Against All Odds (Holt Hockey Book 2)

I tug a baseball cap down over my wet hair before climbing out of my truck. I got it back yesterday—finally—and just in time.

The rest of the team is at Gaffney’s, enjoying discounted beer and wings.

I should be annoyed I’m missing it. I’m not.

For one, practice since Saturday’s game has been uncomfortable. I have no clue how Hart has dealt with this attention for four years, because I’ve had my fill after four days.

Although it’s not so much the attention as the expectations, I guess, and Conor puts those on himself.

He steps out on the ice, determined to score and have an impact on the game.

I’m there for a fun time and hoping we win because of a group effort.

Since Saturday, everyone’s been acting like whether we win is dependent on me.

Responsibility I don’t want, and something I should have considered before pulling a hat trick out of my ass. I’ve scored a hat trick in a game once before, back in high school. Never in a college game, and not against Smithdale, who we were expecting to be a challenge to our almost perfect record.

I’m extremely nervous about Thursday’s game, knowing the expectations that are in place now.

The thing is, nothing about Saturday felt different. I’m not superstitious like some athletes are. I don’t have a special pre-game routine and I did nothing unusual before our latest game. I wasn’t pissed about anything or riding a high.

I just saw opportunities and took them, and that somehow resulted in me scoring the game’s only goals and the guys now referring to me as the team’s secret weapon.

A few people call out to me as I walk toward the campus coffee shop, a mixture of hellos and congratulations. A few good games.

At least Thursday is an away game.

If I revert to my usual mediocre performance, there won’t be a home crowd to disappoint. Of course, all the people I care about disappointing will still be there.

Like Coach, who gave me an approving, proud smile that had Sampson freaking the fuck out because Coach never smiles.

And Hart, who’s got trophy-shaped stars in his eyes. He could be after a fourth championship this season, if hockey was an individual sport. It’s the rest of us who have let him down year after year. Me delivering a Hart-worthy game takes a lot of pressure off of him. Increases our low odds of getting all the way to the final.

Unfortunately, I have no clue what the fuck happened on Saturday and have even less of an idea how to replicate it.

So I’m hoping another guy on the team will have a great game and no one will notice when I go back to contributing an assist or two but nothing more.

I cover a yawn as I pass the student center, desperate for a jolt of caffeine. I got a shitty night’s sleep, since I’m stressed not only about our next game, but also about tonight’s tutoring session.

I haven’t seen Rylan since the party on Friday, and I’m fucking nervous about seeing her tonight.

As if our first tutoring session didn’t go awkwardly enough—realizing the tutor I was absolutely not going to hook up with was a girl I had already slept with was a curveball, to say the least—I didn’t avoid her at the party the way I should’ve.

Not only because she was obviously trying to avoid me, which I should have been grateful for, not peeved by, but because I love a bad decision.

I walked up to her because I was bored. Headed outside because I was feeling restless. Being at that party felt stale and predictable until I saw Rylan there.

My conversations with girls at parties begin and end with flirting.

I don’t ask them what their name means.

And I don’t fumble through suggesting we hook up, much less at my house, where I never bring girls.

I’d had a couple of drinks, received four different offers to fuck upstairs, and I ended the evening jerking off in my room to memories of Rylan in that hot tub.

Again, I love a bad decision. Or five.

Unfortunately, learning Rylan’s real name—and her last one—didn’t do a damn thing to change the fact I’m wildly attracted to her. I’ve hooked up with enough women to know this interest isn’t common. I don’t normally think about a girl unless she’s standing right in front of me.

I need to get Rylan Keller the hell out of my head.

Not only is she my tutor and Coach’s daughter—she shot me down cold when I suggested we hook up again. I’ve never done more than the bare minimum, never chased a girl, not even with Parker. Our relationship just evolved over time, changing with us as we grew up together. Parker was always…there. Falling for her was more like sinking, a slow, steady inevitability that made sense. That seemed right. Looking back, I might have confused fate and convenience. And the fact I’m even comparing Rylan to my one and only relationship tells me a whole lot I don’t want to know.

