Against All Odds (Holt Hockey Book 2)

“Phillips!”

I exhale, then circle back. My jaw works a couple of times. I know I should’ve passed, but it’s not like I missed.

“Yeah, Coach?”

“Pull a move like that on Saturday, and I might just swap you and Hart. Excellent work.” Coach whistles. “Next.”

I skate back toward the bench in a state of shock.

On any other Division III team, I’d be on the first line. Except my teammate and best friend happens to be a center who could have easily played for a Division I program and secured that spot freshman year. There have been times when Coach has shifted around the lines, usually because someone was sick or injured. I’ve played on the first line, had my name announced over the loudspeaker. But it was never because of me. Nothing got switched around because I was playing so well that change made logical sense. It was always other forces.

Conor is one of the best players in college hockey, period.

And I resigned myself to being his supporting act a long time ago, I guess.

I enjoy playing hockey, but I don’t eat and breathe it the way Hart does. Hell, the main reason that I’ve put half the effort into the team that I have is for Conor, wanting to help him get his shot however I can.

I’ve never played for myself. To push myself. To see what I’m capable of.

So I underestimated selfishness.

I didn’t realize how much caring how I performed would affect my playing.

“Holy shit, Phillips,” is the first thing I hear once I’m seated on the bench.

“What?” I glance over at Conor, then squirt some Gatorade into my mouth.

Blue today, thankfully. Best flavor.

“That was the best goal I’ve seen you score.” He pauses. “Ever.”

“Is that your way of telling me I normally play like shit?”

“No. It’s my way of telling you to keep doing whatever you’re doing.”

I hide the grimace that wants to appear, taking another sip of sports drink instead.

Sure, I’ll continue getting insulted by our coach’s daughter. I’ve scored four goals during today’s practice because You’re good, huh? Are you in the top five for scoring leaders? has been on an endless, annoying loop in my head recently.

I’m not in the top five.

I’m a center. Scoring opportunities are easy to come by. But I’ve always deferred to my wingers, setting them up for the shot rather than taking it myself.

Because I don’t want the individual responsibility.

Because I’d rather operate as one part of the whole, encouraging a winning outcome but not caring about directly contributing to it. I’m always hoping for a win, but never hungry for it. We win as a team, we lose as one too. Look up team player in a dictionary, and you’ll find me.

But this morning? Every damn time I went to pass, I heard Rylan’s voice taunting me in my head.

Pretty soon, the guys will be calling me a puck hog.

I shouldn’t give a single shit what Rylan Keller thinks of my stats.

Plenty of girls have provided commentary about my hockey career, and I never paid any attention to most of what they were saying. And that was all positive, gushing about my mediocrity, praise which should matter more but actually affected me less.

I didn’t think anyone would notice that I was playing better than usual, not just working harder, and instead it seems like everyone has.

For the rest of practice, I keep hearing comments about how well I’m performing.

Comments that are compliments, and that’s exactly how I should be taking them. But I’m on edge for a whole bunch of reasons, so I mostly absorb them as reminders of the ways I’ve fucked up.

Williams tells me that was a great goal? I failed a class last semester and might not graduate with our class.

Yarrow heads for me first because I sent him a perfect assist? I ruined my relationship with my parents because they supported my brother dating my ex.

Coach nods approvingly after my shift? I fucked your daughter in a hot tub, sir.

It’s a different sort of relief when practice ends. Instead of the shame of a poor performance, I’m eager to escape the congratulations.

I leave the locker room as quickly as possible, swearing under my breath when Conor calls my name. I pause to let him catch up as we exit the lobby.

“You don’t have class until ten, right?” he asks me.

Yeah, I’m regretting posting all of our course schedules on the fridge right about now.

“Right. I was going to get some work done in the library,” I tell him.

Conor nods approvingly, which manages to make me feel even shittier.

Because I was more like going to go sit and continue to freak out about how the tutor keeping me on the team and helping me graduate is the brunette I hooked up with over winter break. How she also happens to be our coach’s daughter.

