Chapter 10 Griffin
Griffin
“So… did you get anything out of Hughie?”
That’s the question Mack fires at me while we’re sprawled on the couch with controllers in hand, a half empty pack of beer on the coffee table, and the TV blasting whatever racing game he’s currently obsessed with.
And honestly, the way Mack the question should’ve been easy to answer. But it’s not, and I can tell because even before I open my mouth, the words feel like they’re stuck under a heavy weight in my chest.
Because I didn’t get anything out of Hughie that had anything to do with the fight with Connelly. Hell, I didn’t even try to talk about the fight or what caused those two to be at odds.
What actually kept me awake that night wasn’t the punch. It was the look Hughie gave me when he said we weren’t friends anymore. It was the way his voice and his eyes carried this quiet hurt that I’d been too naive to realize was there until he just said it out loud.
That was the part that mattered. I could honestly give a fuck about Connelly when I realized that I had been such a fucking horrible friend.
“No,” I finally say, without taking my eyes off the screen. “He didn’t say much.”
Mack shrugs, not even looking at me, still focused on making his car drift. “That’s not abnormal. Sam Connelly blew out of the arena and wouldn’t answer my texts.”
And yeah, that’s a very Connelly thing to do.
At least lately all he does is disappear, avoid contact, and pretend like nothing in the world fucking matters.
But I don’t say that out loud. I’ve never been one to hide my general distaste for the guy behind polite language, but right now?
I’m actively choosing not to be That Guy.
Because team. And also because this whole thing is already a complicated emotional minefield and I’m not about to add commentary about fleabag teammates to it.
Instead, I take another swig of my beer and nod slowly.
My phone buzzes again, and I glance down at the latest message from Sabrina with a grimace that could contort statues.
Sabrina: Are you being lame or are we going to the party at Theta Friday?
I groan and slide the phone to rest on my chest, staring at the ceiling like maybe gravity will help me think. The answer is obvious and terrible: I can’t go.
Exhibition game Saturday morning. I refuse to be a hungover mess at an actual game, which is literally the one thing that defines my life right now.
But she won’t get that. No, instead she’ll interpret my refusal as a personal rejection or as an emotional failing, and I already feel that blowout brewing like bad weather on cue.
“What’s up?” Terry finally asks from the loveseat where he is aggressively shoveling pizza into his mouth.
I roll my head to the side and deliver my best deadpan look, “Sab wants to go to the party on Friday.”
Mack snorts without looking away from the TV, perfectly content to let the universe deal with itself, but Terry actually gives me this sympathetic, captain of the ship look.
“Well… you could go for like an hour,” he suggests with a grimace because he already knows my goddamn answer.
I shake my head and exhale like someone just stuck a balloon needle in my chest. “It’s never one hour.”
Mack doesn’t miss a beat as he lets out a derisive chuckle.
“You could tell her no,” he says, eyes glued to the screen. “What’s she gonna do? Freak out?”
Um, yes.
That’s literally exactly what she is going to do. I take a few seconds to think of a response and I’m about to give in and tell her know when…
The front door opens.
Cue Sam fucking Connelly, strolling in sporting a textbook black eye and a scowl that could curdle milk, but still somehow giving us a half smile that dissolves like cotton candy in a thunderstorm the moment Mack calls out to him.
“Get in here, man.”
And just like that, that half-smile vanishes.
“I’m just gonna go do some homework,” Sam says in this slow, clipped tone.
I shake my head, because yes, that’s exactly the vibe I expect from Sam: defensive, prickly, allergic to responsibility, and absolutely determined to avoid any sort of confrontation.
“NO,” Terry cuts in, his tone full of authority. “We need to talk.”
Sam sighs and shuffles into the room, leaning against the far wall like he’s ready to disappear through it if anyone gets too loud.
“Well, what? Get it over with,” he snaps.
This is peak Sam Connelly energy and I’m so fucking tired of it. I can’t possibly describe how much I dislike the guy but still…this attitude he has been sporting this year is fucking exhausting.