I need to get Rylan Keller the hell out of my head…which is going to be challenging considering I have to meet with my tutor each week.

I can’t avoid her, even if I wanted to.

Because I’m already thinking about her, of course Rylan is the last person standing in line when I enter the campus coffee shop.

She’s wearing the same pink pom-pom hat as that night, which is a detail I’m surprised I notice and makes our hookup seem more real. Until I walked into the library and saw her sitting there, part of me wondered if that evening in the hot tub was some erotic, whiskey-fueled dream.

Rylan glances back at me, her expression remaining neutral as she registers my arrival.

No thank you for walking her home the other night. I’ve made sure she made it home safely two times now—twice more than I’ve escorted any other girl.

Regardless of what I told her, it didn’t have a damn thing to do with her dad. It was because I wanted to spend more time around her, because there was a tightness in my chest at the thought of some “scary shit” happening to her.

There’s also no sign of any annoyance about me hitting on her beforehand, which I guess is a good sign.

And no comment about Saturday’s game, which is actually a relief. Who knows if she was even there, but she must have heard about it. The whole campus has been buzzing, not to mention…she’s Coach’s daughter. I’m not clear how close they are, but it seems like she would have at least looked up the score because of her dad.

Her total lack of reaction amuses me.

It’s the same intrigue I experienced that night we hooked up, trying to figure her out and failing every time.

She went to school in London, but only for a semester. She’s smart, but doesn’t kiss like any nerd I’ve ever met. She did her dad the favor of tutoring me, but decided not to attend the university where he works in the first place. She had no problem boldly ogling my dick in the wilderness, but put effort into avoiding me at the sophomores’ party like she was scared of what I might say.

“Aidan.” Her tone is cool as she finally acknowledges me.

I resist the urge to call her Alice, just to shatter some of that indifference.

“Nice hat,” I say, continuing my streak of saying stupid shit around her. “Is it new?”

Her lips press into a thin line. “No.”

“Thought I’d seen it before.”

The line becomes even thinner.

“Good weekend?” I ask when she says nothing.

“It got better toward the end.”

I fight the scoff. Tough crowd.

Not that I was expecting anything different from her.

“Does that mean you went to the game on Saturday?”

She pauses before answering, like it’s a difficult question. “I wanted to support my dad.”

I take that as a yes. “Have you been to a lot of games?”

Another hesitation. “No,” Rylan finally answers. “I haven’t.”

“What’d you think?”

Since Saturday, it’s been an endless stream of compliments.

I’m genuinely sick of it. But here I am, fishing, because she admitted she was there and I want to know what she thought.

Not of the game or her dad’s coaching.

Of me.

“That was a sloppy penalty you took at the end of the second. Willis almost gave up a power play goal.”

I stare at her, surprised she answered like she knew what I was really asking. I was assuming she’d say that her dad coached well, or she was glad we won.

It was a bad penalty that nearly cost Willis his second shutout of the season.

A sloppy play on my part that no one except Coach commented on with a gruff “Watch it, Phillips,” when I returned to the bench after my two minutes in the box were up. Everyone else was too busy congratulating me on my goals.

I usually enjoy it when girls talk hockey to me. Those are always compliments.

This is the second time Rylan has insulted me, and I’m as startled and turned on by it as I was the first time. Maybe I should be annoyed instead, but it’s hot that she knows what she’s talking about. So is her blunt delivery.

“You’re right,” I agree.

Rylan looks surprised.

“So…you a big hockey fan?” I ask.

She snorts. “No.”

“Did you ever play?” I ask.

“For a few years. It wasn’t my thing.”

“That must have been a bummer for Coach K.” I’m teasing Rylan, trying to get her to simply talk to me, but when her entire body stiffens, I quickly realize I should have kept my mouth shut. “I didn’t mean—”

“To imply that I’m a disappointment to my dad?”

“Yeah. That.” I shift my weight between my feet. “I was projecting, I guess.”

Her forehead creases, and I wish I could shove the words back into my mouth. Rewind the last minute of our conversation and not mention either of our fathers.