It’s rare I remember details. Most of the girls I hook up with are part of an endless series of weekend nights. And they usually happen after a couple of drinks, in a closet or a dark bedroom.

Go to a party, get drunk, hook up has been my Friday and Saturday night motto for a long time.

Fun.

And predictable.

Rylan—or Alice, the name she lied to me about—was unexpected in every way.

I remember everything about that night. What she said. What she looked like naked. The sounds she made.

How hard I came.

My tutor was supposed to be a mousy freshman I wasn’t the least bit attracted to.

I don’t know how I’m supposed to focus around Rylan. Not only do I know a lot about her I shouldn’t, she’s gorgeous.

“Phillips?”

I glance at Conor. “What?”

“You good?” He’s frowning at me.

“Yeah. Just tired. I didn’t sleep well.” I yawn for effect.

More like I tossed and turned all night, alternating between incredulity at the terrible luck of having hooked up with my tutor a few weeks ago and irritation about her dig about my stats. Who the hell knows what Coach told her about me when he set this tutoring arrangement up. I’m an average player with a tendency to cause trouble. There’s not much else to say. And Coach obviously isn’t trying to get in my pants, so he has no reason to embellish my mediocrity the way the girls on this campus do. I’m sure he gave Rylan a cut and dry assessment of me.

Again, I shouldn’t care.

And again, I do.

I didn’t tell Hart anything about the girl I hooked up with in the hot tub in Colorado. He was in such a shit mood that trip I figured rubbing in my incredible sex life was unnecessary. And now, I’m relieved I never said anything. Makes me feel a tiny bit less guilty for accidentally fucking our coach’s daughter.

Rylan didn’t tell me anything that night to suggest our paths could cross again. No mention of Holt or Somerville or even hockey. As far as I can tell, it’s pure fucking coincidence that we met in Vail and both ended up here three weeks later.

Getting boarded from behind was less of a surprise than walking into Holt’s library, a building I’ve been in maybe twice before, and seeing Ali—I mean, Rylan sitting there.

I don’t know what the hell I’m supposed to do if I run into her around campus. Ignore her? Say hi to her? This is new to me, and the two guys I would go to for advice about dealing with a hookup are going to ream me out for doing the one thing I said I wouldn’t do. I doubt either Hunter or Conor will care I had sex with Coach’s daughter before knowing she was Coach’s daughter, not after. Same result.

Conor ends up coming to the library with me, so I put a half-hearted effort into actually getting some work done. Hart is an A student but his studiousness has never rubbed off on me. We’ve never studied in the library together before, and watching him smother his irritation as a series of girls come over to hit on him slash wish him luck in our next game is a welcome distraction from thinking about Rylan.

Of course, it’s hard to forget about her when I’m working on the assignment she gave me. I wasn’t lying—I remember how to do everything that’s part of this assignment. I check it over twice, just to make sure, but I’m confident enough is correct to tilt our deal in my favor.

I’ve considered going to Professor Carrigan and asking if I can retake the test this week, instead of waiting until the end of the season. If I actually study for a couple of days, I’m fairly confident I can pass it without going through the weeks of tutoring with Rylan. It solves the problem of interacting with her and also will mean I won’t have the retake hanging over my head for weeks.

But if I don’t pass? Then I’m fucked for graduation, and I’ll be kicked off the team.

It’s a gamble, which I normally have no issue taking.

These stakes are high, though.

And as uncomfortable as working with Rylan will be, I’m not accustomed to letting a girl affect my life. I do whatever I feel like, and they accommodate me. There’s a prickle of annoyance, realizing I’m letting her dictate my decisions, just like she did the night we hooked up. Stubbornly, I don’t want to be the one who admits defeat and avoids her.

I’ve eaten up all the time I had until my first class working on this one assignment, meaning I still have a pile of other work to finish later. Short of ten-page final papers or group projects, I don’t think I’ve ever put this much effort into any homework before.

So you failed, huh?