“We need to talk about the fight with Hughie,” Terry says, voice steady and serious with his hands raised in that classic peacekeeper gesture.
And before Sam can so much as shift into defense mode or start running his mouth, Terry keeps going in a firm tone, “You can’t be fighting our goalie.
And it’s even worse because you’re supposed to be a leader. ”
Sam scoffs. His jaw is clenched as he straightens to his full height, like he’s ready to throw down again right here in the living room.
“Is that a joke?” he hisses. “You wanna talk leadership? You’re the one who got us all in trouble before the fucking season even started!”
Terry doesn’t even blink. “Yeah, and I owned it. But I’m not out here throwing punches at my own teammates.”
Sam rolls his eyes, scoffing again, but before he can keep spiraling, Mack jumps in. “Listen, man, we’re worried-”
“You’re worried?” Sam cuts him off, voice sharp and bitter. “You guys are so far up each other’s asses you wouldn’t notice if the house was on fire. Don’t stand there and pretend you give a shit.”
“We do,” I say, trying to keep my voice calm even though he’s seriously pushing it now. He’s being a dick when all we’re trying to do is figure out what the hell’s going on and stop this whole team from imploding.
But then he turns on me, eyes burning, and spits out, “I couldn’t give a fuck what you think, Thatcher.”
I rear back like he just swung at me. I mean, sure, we’re not exactly besties, but I didn’t think we were on ‘fuck you’ levels of hostility.
“What’s your problem?” I shoot back, standing up as that hot rush of adrenaline hits me all at once.
And then he gives me this look, this twisted, smug little smirk like he knows something I don’t, and shakes his head. “You’re all just a bunch of sorry-ass excuses for players and even worse fucking roommates. Don’t come at me about my shit when you haven’t even dealt with your own.”
Then he turns and stomps upstairs, slamming his door behind him with enough force to shake the walls.
There’s a thick silence before Mack finally says what we’re all thinking.
“What the actual fuck?”
And all I can do is shake my head, still stunned. Because yeah, what the fuck indeed. I don’t respond right away because, honestly, I’m still trying to figure out what just happened.
That whole thing spiraled fast, like blink-and-you-miss-it fast, and now I feel like someone dumped a whole gallon of cold water down my back and slapped a ‘fuck you’ sticker on my forehead for good measure.
And maybe what really gets me is that Sam looked at me like he knew something I didn’t. Like he had this little secret burning behind his teeth and he was one deep breath away from spitting it out just to watch me unravel.
“Okay, what the actual fuck was that?” I finally ask, the words scraping out of my throat as I drop back down onto the couch.
Terry doesn’t answer immediately, and that makes it worse, because if even Terry is speechless, then I know we’ve crossed into uncharted territory. He just sits there for a beat, jaw tense and brow furrowed trying to find the logic in Sam’s spiral.
“I don’t know,” he finally mutters, “I really don’t fucking know.”
I walk into physiology class feeling about as present as a zombie. My brain is still foggy from last night’s lack of good sleep, my shoulder is still a little sore, and emotionally…I feel a little like a mess.
But then I see Jacob already in the room, sitting in his usual spot a few rows in, and I feel this strange little tug in my chest.
So I do something I absolutely do not normally do.
I sit beside him.
Not across the aisle. Not somewhere near the exit so I can make a quick escape if the professor decides to call attendance early.
No. I sit right fucking next to him.
My brain has approximately one functional thought left in it, which is either a sign of emotional growth or I’m just really fucking tired. Still not sure which.
He glances up from his notes with this adorable slightly startled look. And I feel this weird little jolt in my chest as his cheeks heat up to be that pretty red again.
His hair falls perfectly into place even though it definitely did not fall into place on purpose, and those eyes look at me for a split second before he glances back at his notes like nothing’s up.
And in that split second I realize something that makes my brain go uhhhh whoa.