“He’s super proud of you,” I tell her. “Was bragging about how smart you were in between telling me to make sure I don’t fuck this tutoring thing up.”

Rylan looks incredulous and a little disbelieving. That her dad actually said that or that I’m…trying to make her feel better, I guess?

I get feeling like your father considers you a disappointment, and I know that’s not the kind of man Coach Keller is.

I’m sure he’s as proud of his math-loving daughter as he’d be of a hockey-playing son.

“Hi! What can I get for you?”

I’ve been so wrapped up in Rylan, I’ve barely noticed the line moving. Suddenly, there’s no one between Rylan and the blonde working the register.

The blonde who’s talking to Rylan…but looking at me.

I pull my phone out of my pocket and scroll through my messages, avoiding eye contact while Rylan orders an iced coffee. Surprising, considering the temperature out and how she’s looked cold almost every time I’ve seen her.

She was practically shivering on the front porch Friday night. If I’d been wearing a jacket, I would have offered it to her, if only to feel like less of a sleazeball for spending most of our conversation trying to figure out if she was wearing a bra under her black top or not.

“Hey, Aidan!” The blonde beams at me as Rylan steps aside and it’s my turn to order.

I force a smile. “Hi.”

“Amazing game on Saturday,” she gushes. “Everyone’s been talking about how incredible you were.”

I rub the back of my neck. “Yeah, thanks.”

She looks vaguely familiar, but I can’t come up with a name and she’s not wearing a tag on her shirt.

“Brooke, remember? We hung out at the end of break.”

A deaf person could comprehend the emphasis she placed on hung out; it’s that heavy. She might as well have just said we fucked.

“Right, yeah.” I’m walking the fine line of trying not to be a dick to Brooke while encouraging her to stop talking about us having sex as soon as possible.

For the third time in my life, I wish a girl wasn’t flirting with me.

All three times have involved Rylan Keller.

I’m fighting the urge to look over at her, positive this interaction is reinforcing everything she knows about me.

Confused why I care. And uncomfortable, just like I was on Friday night when Sylvie was hanging on to me in the living room and when Lia showed up on the porch.

I’ve never felt any need to apologize for my behavior before.

Embraced sleeping around as the harmless fun it was with no accountability to anyone.

I’m annoyed I feel ashamed of it now. But I can’t ignore the burn of chagrin either.

After paying, I head toward where Rylan is already waiting at the end of the counter.

She’s on her phone, ignoring me, and this time I don’t try to strike up any conversation. But I’m uncomfortably aware of the awkwardness swirling around in the warm, coffee-scented air.

It feels like any progress I made with Rylan was erased as soon as Brooke opened her mouth.

And I don’t get why.

I didn’t make Rylan any promises that night. She was the one who took off as soon as we’d both finished. Who turned down my offer of a repeat. Who asked me how many girls I’d been with since, like the answer was any of her business.

Since we re-met, it seems like all she’s done is judge me. About my grades and my hockey stats and my body count.

I’m used to judgment. I thought I was impervious to it.

Not hers, it turns out.

“Rylan! Hey!”

I look toward the voice, even though it’s her name being called.

A guy wearing glasses is walking this way, totally focused on the brunette beside me. I’ve never met him before, but I’m guessing he knows Rylan from one of her classes based on his appearance alone.

Rylan slips her phone into her pocket, then tucks a piece of hair behind one ear. “Hi, Theo. How’s it going?”

Her voice is warm and friendly, a tone I’ve never heard from her before.

“Not bad,” the guy—Theo—responds. “Just caffeinating up before tackling the Euclidean algorithm problem set.”

Definitely a math major, I decide.

Rylan groans. “Not looking forward to finishing that.”

“How many have you done?”

“Just the first three,” she tells him.

“I’m headed to the library now, if you want to work on it together?”

I’m not sure if Rylan catches the nervous note to Theo’s voice, but I do.

He likes her. And I guess nerds show that by inviting girls to do homework with them instead of inviting them into an empty room at a party.