It’s practice all over again. I memorized every judgmental insult she tossed my way, I guess.

I say goodbye to Conor—his earliest class is at eleven, lucky bastard—and then head in the direction of the building that houses the Business department. I leave my headphones on, using them as an excuse not to talk to anyone as I walk across campus.

My mood is a shit one—again. Lately, it feels like that’s been an endless stretch. And it’s not just my family, as much as I love to blame them for everything. It’s realizing some of their criticisms are valid. I have absolutely no clue what I’ll do after graduation in May, and even if though that’s still months away, I know it’ll be here before I know it. And that’s assuming I do graduate, which is no longer any guarantee. The girl who’s supposed to be my guarantee happens to hate—or at least strongly dislike—me. Rylan sprinted from Hart’s SUV like it was on fire after I drove her home the other night.

I just need to refocus. Keep my head down and get my work done this week. I’m sure the sophomores will throw a party on Friday night. I’ll have a couple of drinks, hook up with a girl who isn’t Rylan Keller, and be in fantastic shape for Saturday’s game.

Hell, if I play anywhere close to how I performed during practice today, there’s a good chance I’ll break my no-scoring streak.

I’m one of the last to enter my Leadership in Organizations class, which is no surprise. If it’s not hockey-related, I tend to run a few minutes late.

Honestly, I would probably run a few minutes late to hockey if I didn’t live with Hart, who thinks his role of captain requires military-like precision when it comes to time-keeping.

I settle into a seat in the back row, flashing a grin at a girl in the row in front when she looks back at me and smiles.

She blushes before quickly looking away, and I’m weirdly irritated by the coyness on her face when she glances back a minute later. The cat and mouse game.

I bet Rylan would hold eye contact.

The thought is random and unwelcome.

So what if her boldness was an anomaly? That I was as attracted to her forwardness as her body?

She’s. Off. Limits.

And…it’s not like her reaction to finding out we attend the same college was happiness. Or any suggestion we should hook up again, this time on dry land.

Fucking figures, the one girl I’m interested in fucking again is, at best, indifferent to the idea. Uninterested would probably be more accurate. Pretty sure Rylan Keller thinks I’m an unmotivated, brainless jock. And she’s not entirely wrong, which bothers me even more than her judgment. If you look at my hockey stats and my grades, I don’t have anything impressive to show for my college years. I highly doubt any potential employer is going to ask how long I can do a keg stand for or my best pick-up line, and those are the only skills I’ve put any significant effort into improving.

Class begins with a couple of questions from students about the syllabus.

Our homework from the first class was to review it. There’s a red stain on the third page of mine, proof I shouldn’t have skimmed it while eating spaghetti last night.

I partially zone out as the professor doubles down on her no technology policy, citing several papers that conclude laptops are a distraction and welcoming anyone who disagrees to write an essay with at least ten academic sources. That shuts up complaints fast. The food policy gets challenged next, which is when I start doodling hockey pucks in the margin of my notebook. Literally all I’ve written for this course so far.

By the time the professor gets through the syllabus questions, there are only forty minutes left in class. I send out a silent thank you to the kid who spent ten minutes clarifying her office hours. That was the one topic the professor totally indulged.

Today’s topic is inclusive leadership, and how to include I in we. Seems ironic, considering my selfishness during practice earlier. I take careful notes on the lecture, grab the reading packet for next week’s class when it gets passed around, and am overall a model student for maybe the first time in my life. I don’t even look when the girl sitting next to me leans down to grab her water bottle out of her backpack over and over again, her shirt gaping forward every damn time.

The professor ends class at exactly eleven twenty, which makes me like her even more. Nothing worse than professors pretending not to pay attention to the time on the clock so they can squeeze in some extra material to add to the final.

The girl in front of me glances back a couple more times as everyone rushes to pack up.

Usually, I’d hang around, waiting to see if she approached me. Come up with a few compliments, maybe invite her to the party on Friday night.

Instead, I’m one of the first people out the door.