Chapter Twenty-Six Bryden （Mountain）
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
brYDEN (MOUNTAIN)
I lean back in my seat, one ankle balanced on the opposite knee. My attention should be at the front of the class. I might not need the credits but I’m here.
Instead, I’m half-listening and throwing my gaze around the room while Professor Wilson drones on about something. It’s probably important, final grade worthy, I bet. But it seems people watching is more interesting today.
It’s been like that a lot lately, especially after winning the finals.
It’s the only thing that matters. You’d think that being in this position before, I’d rest easy about the looming Nationals Conference, but it never gets easier.
In fact, the stress feels worse. Mainly due to the fact this is the end of our collegiate run.
That’s where my head is at these days. On the ice.
On the game. Even when it feels as if I’m the only one with my eye on the prize.
The whole team is up in arms, running ourselves to the brink of exhaustion.
So much so that we played terribly in that last match.
Yes, Kane took the winning shot, but it was a close game when it should have been a cake walk.
Kane’s usual disposition is heavier lately, more jaded. And I don’t even know what’s up with Alex. He’s moodier this season for sure. The pressure of being captain getting to him, perhaps even the tension from the team because of Sam. She wouldn’t be working for us if it weren’t for his father.
I find Sam two rows up, jotting down notes from the lecture. She’s quiet as usual, only speaking when called on. I realize it’s more of a tactic. The quieter she stays, the more invisible she remains. It makes sense why she chooses solitude over attention. It’s safer that way.
We’re alike in that regard. She’s more outgoing than me, more outspoken when called for. Smart, and resourceful, and even though it’s only been a few weeks of knowing her, I see her resilience.
I also see that she sees me. All my life people have had preconceived notions based on my stature. When you’re over six feet tall and a hundred eighty pounds by middle school, you’re bound to get attention. I hate it.
Except on the ice, then no one else exists.
I’m a man of few words, and she gets that and doesn’t judge me for it.
Sure, she jokes about my demeanor and teases me about being so straitlaced, but it’s different with her.
It feels like she’s showing me just how much she sees Bryden, the man. Not just the Mountain.
I clear my throat when she answers a question from the professor.
“Good job, Ms. Collins. You walked us through that perfectly. Impressive. I look forward to your and Mr. Montour’s presentation.” Professor Wilson points at Sam before continuing.
A smile threatens to pull at my lips, but I bite it back. That’s another thing about her. I’ve never been much of a smiler, but wherever she’s concerned one always tries to sneak through.
Sam nods, then subtly glances back at me. Her eyes are bright, somewhat mischievous, and I can picture the arrogance running through her mind from here. We spent last night debating about this very theory.
Picking up my phone, I scroll to our text thread.
Bryden: Teacher’s pet.
Bryden: GIF of Matilda, in church, sticking her tongue out.
I watch as she glances at her phone, the corners of her lips tilting up. Sam’s typing something in response, if the slight movement of her shoulders mean anything.
Collins: Are you being a hater, Mr. Montour?
I lick my lips to keep from grinning.
Bryden: I’ve never hated on anyone in my life.
Collins: That’s not what it looks like from here.
I tip my head and key in my next reply.
Bryden: Maybe it’s time for some glasses, onzaamiziinsiwi.
Collins: Care to translate that, big guy?
Bryden: It means scrappy or fierce little one.
Collins: I don’t know if I should be offended you called me scrappy or flattered you think I’m fierce.
Bryden: Tough decision.
Collins: Admit it.
Bryden: What?
Collins: You’re obsessed with me.
My heart tugs at that.
I might be. But there’s no way I’m telling her that.
Bryden: I think you should focus on the lecture. You might miss something important.
Sam reads the message, a soft breath escaping her.
She doesn’t look back, doesn’t acknowledge that I completely changed the subject.
And that’s what I mean about her seeing me.
She doesn’t make it awkward and always keeps things playful.
Though sometimes I can’t tell if it’s her being my friend or something more.
For the next few minutes, I fight to follow my own advice and pay attention to the lecture.
But no matter how hard I try, my eyes find their way back to Sam.
One moment she’s twirling her pen between her fingers, and the next she’s chewing on the cap.
But the next time I glance up, I don’t look away.
