Chapter Twenty Sam
CHAPTER TWENTY
SAM
It’s finals night and the entire campus is buzzing. Everywhere I went today there was someone chanting or yelling, fist in the air, aggression already seeping to the surface.
Go Knights.
I’ll never understand the hivemind of sports fans.
They’re loud and territorial. With the painted faces, the ceremonial portrayal of stripping off shirts, getting so angry they’ll shatter the TV.
And the screams that are so loud you can barely hear yourself think.
God forbid the team loses. A fight would be guaranteed to break out.
It’s fascinating, but also a little scary. I shake my head at the thought and continue working my way through my checklist at the rink and get to work. During practice, I only have the main locker room to worry about, but during home games, I handle the visiting team’s locker needs as well.
It’s not nearly as much work as what I do for my boys, but it’s still quite a bit to get through. I start with the water bottles first, filling each to the brim. Then the med kit and towels.
When I’m done, I check my clipboard for the fourth time tonight. Not that the boys would be pissed if I screwed something up; they hate Baymont. One of the guys on my team even tried to bribe me into slipping laxatives in their bottles. He said it was a joke, but something tells me it wasn’t.
Voices spill in behind me as the other team comes pouring in, loud, cocky, and full of that out-of-town swagger.
More like cross-town confidence. I may not like or know much about the sport, but I’ve lived in this town my entire life.
If the headlines tell me anything, it’s that Baymont is damn good this year, with a new captain who’s as hungry as anyone on this team.
And if the game footage the Knights have been reviewing in preparation for tonight is any indication, Baymont is about to give them a run for the title. Good. They deserve a good ass whooping. Maybe a little humbling will do them some good.
I glance behind them, taking in the multiracial team. They don’t seem to notice me, all in their own world. The game’s about to start, so I make quick work of my final task.
I’m stacking the last of the Gatorade bottles when I hear it.
“Damn. Who’s that?”
I glance up. One of Baymont’s players leans against the lockers, his eyes glued to my ass. He’s tall and built—which is par for the course—with floppy hair and a porn stache.
“You’re the chick that took out Kincaid, right?” He points at me, then brings his fist to his mouth to hide his laughter. “You are. My homeboy said they made you the towel girl as like punishment or something.”
I turn, attempting to ignore him. Seriously?
They said school gossip spread fast around here, but for it to make it all the way across town, to another university, is crazy.
Besides, what am I going to say? Yes, that was me, the knee shatterer here.
No, that’ll only stir up more drama. Jackson has already made things hell for me, spending every chance he gets to chastise me.
Sending his brother to do his dirty work.
I don’t need to add anything else on top of that.
“Shit. Maybe I should be thanking you for taking out the competition.”
His teammates laugh as he daps up the person closest to him.
“I’m Aaron.” He moves closer, holding out a hand for me to take.
“I don’t care,” I mutter instead, picking up my crate and turning.
“Williamsburg?” he questions like he’s disappointed.
The jersey. That sneaky bastard. He didn’t give this shirt to me to help me out. He did it to mark his territory in front of the other team. Jerk. And because wearing the school’s gear is mandatory, there’s nothing I can do about his name on my back. Like a brand.
Fucking perfect.
“You’d look better with my name on your back.”
I blink, unsure if I should laugh or be disturbed. They’re all the same, douchey, arrogant dickheads that need to be taken down a notch. I turn to face him. “That line ever work on anyone who isn’t brain-dead?”
He laughs. “Guess I’ll have to find out.”
“Keep dreaming.” I storm away, catching a glimpse of his eyes falling to my backside. I don’t look back, but my skin itches the whole way out.
Back in the main hallway, the crowd’s pouring in. Drums, chants, and shrieks fill the rink. Girls line up in the first row, all eager to get a peek at the players. Nothing surprising, really. They’re at every practice, oohing and aahing like these boys are God’s gift.
I scan the seats, craning around to focus.
“Gracie should be here by now,” I mutter and pull out my phone.
Sam: Where are you? The game is about to start, and you promised.
I hit send and head down the tunnel. My phone buzzes, and I pause to read the message.
Roomie : I’m here.
Roomie : Regretfully.
Sam: Thank you, roomie.
Roomie : Yeah. Yeah. I hope your team loses.
