Chapter 5
CHAPTER FIVE
KELLAN
Cooper and Dutch are already home when I drag myself inside.
I give them a quick nod as I come in the door, hands full.
We live in a row of townhouses close to the training center, in a three-bedroom unit that came fully furnished.
This is our first year living together, since Cooper was only a freshman last year.
Even though I’d been hungry as all hell, I worked out after tutoring. I tried–and failed–to relieve some of my pent up frustration. The source of it was clear to me, and he flitted through my mind repeatedly as I’d tried to outrun the strange feeling in my chest.
Wells–what a fucking joke. If he wasn’t berating my intelligence during our session, he was just giving me these looks.
We stayed on our respective sides of the desk, though I could feel his presence constantly in the small room, like we were both warring for silent dominance.
I would never bring it up to Coach, but I cannot believe this is who the athletic department stuck me with.
Wells explained the concepts I needed to study with even more confusing language than my professor generally used, which, as far as I’m concerned, makes him pretty fucking bad at his job.
Not that you’d know it from the way he studied me across the desk with so much disdain, his eyes tracking across my face like he was just waiting for me to give up. Maybe even throw a left hook–which I considered more than once.
I had run miles thinking about Wells, every feature of his angular face coming so clearly into my minds’ eye, before hunger and a long day started gnawing at me. Suddenly, I couldn’t get out of the cardio room fast enough.
I’d hoped to catch my line at the dining hall, wishing for anything to help me stop thinking about the last few hours.
No such luck, but I did eat at least a few thousand calories and take just as much more home in a to-go box that is perilously close to popping open when I shove it in the refrigerator.
I’m already off because of my exhaustion, and falling out of sync with my line would be the final nail in the coffin.
“You wanna play?” Cooper calls from the living room, where both he and Dutch are in a heated Madden battle, judging by the sounds of bodies colliding on the screen.
Another thing I can’t remember–fun. All I want to do is crawl into bed for an hour of sleep before I have to go out again.
Still, I can’t keep slacking on these guys.
Even if Dutch is a junior and Cooper is still a sophomore, it’s not fair to throw away what should be a prime year for them to get noticed because I can’t get my shit together.
And regardless of what people may think, camaraderie outside of the arena for a first line like ours is just as important as what we do during games.
We need to be in sync. Moving as a unit, anticipating one another out on the ice.
Which means that I yell, “I wanna play Mario Kart,” at the same I’m already hearing the Nintendo theme song start playing, and I’m grabbing a bottle of water for Coop and an orange juice for Dutch out of the fridge.
When I walk into the living room, I throw one with each hand, trying to make them both drop their controllers to catch their drinks.
“Thanks, man,” is what I get from Coop, while Dutch grunts, refusing to put his controller down. Instead, the bottle hits him squarely in the chest. Both of their personalities in a nutshell.
The three of us shouldn’t work, but we do.
Cooper Anderson has the energy of a Golden Retriever puppy, and the affability to back it up.
I’ve honestly never met such a nice, genuine dude.
It’s jarring, to say the least, given that I’m born and raised in Massachusetts, where people are jerks to your face, even if they will still plow you out of a snowstorm if needed.
Cooper is from the Midwest–Minnesota, to be exact–but I don’t think an entire population of people can really be as nice as he is. It’s just Coop, through and through.
And Dutch… he’s the most steady person I’ve ever known.
He keeps us all level. His real name is Asher Reynolds–we only call him Dutch because he always wants things to be fair–and has spouted off on more than one occasion about something called the ‘just world’ theory, which I will never, ever, ever be the person to bring up with him again.
At six-three and well over two-hundred-pounds, with a well-trimmed beard and a body painted with tattoos, no one would ever guess that he’s a philosophy major.
I throw myself down on the recliner near the sofa they’re both on, my controller already waiting for me on the end table.
We’re all dressed in some version of post-workout / classic collegiate wardrobes.
Me in my Radford U t-shirt and joggers, since I always run hot, especially after working out.