I don’t know if I sat beside him because he’s Hughie’s best friend and I feel like that might give me some indirect insight into whatever emotional hurricane Hughie’s quietly drowning in, or if it’s because Jacob has this almost infuriating calmness that makes his presence comforting.
But also?
Holy shit.
He’s pretty.
Like, not “oh he’s kind of cute if you squint and tilt your head” pretty. No. I mean “probably got scouted for modeling in a Target while buying deodorant” pretty.
Sharp jaw, clear skin, stupidly full lips, and a smile that looks like it was built by the gods to ruin lives. The kind of guy who probably makes professors offer extra credit just for existing.
And then there's the brain. The guy is scary smart. He’s top of the class, probably knows the syllabus better than the prof does. I swear I lose IQ points just sitting next to him.
“Hey,” I say before my brain can catch up to the fact that my mouth is moving.
Jacob turns his head toward me, and when he smiles I actually feel my brain short-circuit a little.
“Oh, hey,” he replies. His voice is so deep and so smooth. It kind of just rumbles through you.
“How’s your semester going so far?” I ask, trying not to sound like an awkward middle schooler.
Jacob gives a soft little hum and leans back in his seat slightly, the motion effortless and far too graceful for a guy wearing a hoodie with a stain on the sleeve. “It’s good. Busy but good. You ready for the game this weekend?”
That question flips a switch in me because yes. Game talk is my zone. My safe place. I can talk hockey and completely ignore the fact that Hughie’s brother is hot as fuck.
Immediately, I light up like someone pressed play on my highlight reel. “Yeah, man. We’ve been practicing systems all week, and it’s been clicking better than it has all season. The energy in the locker room’s actually solid for once. I think we’re gonna show out.”
Jacob nods, clearly interested even if I know I’m rambling. “Sounds like it’s gonna be a good one.”
I grin. “I mean, we still have to get through a game without any of our teammates fighting but…I have my hopes up.”
He laughs, and I have to actively stop myself from looking at his mouth when he does it.
The professor walks in then, calling the class to attention with the usual whiteboard click and shuffle. I’m just about to shift into Notetaking Mode when he drops a bomb.
“For your upcoming project, you’ll be partnered with whoever you’re sitting beside.”
A few students groan at the announcement. There's a soft shuffle of panic across the lecture hall as backpacks rustling, chairs creaking, and that one girl in the front row audibly whispering “shit” as she eyes the guy beside her like he just personally ruined her GPA.
Some people move. A couple try to swap seats like it’s musical fucking chairs.
But me?
I glance sideways at Jacob, heart weirdly thudding against my ribs like I’m about to be picked for dodgeball in elementary school and I really want to be on the cool kid’s team.
He’s already looking at me.
And when our eyes meet, he gives this half-smile and shrugs like, guess we’re stuck with each other now.
And okay, it shouldn’t feel like winning the goddamn lottery, but it kind of does.
“I guess we’re partners,” I say, trying to sound chill while my insides are doing cartwheels.
“Guess so,” Jacob replies, tone light. “You free Sunday?”
“Uh…” I mentally scan my calendar, which, let’s be real, is just hockey, lifting, and trying not to flunk Econ. “Yeah, Sunday works. We’ve only got evening skate, so I’m free during the day.”
He nods with a knowing smile because he obviously knows the hockey teams schedule. “Cool. Let’s plan to meet up late morning, maybe around eleven?”
“Sounds good,” I say, and then realize I sound too eager, so I cough like an idiot and throw in a way-too-casual, “Cool, yeah.”
We gather our stuff as class wraps and Jacob’s shoulder brushes mine as we move into the hallway, and the contact is brief but electric, like static shock that zings straight to my spine.
He waves at me before turning down a different hall, and I swear my brain short-circuits for a second because what the actual fuck is happening to me?
I’m walking toward the locker room, grinning like a dumbass over a group project. I think I need a cold shower. Or maybe a reality check. Probably both.