2. What’s The Worst That Could Happen?
WHAT’S THE WORST THAT COULD HAPPEN?
LIAM
OCTOBER
“Damn,” I say, frost-kissed hands reaching for the zipper of my jacket. “It’s colder than Aubrey Vaughn’s heart out here.”
Beside me, my best friend lets out a long, slow whistle. I can practically feel his pointed stare on my back as he stops walking. I take a few more strides before I realize that he’s far too hard-headed to take another step without me acknowledging him.
Stubborn ass.
But then again, introduce me to any hockey player within a hundred-mile radius of this campus that isn’t, and I’ll take a puck straight to my teeth.
I turn my head, my shoulders pulled tight as the cold wind whips around us. “Come on, Reid, it’s too fucking cold to be standing out here staring at me.”
But he’s unmoving along the paved pathway, arms crossed over his broad chest.
“You’ve been back for a month, and that’s the first time you’ve said her name.”
He probably thinks it’s some breakthrough in my healing process—it isn’t, but he doesn’t need to know that. Just because I can say her name doesn’t mean I’ve come close to processing anything about her.
And I don’t plan to anytime soon.
I throw my hands in the air. “It was just a bad joke, alright? And no—” I start, turning to look at him. “I don’t want to talk about it,” I add, knowing how his mind works.
That, among other reasons, was why the pair of us were unstoppable on the ice. Emphasis on the: were. As I don’t—can’t—play hockey anymore.
Reid shakes his head, and I know he’s figured me out. That I still haven’t gotten over her, even after she ripped my heart out and ate it for breakfast.
“You are one pathetic motherfuc—” Reid begins, pulling me out of my trance.
He never finishes his sentence—his words cut off as he tries to jog and catch back up to me. A split second later, an echoing thud sounds from behind me. I don’t have to turn around to know what happened.
It’s early October, and while it’s not uncommon for snowfall this time of year, it must have taken the Grounds Department by surprise because all of campus’s walkways are covered in a thick layer. And as Reid just found out the hard way, the sidewalks are slick as shit.
I turn around to find his sorry ass sprawled across the walkway. He curses while scrambling to his feet, frantically gathering the spilled contents of his pack, his textbooks now waterlogged from the snow.
I reluctantly help him gather his belongings, my chest finally steadying. “Talk about irony—” I say, handing over the books while Reid hastily shoves them back into his backpack. I chuckle before finishing, “A three-million-dollar hockey player eating shit on an icy sidewalk.”
He shoots me the middle finger before throwing his backpack over his shoulder, frantically dusting off the snow coating the beanie over his head.
When Reid is put together enough to continue walking, we pick up our pace, desperate to get out of the weather. The wind from the lakes is wicked in the wintertime, chilling you to the bone if you are out in this shit for longer than you need to be.
Typically, there is never a silent moment between my best friend and I, but right now, there is an awkward silence, and I know we both hate it. He wants to talk about Aubrey, and I don’t—so we choose silence instead.
It’s bad enough that I think about her all the time, no matter how hard I try not to.
But being forced to talk about her is even worse.
God forbid I actually see her, which is entirely possible, considering we attend the same college and share the same major.
Thankfully, she isn’t in any of my lectures.
If she were, someone would have to knock me unconscious, the only thing short of death that might spare me from the misery.
Conversations about Aubrey, or any of the Vaughn cousins for that matter, always end the same way hockey discussions do.
In awkward silence. Even when my friends try to hide it.
I’ll walk into a room, and the conversation dies instantly.
Then the quiet stretches, thick and uncomfortable, until Reid inevitably tries to crack a joke to lighten the mood.
Which usually does the trick. But not always.
Fuck. I wish he’d crack a joke right about now.
“Hello! Earth to Liam!” Reid snaps his fingers in my face, trying to bring me back from my trance. I shove his hand away, considering pushing him back into the snow, but I know I’ll just end up there alongside him.
And the last thing I want is to sit through Applied Athletic Training Concepts with a wet ass. It’s my fifth class of the day, and my attention span is near zero as is, a soggy bottom on top of that seems like true hell.
I didn’t think missing only two semesters would affect me this much, but it has. I’m still struggling to get back into the swing of things and find myself having to actually take notes and study now. During my sophomore year, I was lucky if I remembered to bring a pen.
