, so going back to sleep is out. I’m up now.
I open the social media accounts I’ve ignored for the last several months.
After my accident, I spent many hours hate-scrolling through everyone’s perfect lives, but I wasn’t posting anything.
The last picture on my account was of me and Aaron from one of our last competitions, on the podium.
I suck in a breath and exit my profile. No need to be pissed off this early in the morning.
But apparently I am a glutton for punishment, so I tap the search bar at the top of the screen and type Rhodes McKnight into it.
His profile comes up immediately—@rhodesMcKnightofficial—and I click onto his profile and scroll down the page.
It’s mostly hockey, with a few smatterings of ski trips, nights out at the bar with his teammates.
I have to scroll a long time before any girls show up on the screen.
I wonder if that means he’s single. I tap the tag of the girl in the photo, one from nine months ago. @LindsayShay. She’s gorgeous. I gag.
When I finally do get out of bed, I’m running late. Stalking Rhodes’ social media took more time than I realized. I hastily pour myself an iced coffee, grab my laptop, and get out the door in record time.
The classroom is packed by the time I’m walking in with exactly thirty seconds to spare.
Squeezing into a seat in the back, I try to make myself as small as possible.
The classroom smells like whiteboard markers and stale coffee, and I crinkle my nose.
Communications 324: Professional Writing and Media Presence is printed neatly on the board, and the professor is typing something into the computer at her desk.
I take a moment to people-watch the students around me.
A group of girls sit near the front, laughing.
Something in my chest twinges at watching their friendship.
I see a smattering of university sports team sweatshirts on a few of the guys—swim, lacrosse, baseball.
No hockey. I am relieved to find I’m not the last person to come into the classroom as a few other stragglers make their way to my back row as well.
The professor clears her throat to signal the start of class, and I sit a little straighter in my seat.
I keep my focus glued to my notebook as she launches into the syllabus.
Group project expectations, weekly assignments, online discussion posts.
All the regular college nonsense I haven’t done in…
a little over a full year exactly. I jot everything down and make note of important dates.
I surprise myself by really paying attention in class, which past-Monroe would be shocked at. I consider texting my dad a picture of the room just to prove that I’m here and doing the damn thing. But I don’t.
He can see the diploma in May if I make it that far.
* * * *
I step into the arena that afternoon, annoyed that I even have to be here at all. It’s exactly what I don’t need, a room full of cocky hockey bros tossing their sweaty jerseys at me.
I have no idea what my dad has told his team about me, and since I’ve been actively avoiding him all day, I’m walking in blind.
Add that to the absolute stench of unwashed hockey gear I’ll be dealing with later, and this might just be my very own personal hell.
Girls always think hockey players are so hot and sexy until they have to smell their gear.
I am sitting in the hallway, waiting for the guys to get here.
It’s quiet, two hours before the start of the game, but that will change as people start piling into the rink.
I probably have fifteen more minutes of peace before it gets chaotic.
I spent the afternoon rewriting my notes from this morning more neatly and adding dates to my calendar.
School was never my strong suit, but I also never applied myself all that much either.
I’m hoping, if I actually try, that 3.0 GPA I need won’t be completely out of reach.
My job tonight is to collect laundry, straighten up the locker room when the guys are out skating, make sure they all have towels and water, and generally stay out of everyone’s way. Here’s hoping I can remain relatively invisible.
I hear the team before I see them. Loud whoops echo through the hallway, then they’re in my line of sight.
I used to love hockey. As a teenager I’d go to games all the time with my dad, and even drool over the hockey players.
Don’t tell any of the Wolverines, but I still love it as an adult.
That said, once I was old enough to start catching the attention of the guys on the ice, I realized just how disastrous a combination of good looks, talent, and unlimited access to puck bunnies can be.
It took me all of one failed relationship—looking at you, Jacob Pearlman—to pretty much swear off NHL players for life.
A tall blond with shaggy hair spots me first. I know this guy. The Wolverines’ resident golden boy, Beck Larsson—gorgeous and ridiculously nice. There isn’t a single media outlet that has ever said a bad word against him.
“Monroe!” Beck’s grin lights up his entire face. “I heard you were working at the rink. Elsie’s got you coming here, too?”
I force a tight smile at the right winger. Beck cocks his head at me, and I nod.
Rhodes walks up behind Beck and slaps his shoulder. “Abrams,” he locks eyes with me and nods before pushing open the locker room double doors. Beck’s eyes flit back and forth between us, a smirk ghosting the corners of his mouth.
He narrows his eyes at me and I roll mine back. He huffs a laugh. “See ya, Monroe.”
The rest of the team filters in, most of them ignoring me completely.
Some faces I recognize from past seasons’ rosters.
Others are new. It’s always a weird transition period after major trades—everyone still figuring out how to play nice.
It gives my dad a major headache when this much upset happens at one time.
Jax Callahan brings up the rear of the team, sauntering in behind everyone else. He’s scrolling on his phone with one hand, the other hauling his hockey bag. You can tell by his behavior both on and off the ice that he thinks he’s hot shit.
Rhodes used to be that way too, but he seems to have mellowed out a ton this year. Well, his behavior off ice, anyway. The fights on the ice obviously aren’t ideal. I push down the part of me that wonders why Rhodes is struggling with that now.
Jax looks up as he passes me. His gaze flicks down my body, slow, assessing. I suppress a shiver. I take it back—Rhodes wasn’t quite this bad, actually. Jax just gives me the creeps.
“And who are you, gorgeous?” He grins, leaning against the doorframe. The girl you shouted at at the rink a few days ago, I want to reply, but I don’t blame him for not recognizing me.
Aside from the fact that I actually showered today—did my hair, put on some makeup—I hadn’t been around the Wolverines in over a year, and Jax wasn’t local.
There wasn’t really a reason for him to recognize me.
Unless he was really scouring Dad’s desk and happened to see a photo of me, I’d be just another girl at the rink to him.
“Jax.” My dad’s voice cuts through the air from behind him. “Leave my daughter alone, please.”
Jax’s eyes widen at me, and he mouths, “Coach’s daughter?” with a shit-eating grin.
My lip curls in disgust as he pushes off the wall and drags his bag into the locker room.
I make eye contact with my dad before he follows Jax in to start their pre-game meeting. He nods once, then beckons me inside so I can get back to my job.
* * * *
I am watching the game from the TV in the locker room.
I don’t feel like sitting in a crowd of people, and I had a ton of stuff to do while the guys were on the ice.
Plus, I can’t stop my hands from shaking thanks to the no-alcohol situation these days and I’m not in the mood to try to cover it up right now.
Rhodes is sitting in the press box because of his suspension, and he looks absolutely furious. The cameras keep panning up to him. His fists haven’t unclenched the entire game.
On the ice, it’s an absolute disaster. Jax refuses to pass the puck.
Beck, typically one of the stronger players, is struggling with the lack of support from his linemates.
Weston Matthews, the new goalie, has let in every soft shot so far.
It’s four-zero and near the end of the third period. Pull it together, Wolverines.
A buzzer sounds to end the game, and I get up.
The guys will be back in here any minute for their post-game meeting, then jump into interviews, and I don’t feel like being in here to witness the tantrum that’s guaranteed to ensue from probably everyone.
Rhodes, my dad, anyone who was wide open when Jax didn’t pass the puck.
There are still a few towels on the ground, so I scoop those up, toss them into my laundry basket, and move into the shower area to sort what I have. I hear the players come in, shouting loudly.
“What the fuck was that?” Rhodes explodes with all the fury he’s been holding in the entire game. His voice shakes dangerously. “None of you are playing like you’ve ever picked up a fucking stick in your entire lives.”