Chapter Fourteen Bryden （Mountain）
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
brYDEN (MOUNTAIN)
Students spill into the lecture hall, seats creaking as bodies sink into them. The sound of gum chewing mixes with a sea of voices, different tones and octaves clashing like nails on a chalkboard. It’s loud, obnoxiously so, even with earbuds in.
I sit in the back today, second to last row, to put some distance between me and everyone else. Practice has been hell these last few days as we get ready for tomorrow’s game. It’s the finals, and everything we worked for is riding on this. Every muscle and limb are sore.
I keep my hood up and AirPods in despite no sound coming through them. People tend to stay away when they think you’re not paying attention.
The usuals are here. Christina and her crew, drawing attention to themselves in the most exaggerated of manners. Short skirts, makeshift vanities set up on their desks to touch up their makeup as if it isn’t only eight o’clock in the morning.
Jackson hobbles in, his crutches hitting the carpet with soft thuds.
“Out of the way,” he demands to the person walking in front of him. He doesn’t wait, forcing the guy to the side.
Behind him is his posse of followers, a bunch of spineless dudes who do any and everything to stay on his good side.
His family owns practically half the city and he uses that to his advantage every chance he gets.
About forty-five percent of land and businesses have the Kincaid name somewhere in the fine print.
Centuries of inheriting land and businesses by questionable means.
Old money makes for extremely spoiled brats, and he’s the biggest one of all.
He’s a great player, but no one likes him. Not really. He’s tolerated at best because of his talent on the ice.
He settles in next to Christina, who immediately turns her attention to him. Their relationship’s a weird one—never together but off-limits to anyone else. Maybe if they’d stuck to their usual routine, Jackson’s knee would still be intact.
He rudely plops his foot up on the back of the chair in front of him, no consideration of the person in it. The moment he and the minions are seated, he starts his usual antics, loudly joking at someone else’s expense.
My eyes shift sideways, landing on Sam as she quietly enters the room, her eyes straight ahead, ignoring the glances thrown her way. She’s only been a student at SKU close to three weeks and is already the most hated person on campus.
Jackson spots her, too, tapping on a teammate’s shoulder and nodding in her direction.
“Bitch,” he says through a fake cough, loud enough for everyone to hear, his eyes glued to the back of her head.
While everyone turns, dead set on being nosy, Sam keeps her head high. Good girl. Don’t feed into the madness.
She takes a seat and digs her notebook from her bag. Her mechanical pencil begins scribbling across the page in her spiral notebook, the pink grip worn from use. Her face is calm in that blank way people wear when they’re trying not to fall apart.
From head to toe, I watch her, locking it all to memory. The way she makes a fist with her free hand as she concentrates on what she’s writing, the nervous tap of her foot against the marbled floor, and the broken strap of her book bag that’s been tied in a knot one too many times.
Jackson continues but she keeps her resolve.
He’s a prick who loves the attention—good or bad, he eats it up. And when he gets ignored, he eggs it on until he ultimately gets what he wants. And what he wants right now is to make her pay for what she did to him.
Her silence only fuels him more. He leans back, dropping another comment I can’t fully make out. But I catch enough to know that it’s something unnecessarily vulgar. Laughter flutters from the seats around him, a couple of the guys from the team joining in.
I shift in my seat, my arms folded across my chest. I don’t laugh, or join in. But I don’t stop it either. I just don’t see the need for the bullying. Yet his knee didn’t break itself, so she’s far from an innocent flower.
“Quiet down,” Professor Wilson says, his voice rising above the classroom noise.
Slides light up on the smartboard screen—something about case studies and comparative analysis.
As class drags on, my eyes flick back to her.
My mind keeps going back to her standing against my doorjamb while I stood there, practically naked; how her eyes surveyed every inch of my frame before finally meeting my stare.
She looked on like she liked what she saw, and it’s something I haven’t been able to get out of my head since.
I ordered her to leave, pretended that it bothered me, but deep, I’m not sure I really wanted her to.
Today Sam doesn’t look as scared or as lost as she did when she arrived; still out of place, but that wide-eyed fear isn’t there.
It’s as if she’s gotten used to it all, as if being on this campus has hardened her as it has many others.
If anything, she looks tired. All the time.
Like she never sleeps, or when she does, it’s with one eye open.
Jackson mutters again. Louder this time. Something about knees and riding sticks. Professor Wilson doesn’t hear, or at the very least pretends not to.
I grit my teeth, but still stay out of it.
She did blow up the season—threw our balance off.
And now Jackson is dragging his busted leg around and blaming her for it.
And despite the hostility, the torture pretty much everyone on the team has put her through—sweaty jockstraps, dirty towels, late nights of sharpening blades and taping sticks—she shows up.
Every day. She does the grunt work and takes the hits.
She doesn’t whine, doesn’t crack, doesn’t fold.
Not yet.
The professor changes the slide, and my ears perk up at his words. “Group project.”
Groans ripple through the room at the idea of having to partner up.
“This is a semester-long assignment, due week fourteen,” Professor Wilson continues.
“You’ll pair up in twos, and I’ve taken the liberty of assigning partnerships.”
With a click of a button, names flash on the screen. I scan for mine. There it is. Bryden Montour.
Paired with: Samantha Collins.
I blink, my eyes landing on her. I watch as she notices the assignment and turns.
We make eye contact, and for a brief moment, everything is a blur but the two of us.
There’s an energy there, in our gaze, a current drawing us closer.
We stare at each other for a moment, and I can’t help but really take her in.
Brown skin that glistens, curly hair like a halo, and eyes that are soft despite this hard world.
There’s no reaction from her, and I keep my face blank. It could be worse. Could’ve been assigned to work with Jackson, or one of the puck chasers who doesn’t know the blue line from a crease.
“It’s worth half your final grade, so make it count,” Professor Wilson adds. “Class dismissed.”
Laptops close, a crescendo of soft clicks. People scatter, desperate to reach the exit, but I’m slower to move. I let them rush out, opting not to fight with the crowd. She moves, too, packing her stuff with that same careful energy.
“Hey.” The voice is soft and delicate.
I turn to find Sam clutching her notebook like a shield.
“Where do you want to meet for the project?”
I stare a second longer than I should.
“I’ll text you.”
“Don’t you need my number?”
“Already got it from Coach.”
Her brows pinch then relax. She nods once. “Mm. O-okay.”
She turns and walks the other way. I stand there a moment more, watching her disappear into the hall—still trying to understand why she pulls at my focus.
I can’t help but follow slowly behind her, a far enough distance that she doesn’t notice my presence. When her phone suddenly rings, she quickly clutches it to her ear, gripping it tightly like it’s a weapon.
I hear her answer hurriedly. She’s not yelling, but I’m just getting close enough to make out the words. Her voice is shaky and sharp around the edges.
“I want to talk to my brother.”
There’s a pause; whoever’s on the other end must have said something she doesn’t like because she halts. Shoulders hiked around her ears, tension ripping through her posture.
“No. Listen, please. J-just let me speak to him.”
There’s a longer pause, and she’s pacing again.
“I promised him… no, Gary… don’t—” She turns sharply, hoodie swaying with the motion. “Hello. Hello.”
She pulls the phone away, glaring at it, checking the signal as if she hopes it’s maybe just a poor connection. But I don’t have to be on the line to know whoever that was ended the call.
“Hello,” she rasps, the word falling apart halfway out of her mouth. Her shoulders slump, and she throws her head back, defeated… maybe even broken.
A part of me wants to comfort her, encourage her to keep that pretty head held high. And that’s when it hits me: she’s the distraction I’m failing to avoid. And this project might just make that even harder to do.