Sam: That makes two of us. But, after the run-in I just had with one of the Baymont players, I kinda want the Knights to win.
Sam: It’s like some universal asshole trait among the hockey players.
Roomie : Oh God. What happened?
Sam: Nothing I can’t handle.
I tuck my phone away and search the rink again. Finally I spot her sitting at the center of her section. She’s not close to the bench, but with where she’s sitting, I can at least make eye contact with her throughout the night.
Getting her to agree to this was like pulling teeth.
I don’t know what her beef is with the team, but every time I talk about them, she gets a little weird.
Like now. She’s here but doesn’t seem to really be present.
She’s wearing a hoodie that’s pulled tight.
Her arms are locked and her eyes flick around the stadium.
It’s different from her usually bubbly self.
When we’re alone in our dorm or in the cafeteria, she’s the life of the party, always making me laugh.
But as soon as I let off my late-night, I-hate-them rant, or we cross paths with one of them, her entire demeanor shifts.
It’s like she becomes a different person.
It was the same when I cursed the chancellor for making me do this. Gracie flinched, but quickly pulled herself together. It was subtle, barely there, but I caught it.
I push the thoughts from my mind. No sense in dwelling. If she doesn’t want to talk about it, I can’t force it. I mean, who am I to demand that of her when I’ve been keeping things bottled up, too. I guess we have more in common than I thought.
The bench tunnel looms ahead. The only thing left on my list is setting up the hydration station.
I stroll forward, more on reflex, as I watch players move to the ice.
The sound of blades echoes off the concrete walls.
When I put my attention back in front of me, I freeze, barely keeping myself from running into him.
Jackson. He hops by, his crutches thudding against the cement flooring.
He’s flanked by a few guys, some I recognize from class and others I don’t.
Every single one of them stares. Hard. Their eyes sharp with accusation, disgust etched deep in their brows.
If looks could kill, I’d be face down in a pool of my own blood.
A chill licks up my spine, and the only thing colder is the pit forming in my stomach. They don’t speak. Hell, they don’t need to. The hatred is clear—pure vitriol. I try to ignore them and keep on my way, but before my feet can move, I see Christina.
Her squad of all glossy hair and perfectly rehearsed laughter saunters by, and I’m met with the same energy. It oozes from them—tight smiles and eye rolls. They don’t even know why they don’t like me. Just that their precious leader told them to.
It shouldn’t come as a surprise. It just sucks that it took me nearly being assaulted to finally see the validity in Gracie’s warning.
Christina is a mean girl, through and through.
She played the ally. Pretended to be friendly, inclusive, supportive. Until I injured her precious Jackson.
The moment that incident happened with Jackson, she showed her true colors. She joined in on the antics, getting just as big a laugh as anyone else when Jackson and his crew taunted me.
They move on, taking seats directly behind the bench tunnel, forcing the girls who were sitting there to move. I shake my head and suck in a breath, deciding not to let them get in my head. There are more important things for me to worry about.
“Waiting on me?” I hear a voice behind me and turn to see who it belongs to.
Aaron.
Uggh, I groan. “Don’t flatter yourself.”
I turn to walk away, but he jumps around me, blocking my path, his smirk stretching wider now. “Look. Some of us are having a party tonight. You should come hang out. Bring that mouth. I like the attitude.”
My grip tightens around my crate, the plastic digging into my fingers. Before I can respond, a hand clamps down on my arm. Confused, I glance to my left.
Alex.
He steps between us, his jaw clenched. The rival hockey captain doesn’t move, but the shift in the air is sharp enough to cut through bone.
“She’s not going anywhere with you,” Alex seethes.
Aaron shrugs. “Didn’t know she was claimed. I mean I saw your name on her back but I didn’t think that was for real.”
Alex leans in, low and lethal. “Now you do.”
The guy finally backs off, holding his hands up in surrender. Alex turns to me, eyes still dark. He grips my wrist, pulling me away from the tunnel.
“Stay away from him.”
I yank away. “Let go of me.”
Alex doesn’t protest. Instead, he stalks away, opens the gate, and hits the ice.
At the edge of the tunnel, I look back at the bleachers. Gracie’s watching, sitting on the edge of her seat with a frown imprinted in place.
My phone buzzes again.
Roomie : What the hell was that?