Coop and Dutch are both in Renegades sweatshirts, though Dutch has cut the sleeves off, his massive biceps flexing as he maneuvers his fingers along the controller.
“Missed you at dinner,” Coop says as he picks out his avatar. Toad, to no one’s surprise.
“When I swung by the dining hall, you guys were already gone. I had to meet with my tutor. Coach’s orders,” I say, giving a mocking salute before settling on Yoshi.
It’s not embarrassing to work with a tutor, especially as an athlete.
If anything, it’s looked at as a legal performance enhancer.
Something that we’d actually be stupid to not utilize given the access we have to support and the requirements to keep our GPAs up.
But, I’m not most guys. I don’t like taking help, and I definitely don’t like taking it from Wells–who I’m now forced to engage with two times a week for at least the rest of the semester.
If anything, I’m more motivated than ever to pull my grades up, just so I never have to see his smug, judgmental face again.
“Why didn’t you meet them at the training center during study hall?” Dutch asks at the same time he locks on Mario.
I let out a deep, punctuated breath that pulls their attention.
What do I even say about whatever the hell it was that happened earlier today?
I’m definitely not going to explain to my roommates how I’m quickly becoming fixated on his hatred for me and that it was all I could think about while I worked out earlier.
“I don’t know. But this dude fucking hates me.
Like with a capital H.” Seriously, if looks could kill, I’d already be dead.
And then he’d have probably spit on me, just for good measure.
“Why?” Coop asks in an honest way that only he can manage. His sandy, slightly disheveled hair and clean-cut features only intensify the genuine look of confusion on his face.
We kick off the first race and I pull ahead quickly.
“Wish I fucking knew, man,” I say, dodging the hazards easily but knowing that I have a target on my back.
I’ve tried to push Wells out of my mind, but he’s relentless.
I don’t know what to make of him. He doesn’t make sense as a tutor–dude looks like he spends more time in the gym than I do.
But more than that, I’m not used to people hating me on-site, and I can’t say that I like the feeling.
I stay solidly in the lead, though I can see the pack gaining on me. The race has barely started–we’re on Rainbow Road–but I’m already in a flow state, easing around the turns like it’s muscle memory.
“Did you bounce him out of Mulligan’s?” Dutch asks. My controller drops out of my hands as one of the other racers takes the lead.
Those words are just about the only thing that’s been able to break through my hours-long preoccupation with my new tutor.
I freeze, not knowing what to say. But I should really give my roommates more credit.
Dutch is a curious person by nature, and now, it makes so much sense that he hasn’t asked about my whereabouts.
He already knew. Even though my arms feel buzzy, I pick my controller up and start racing again.
I’m halfway off the leaderboard now. “I didn’t realize you two were keeping such close tabs on me,” I say, as casually as I can manage.
Dutch’s response comes easily as he maneuvers in front of me. My concentration is shot. “It’s a college town, bro. You don’t think that the Kellan O’Reilly moonlighting as a bar bouncer hasn’t gotten around in the last few weeks?”
My hands are clammy as I try to keep a handle on the controller. I clear my throat. “Does Coach know?”
“Not that I’ve heard,” Dutch says, moving into second place with two laps to go. “And I didn’t hear it from another player. One of the guys in my sociology class mentioned it to me. I rolled by one night to confirm whether it was actually you.”
“And then you two had a family meeting about it?” I’m half-joking, trying to keep my voice light.
But inside, I’m terrified. It’s not explicitly illegal to have a job while being a student athlete, but my performance hasn’t been its best on the ice this season.
If Coach finds out, he could easily make me choose one or the other.
And I know to him it would seem crazy to walk away from the team–hell, it feels crazy to even think it–but I can’t let my family be without a place to live.
“You know we’re here for you, right?” Coop’s eyes are focused on the screen as he speaks, which makes it easier not to brush him off immediately. “If something’s going on, we can help.”
And I know they would. Without question. Without reservation. But I don’t want to drag them into the mess that is my life. I don’t want to let them down and take them down with me.