“I can’t.” Rylan sounds regretful, glancing at me and then quickly away when she realizes I’m looking at her.

I shove my hands into my pockets and focus my attention on the barista, wishing my coffee was ready and I wasn’t stuck listening.

“I have a, uh, study thing,” she explains.

Would she tell him she’s tutoring a failing hockey player if I wasn’t standing right here?

Would she say yes to him, if she wasn’t stuck tutoring me tonight?

“Too bad,” Theo says. The disappointment in his voice is obvious—to me, at least. “Text me if it finishes early.”

“Will do,” she replies.

He leaves, and Rylan’s coffee appears a few seconds later. She picks the cup up but doesn’t leave. Not until mine appears too.

Logical, I guess, considering we’re headed to the same place to meet up. But I wasn’t expecting her to wait for me. Especially with plenty of evidence to support her not wanting to spend her evening around me.

I grab an extra paper sleeve when I pick up my cup, handing it to Rylan as we walk toward the door.

I avoid all the looks aimed at me except hers. People are either staring because of Saturday’s game or because I don’t really walk around campus with girls. I hook up at parties on the weekends. But around campus? I’m usually with a group of my teammates.

“What’s this for?” she asks.

“It’ll keep your hand from freezing.”

Her “Oh. Uh, thanks” sounds confused.

Not sure what that means, but it’s better than indifference or annoyance.

We’re both silent, passing the seating area just outside the coffee shop and then starting on the path that cuts across campus toward the academic buildings and the library.

“We can do this another night,” I tell her.

“Why?” She sounds even more puzzled, glancing at me with a crease between her eyebrows. It’s cute.

“So you can go talk Euclidean algorithm with your math buddy.”

I’m kinda expecting her to be impressed I remembered the mouthful that’s Euclidean algorithm. Instead, when I look over, she appears offended. Her mouth is pressed in another thin line that flattens the pouty lips I spend too much time thinking about. “I don’t need Theo’s help to do the problem set.”

“He doesn’t need yours either, genius. He has a crush on you, and you shot him down. Probably did a real number on his poor confidence. Text the guy. Tell him you’re free.”

I don’t know why I’m making a big deal out of this.

Aside from two pathetic reasons. One, if she’s dating another guy, then maybe I can stop thinking about her as a possibility, since neither her last name nor the fact she’s my tutor seems to be doing the trick. Two, and even more pitiful, because I want to know if he’s her type and whether she’s interested in him.

“What’s her name?” Rylan snaps.

“Huh?”

“The name of the girl you’re so eager to skip this tutoring session and go see. Do I seriously need to remind you that hockey and graduating are on the line for you here?”

Now I’m offended. “There’s no girl. You don’t want to tutor me, and you just got a better offer. I can do the assignment and give it to you to grade again.”

“I haven’t even looked at the first one yet. Eighty-five was the deal.”

“I know what the deal was.”

Rylan huffs. “You might not take your responsibilities seriously, but I do. I said I would tutor you, and that’s what I’m going to do.”

She’s infuriating. I was trying to be nice, to let her focus on her own work and spend time around a guy she liked enough to give him her number. She’s acting like I accused her of slacking off.

I bite the inside of my cheek, trying to rein my temper in before responding. “If I didn’t take my responsibilities seriously, I wouldn’t be here.”

The rest of our walk to the library is silent.

I’m irritated and she’s annoyed, and it bodes badly for the rest of tonight going well.

I’m already stressed about Thursday’s game, about keeping my grades up in the rest of my classes, and about going home soon. Having tonight start off so poorly isn’t helping with any of it. Neither is the fact my preferred form of stress relief hasn’t happened since last weekend because…I don’t really know. Some combination of failing a class and playoffs approaching and my family and how I keep comparing other girls to the one walking next to me.

A few people call out to me once we’re inside the library. Lots of mentions of Saturday’s game and eagerness about our next home one.

I nod or smile back but don’t stop to talk to anyone like I usually would.

I follow Rylan inside the elevator without questioning why we’re not working on the busy first floor, intent on getting through the next hour as painlessly as possible.