“Sorry, what’d you say?” I ask after way too long.
“If you were a dog,” Reid remarks. “I’d put you down, just to put you out of your misery.” He slaps me on the back.
I throw out my hands, looking at him with a what the fuck expression on my face. He seems to realize it because he says, “Oh, fuck. Not like that. Shit. You know what I meant.”
Morgan Reid.
The man has a way with words.
The thought alone makes me roll my eyes. But I don’t think much about it. I know he didn’t mean it literally. Just meant he hates seeing me this way.
Trust me, I hate being this way.
“Melbourne’s tonight?” he questions quickly, changing the subject. “It’s three-dollar beers and pong night. I need my partner back. I’m sick of getting my ass kicked by Brennan and Cohen.” He shrugs, giving me a pointed look. “You should come.”
I cock my head, considering his offer.
I haven’t been out with my friends since the incident. A far cry from my sophomore year, Brennan and Reid’s freshman year, when the three of us went out every night.
But that was before.
This is now.
And now…Now, I don’t drink.
It’s not like I had a problem or anything. But after what happened, I don’t have the desire to. I mixed alcohol with the wrong thing just once, and it nearly killed me. That’ll quench your thirst real quick.
Soon, we reach our crossroads—Reid heading toward the arena for practice and me toward my final lecture for the day.
The preseason for the hockey team is coming to an end, and prep for the regular season is in full swing.
I know when the season starts, Brennan, our mutual friend and roommate, and Reid will be busy with classes and a demanding training schedule.
Myself included, with double the average number of classes, plus practices and games with the team.
My stomach turns as I think about what awaits me soon—working with the team, sitting on the sidelines, handing out ice packs, all the while I’m desperately wishing I could be out there with them.
Fuck. This semester is going to suck.
Then, because I apparently enjoy making things harder on myself, I mutter: “Alright—I’ll go.”
Reid freezes. He shoots me a wide-eyed glance, and I know it’s his way to ensure I’m really okay with it and not just doing it for him. I let out a deep sigh, flipping him the bird when I see how excited he gets as I nod my head.
But in his defense, he’s been trying to get me out for a long time.
Thankfully, he and Brennan haven’t pressed me too much. They know it’s a complicated situation.
I met Reid and Brennan two years ago, when they were the new freshmen on the team. While I wish I could say we hit it off instantly…well, then I’d be lying. Each of us had an ego bigger than the next. It was an interesting mix on the ice.
When Coach insisted we room together to work out our problems, I was convinced we were going to kill each other.
But I suppose there is a reason Bowen is the youngest Division I coach in the conference; the 26-year-old knows his stuff.
It was only a month before the three of us were practically inseparable on and off the ice.
Reid slaps me hard on the shoulder, “It’s good to have you back.” Then, he takes a left toward the practice arena.
He might think the old me is back, just because I agreed to go out. But I am far from the man I once was.
That man died a year ago, no matter how much CPR Reid performed.
As I enter my lecture hall and find my seat, I can’t help but think that one night out will be good for me.
I mean, what’s the worst that could happen?
I let out a curse as I watch with bated breath.
Just as the pong ball drops into the last cup.
Shit.
All around, onlookers celebrate, slapping Brennan and Cohen on the back in congratulations. Several voices call, eager to claim the next game with the winning team.
My ears are ringing from the pounding of music around us. Sad to think there was a day it wouldn’t have bothered me, a day when it was me who ruled the pong table.
Nowadays, I’m just the life of the party’s best friend. The has-been.
I shut down the thoughts quickly. I can’t let myself spiral. Not tonight, and especially not here at the bar—at the very place that stirs enough emotion as is.
Delleth is an old campus, boasting stone buildings and an aesthetic more fitting for the prestigious schools of England.
Melbourne’s is modeled after an English pub—the founders of both Melbourne’s and Delleth originally hailed from Derbyshire.
From the carpets and fireplaces to the imported ales on draft, Melbourne’s feels like it belongs across the pond rather than on a college campus.
But given how overcrowded it usually is, especially with the hockey crowd, who like to frequent the bar for its ongoing reruns of games, I’d say whatever they’re doing is working.