The Fifteenth Minute: A Hockey Romance (The Ivy Years Book 5)

DJ

FOR HARKNESS STUDENTS, Sunday is not a day of rest.

I have to choose a paper topic for French History and a set of calculus problems to do. But every five minutes or so my mind drifts off my books and onto certain other topics. Like the way Lianne’s lips felt against mine. And the way she wrapped her whole body around me while we kissed in the kitchen. And it’s not only her looks that attract me. I love her buoyant attitude, and the contrast between that giant personality which is somehow encased in a tiny body.

It’s been a long time since I allowed myself to want someone, let alone touch anyone. It’s hard to think sexy thoughts when the last time you took your clothes off the result was a nasty accusation.

But Lianne’s small, smooth hands have flipped some kind of sexual switch for me. I just want to kiss her again, to find out if her mouth is as sweet as I remember it. I want to strip off all her clothes and hold her narrow hips in my hands.

It’s a terrible idea for me to get involved with her right now. I know this. But she’s so fucking cute and twice as sexy. And somehow I trust her, even though we haven’t known each other long. There’s something just so forthright about her—the way she squares her small shoulders and refuses to take any crap from anyone.

I want her, even though the timing is awful.

These are my thoughts as I labor through Sunday. I do homework and then I hit the gym. And in between sets on the squat rack, I think of making out with Lianne and of the way she sighed when I touched her.

I can’t wait to see her again. It’s so freaking nice to look forward to something for once.

The coming week is going to stink, what with my lawyer powwow and everything. But still, I get a whiff of enthusiasm when I realize I can call Lianne tonight just to hear her voice.

I do two extra sets on the bench, just because I can.

On Monday I call Lianne to see how she’s doing. Maybe it makes me a sap, but I want her to know that I’m thinking about her. She doesn’t pick me up, though, so I leave a voicemail asking how she’s doing and whether the asshole photographer had decided to leave her alone.

That night I’m reading a homework assignment on my bed when I get an email from her.

Daniel—

Today I’m rereading the beginning of the Scottish play, and I can’t help but hear your voice as Banquo. So that’s distracting.

Anyway, I’m sorry about that photographer. He sold a photo to this rag (link). And you’ll laugh when you see the caption. But I think this means he’ll leave me alone now.

—Lady M

I click on the link and the website for a tabloid comes up. And there we are—Lianne’s foot is outside the car, but the rest of her is in my arms. We are in a goddamn clinch—a deep kiss, with our hands gripping each other. The picture causes something to go wrong in my gut, because anyone who sees this can read me like a book. I look about two seconds away from hauling her back into the car and holding her forever.

Jesus H.

The caption is funny. She’s right. It reads: “Silver screen sorceress-turned-college-student Lianne Challice leaving her boyfriend’s car. She’s dating James Orsen, senior and star goalie for the Harkness hockey team. At 6-1 and 200 pounds, the NHL prospect’s save percentage is an impressive 91%. Nice catch, Princess Vindi.”

“Holy shit!” I snort to myself. The photographer must have run the plates on Orsen’s car, or maybe the deed to his house, then Googled him. Lianne was right when she said the gossip rags didn’t care about the truth. I slide off my bed and carry my tablet to the goalie’s door. “Hey, Orsen?”

“Come in, dude.”

I push his door open. “Your car is having its fifteen minutes of fame.”

He looks up from a chemistry textbook. “What?”

“I’m sorry about this.” I hand over the tablet.

“Aw!” he teases. “Look at the lovesick boy in my car.”

Ugh. “Read the caption.”

Orsen’s howl of laughter is loud and immediate. “No fucking way!” Then he’s tapping on my screen.

“What are you doing?”

“Sending myself the link. I’m a catch, Deej! And the NHL wants me. I look a lot like you, which is a fucking shame, though.” He laughs some more.

I shouldn’t have shown it to him, because now he’s going to pass it around. But most players have a Google alert on their own names in case sportswriters mention them in the press. So he probably would have found it. And anyway, what can I really expect?

While Orsen forwards the link to everyone we know, I head back to my room. This will be today’s little humiliation. Compared to the other shit swirling around in my life, it’s not a big deal.

Except I’m wrong about that. So wrong.

While I study calculus, the photo makes the rounds. It reaches my brother, of course. And sometime during the next twenty-four hours, he mentions it to my father. Because when my phone rings on Tuesday afternoon, there’s a whole lot of what the fuck on the other end of the line.

“Danny. What the hell are you doing with this girl?”

Ouch. “She’s a nice girl, Dad. We’re friends.” Even as the words came out of my mouth, I know how I sound. The kiss in the picture… That asshole photographer is unfortunately talented. He’d captured the moment with too much clarity.

So I can practically feel my father’s sneer all the way across the Long Island Sound. “Why would you even try to tell me that? Not only are you involved with a girl, you picked one that gets you in the newspapers? Don’t you ever learn?”

His words are a direct hit to the gut—the kind that knocks your breath away. Maybe it’s terrible timing for me to get involved with Lianne, but being with her isn’t wrong. I’m not a fucking criminal. And I’m so tired of people thinking I’m either stupid or a bad person. With the mess I’m in, there’s no door number three.

“Danny,” my father says my name as a gasp, as if it pains him to go through this with me. “Nothing else matters but your case. Nothing. I’m trying to save your life. You need to at least act like you’re paying attention.”