She seems to take anything I say the wrong way, so I might as well say nothing unless it’s related to Stats. At least she’ll have less to criticize there. I hope. I had Andy Pierce look over my assignment yesterday. He’s an Econ major and took a Stats class last semester. Guy jumped at the chance, probably worried I was holding a grudge about the bruise on my ribs that hasn’t fully faded yet. According to him, I did know what I was doing.

I’ll get through this tutoring session, then head home to tackle the rest of my homework. Hunter and Conor probably won’t be back until late. There was talk of going over to Sampson’s place after getting food at Gaffney’s. I could meet them over there, but I probably won’t.

Tomorrow will be busy; we have a dryland practice and a film session before Thursday’s away game. And I’m exhausted, the coffee I’m holding doing nothing to wake me up so far.

I take another sip and then exhale, resting my head against the wall of the elevator as I watch the numbers tick higher.

“You okay?”

Startled, I glance over at Rylan. I thought she’d be looking at her phone, not studying me with something that looks a little like concern.

“Yeah. I…yeah.” I rub a hand across my face. “I don’t know how Hart deals with it.”

“Deals with what?”

“The pressure. I had one decent game, and everyone’s expecting…” I sigh. “Whatever. Never mind.”

“It sounds like you’re scared of the expectations.”

“I’m not scared. I just don’t like them.”

“Huh,” she says.

I resist the urge for one, two, three… “What?”

“I used to fake coming with my ex a lot.”

Unfortunately, she says that as I’m mid-sip. I cough three times to clear the coffee from my throat, and can hear the smile in Rylan’s voice as she continues talking.

“That night we hooked up, I didn’t fake it either time.”

I can’t resist saying, “I know.”

She rolls her eyes. “You didn’t seem surprised.”

“I wasn’t.”

Another eye roll. “That did not seem like a guy who doesn’t like expectations. It seemed like a guy who exceeded them.”

“You’re comparing hockey and a hookup? How is that the same thing?”

“I barely know you, but I thought a sex analogy would be most likely to get through to you.”

I roll my eyes, fighting the smile. “It sounds like you just wanted to let me know I’m a fantastic lay.”

“You knew that already.”

Based on her reactions that night, I knew she enjoyed our hookup, yeah. But that’s different from hearing it now, a month after. I fight the urge to ask her if Zero is still her answer. Like she said, it’s none of my damn business.

The silence between us is a little less awkward as the elevator doors open.

We’re on the fifth floor, which I’ve never been up to before. I didn’t even know the library had five floors.

I don’t mention that to Rylan, just trail behind her as she walks over to a table by a window. It faces the campus green, offering a sprawling glimpse at a large section of campus, lit up by the lamps that line the walkways.

It’s a nice view.

Not as nice as the one across the table.

I pull out the assignment sheet Rylan gave me last week, plus the papers I drew out the answers on, and slide both across the table to her. “Here you go.”

She pushes a paper back. This week’s assignment, I’m assuming.

We must look like we’re participating in some academic drug deal.

“Here’s this week’s assignment,” she tells me. “Look it over while I grade this.”

I nod, settling back in the chair and stretching my legs out. To the side, so I don’t hit hers.

Rylan slides the paper back to me about ten minutes later.

“Ninety-one. Nice work.”

She drew a little smiley face next to the two numbers, and fuck if I don’t want to frame this. I’ll stick it on the fridge for Conor and Hunter to admire, at the very least. Between the miracle of me managing an A on anything and the hat trick this past weekend, that should take care of the concerned glances I’ve been getting since the start of the semester.

“Thanks,” I say, instead of the smug Told you so I had planned.

Nothing comes out about the three hours I spent on it or the teammate I had check it over, either.

We just stare at each other for a few seconds, and I’m startled the breath Rylan pulls in appears a little shaky, almost unsteady.

“Ready to start regression analysis?” she asks.

I’m ninety-one percent sure that I remember regression analysis just as well as I did summation notation and measures of variability.

But I don’t say so. I just nod.

Because I’m wary of offending her again.

And…because I’m in no rush to leave.