It’s Jackson I’m focused on now. He’s slouched low in his seat, his good foot pressed into the back of Sam’s chair.
She rolls her neck but doesn’t give him the satisfaction of looking back. That clearly sets him off because he pushes the sole of his boot harder into the chair, causing Sam to jerk forward. Her mouth is moving, and if I had to guess, she’s cursing him.
I shift in my seat, jaw ticking, heat flaring in my chest. Everyone around us is oblivious to his bullying, or at the very least pretending to be.
She sits there, shoulders tensing with each deliberate movement from Jackson.
A comment here, a hit to the back of her chair there.
They’re small reactions, tiny flinches that are so subtle they’re barely even there.
But I see them. Her discomfort, the petrified silence, it’s the loudest thing in the room. She’s afraid, and I don’t need context to see that.
In the beginning, I understood why Jackson—why everyone—was upset. In the matter of one night, everything he’d worked for had been snatched right from under him. No finals. No nationals. Any chance he has of going pro is now entirely dependent on how well he recovers—if he recovers.
So he’s angry, fine. But this is getting to be ridiculous. No one deserves this, especially Sam. And maybe I’m biased. These last few weeks of getting to know her, I’ve seen the light she brings to a room.
She’s not the aggressively loud, problematic person they claim her to be. She’s the opposite, and as I sit here, watching as Jackson continues to act like a middle school bully, I can’t help but sense that there’s more to the story.
My foot drops to the floor before my brain catches up.
Eyes follow me as I stand, snatch up my duffel and phone, then step into the aisle.
But I pay them no mind, my vision tunneled on Sam.
Everyone at the front of the room continues on without a care in the world, while those closest to me whisper among themselves.
I don’t rush or make a sound, just take one step after the other, one row, then another.
Jackson leans back in his seat, lifting his hand to flick his pen cap at her back. It lodges in her curls, and she isn’t even aware. I’m close enough to hear his and Christina’s group now, the snickers and the amusement they get out of giving someone else a hard time.
“What’s she going to do about it?” I hear Christina say, not even trying to be subtle.
From the corner of my eye, I notice one of them gesturing in my direction at the same time someone whispers my name.
“Mountain.” He says it like a warning, like I’m about to make a scene. But that’s not my style. I don’t need volume to be heard, don’t need to inflict misery to get my point across. Besides, they’re not worth the energy. My only concern is Sam.
I close in, but she doesn’t notice me. Instead, Sam shifts like she wants to disappear, her chin tucked, hands fisting in her lap, breath hitched.
Pivoting, I stop at her aisle, letting my eyes settle on her.
She finally glances up, a flick of her eyes as if she felt me before she saw me.
I nod once, just so she knows she’s not alone.
Then I lower into the seat next to her, the metal chair squeaking under my weight.
My bag falls to the floor between our feet, but it doesn’t stop the closeness I feel the moment my thigh brushes against hers.
I reach around Sam and push Jackson’s foot off her chair.
We make eye contact for a moment before she drops her gaze to my bicep.
I see the questions swirling, but surprisingly, they never come.
We stay like that for a beat, so much being said between us without words.
Her gaze is one of thanks for the solidarity, and mine is a silent don’t mention it.
Removing the pen cap, I peer behind me and flick it back at Jackson.
Not bothering to look at him, I turn around and settle in.
And the moment my back hits the seat, it goes quiet behind me.
It’s classic behavior. They treat the small person like trash but tighten up in the presence of someone they can’t push over.
Someone mutters something but I can’t make out what.
“Chill,” Jackson orders. It’s hushed and reeks of annoyance.
“Hey,” I say to Sam. “You good?”
Sam blinks, then gives the smallest smile, her eyes and shoulders softening just a little, almost as if she now feels safe.
She nods, quick and clipped. “Yeah.”
I don’t believe it. But I know that if I push it, so close for them to hear, she’ll shut down.
So I take out my phone and do the only thing I know to do. Holding it low beneath the desk, I type:
Bryden: Be real with me.
Bryden: This is getting out of control. Tell me what’s up?
I watch her phone light up and her head slowly turn toward it. She stares at my name, then back at me, confusion creasing her brow. She opens the text, reading each line painfully slowly.
Sam looks at me, her eyes pleading.
Bryden: Did something happen that night? Why is he being so mean to you?