There’s a bang, and the line goes dead.

He hung up on me. My own father hung up on me. That’s a Trevi family first.

Stunned, I sit there for a few minutes just weighed down by how isolated I really am.

The worst part is that I can totally see his point. We can’t have the college viewing me as some kind of playboy. That picture doesn’t make me look like a nice boy at the center of a big misunderstanding. The jackass photographer may have gotten my name wrong this time. But the next one? He might not make the same mistake again.

And then I have a really ugly thought. Lianne has no idea she’s been hanging out with a guy who’s been accused of hurting a woman. If the next magazine bothers to get the real story on me, that would be an ugly little photo caption. The thought makes me feel suddenly sick to my stomach. If it got out, Lianne would be right there in the middle of my scandal. I’d be dragging her down into the muck with me.

Defeated by this idea, I roll onto my stomach, burying my face in my pillow.

When my email dings a moment later, I open up the app, expecting to see my father’s name. He’s not a screamer—never has been. Who ever heard of a hot-headed forensic accountant?

But the new email isn’t from my dad. It’s from the grad student who runs my French history seminar on Thursday nights. I wouldn’t bother to open it right now, except that something in the subject line catches my eye. So I click.

Dear students,

Due to the renovation of Cruxley Hall, our weekly meeting place has been reassigned. Please find me tomorrow at our usual time in the Trindle House seminar room, which is located off the dining hall. Enter the Trindle House courtyard at the College Street gate and take the first entryway on the left. Text me if you can’t get in the gate, and someone will come out to fetch you.

Until tomorrow,

Davis

I reread it three times, hoping it doesn’t say what I think it says. But it does.

For anyone else at Harkness, this room reassignment is just a tiny adjustment in their daily routine. For me? A huge problem. Attending the weekly seminar is twenty percent of my French history grade. And now that hour-long session has been relocated to a residential house, where I’m not permitted to go. Even worse it’s Trindle, which is my house. And my accuser’s.

That’s it. My limit is hit. That’s all the bullshit I can take in one day.

My temper flares so hot and bright that before I know what I’m doing, I’ve yanked the calculus textbook off my bed and hurled it across the all-too-narrow expanse of my room, where it smacks the doorframe with a thunderous crash, and then drops loudly to the floor.

And what’s worse? This display of toddlerhood hasn’t even made me feel better. Getting off the bed, I kick the book out of my way and head for the kitchen. I’m neither hungry or thirsty, but I just can’t sit in that little cell any longer.

In the living room, my brother looks up from the video game he’s playing with Orsen. It’s like he fucking lives here. “Hey, Deej,” he says. “Want to play a round of RealStix?”

No, actually. I’d rather beat you with the controller. “Why the fuck did you show that picture to Dad?” I demand. “Like he’s not already on my case? You had to make my pile of bullshit deeper?”

He pauses the game, setting the controller aside, and Orsen doesn’t say a word. “I didn’t show him. I told him about it, though. Look—maybe that wasn’t too smart of me. But I thought it was a moment of levity, you know?”

“I don’t have those,” I say through gritted teeth. Leo wouldn’t understand, anyway. His greatest challenges are which video game to play before practice, and what’s on the menu in the dining hall.

Leo cringes. “Dude, I’m sorry.”

“He’s so pissed. He hung up on me.”

“Dad?” His voice is incredulous. “You sure?”

“Am I sure?” Yeah, I want to punch Leo. A nice uppercut to his smug jaw, maybe. “Like I don’t know when someone hangs up on me? I think Dad is worried I’ll sully the family name. That maybe your NHL recruiters will run away.” It’s more truth-telling than I’d planned on. But Dad’s concern eats at me sometimes. He’s always cared a lot about how things look.

“What?” Leo frowns up at me. “That’s ridiculous.”

Except I don’t think it is. “Really? You want to tell me you never had that thought?”

Now my brother looks guilty. “I have a lot of stupid thoughts, Deej. I mean—I worry I’m going to lose the game if I put my right skate on before my left one.”

“Oh, the horror,” I scoff. Then I stomp back into my room. Fucking Leo. His team might get another shot at the Frozen Four in ten weeks. After that he’s going to graduate and move up to an NHL farm team, probably.

I’ll be looking forward to a summer job at the seafood place again. And maybe staying there for the rest of my life.

My calculus book is still on the floor, so I bend down to retrieve it. A pair of high-tops appears in my line of vision. When I stand up, I find they belong to Orsen. “Hey, Deej?”

“Yeah,” I grunt, expecting him to ask, what’s your fucking problem?

“I need an extra hour of practice. Grab your bag, man. Come take some shots at me.”

“Can’t,” I say automatically. Though I haven’t worn a pair of skates in a long time—too long. There’s probably nothing I’d enjoy more than spending the next hour firing pucks at Orsen.

“Need the help, man,” he says, tapping the old molding. He frowns at me, his big face stern underneath three days of scruff. “Let’s go. Meet me in the car in five.” He walks away.

“Hey!” I call after him, still feeling belligerent. “I didn’t say I’d go!”

The only response is the back door opening and closing again. What the hell? Just because he’s rented me this room, now I’m his slave?

After another moment standing there seething, I realize there’s no way I can do more school work right now. The walls of my little room are practically closing in on me. Once again I’m feeling my Napoleon complex. Not because I’m short—because I’m exiled.

I get my hockey gear out from under my bed and I follow him out to the car.