Page 59 of The Charlie Method

The game continues, but I feel like I’m watching it through a fog. I hear the skates cutting into the ice, the shouts from my teammates, the echo of the puck as it rattles off the boards, but none of it registers. All I can think about is how much I wish my father were here so I could punch him in the fucking face in front of his fucking cameras.

Coach is losing it, pacing up and down the bench, barking orders. The team is out of sync, passes going wide, players colliding as we try to get something going. And all the while, the cameraman is there, capturing every painful second.

Another rush, another turnover. The puck is in our zone again, and we’re scrambling, trying to clear it. I see the puck bounce loose. Fuckingyes. I’ve got a chance to get it out. I lunge for it—but before I can get my stick on it, the Harvard center swoops in and fires it past our goalie.

The horn blares, and the scoreboard shows we’re down by two, and the clock is ticking. The second period’s almost done.

I skate back to the bench, feeling the game slipping through my fingers. The cameraman has graduated from pesky mosquito to a swarm of bees, moving behind us to get his goddamn angles. He’s distracting everyone, including Beckett, who’s late for his shift because the camera guy is blocking the door when Jensen calls for a line change.

“That’s it!” Coach looks like he’s going to literally have an aneurysm. His face is beet red, his voice an incensed roar. “Get off my bench!”

The guy is wise enough to know when to cut his losses, disappearing into the tunnel. But the damage is done.

“Dunne!” Coach shouts at Beck. “If you screw up a line change again, I’m benching you for the rest of the game.”

Even though it wasn’t his fault, Beckett also knows better than to argue, but I can tell my boy ispissed. Jaw set in a tense line, gray eyes burning with anger.

Jensen switches up the lines again. Beckett and Shane, who are on the same line tonight, burst through the bench door. I can tell from Beck’s body language that he’s out for blood.

I wasn’t lying to Marjorie earlier when I said there’s no fighting in college hockey, but about twenty seconds after Beckett hits the ice, a fight breaks out.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHARLOTTE

Downright feral

“IJUST DON’T UNDERSTAND WHY THEY KEEP JUMPING IN AND OUT LIKEthat without anyone blowing a whistle,” I complain.

“Because they make line changes during the state of play,” Blake explains. Somehow, she’s shown nothing but patience in spite of the thousand and one questions I’ve barraged her with.

“That seems incredibly dangerous. And in the two or three seconds it takes for them to jump in, you’re, like, a man or two down!” I have to shout over the latest roar from the crowd.

“That’s what makes hockey so exciting,” she shouts back.

She’s not wrong. This is way more thrilling than I anticipated. I’ve never actually been to a hockey game. But I have been to football games, where after literally every play, they blow the whistle and then everyone stands around for forty-five minutes while they reset.

That said, I havenoidea what’s going on down there. I agreed to come to the game because I’m trying to be a good mentor for Blake, but as I sit here in the stands, surrounded by die-hard fans in Briar jerseys, I feel like I walked into a secret club where everyone but me knows the handshake.

“You really do this in your spare time?” I call toward Gigi Graham, a fellow senior who’s good friends with Blake.

“Hockey is life!” she calls back. She’s on Blake’s other side and hasn’t taken her eyes off the game since we sat down.

Her intensity is a bit unnerving. Hell, so are her looks. This woman is stunning. She has big gray eyes, perfect features, and thick dark hair arranged in a side braid. She’s wearing a Briar jersey with the name RYDER on it.

“Hey,” I say, poking Blake in the ribs. “You need to get a football jersey that says Grant on the back.”

“I’m sorry—what?” Gigi’s head swings toward us. She stares at Blake, and whatever she sees on the freshman’s face causes her jaw to fall open. “No! You agreed to go out with him?”

“Yes. And don’t you dare tell your parents. Then they’ll tell mine.”

I laugh at Blake’s deadly tone. “Your moms like to gossip?”

Gigi snorts. “Our dads. They have an entire group thread called Dad Chat.”

“Ha! That istotallysomething my dad would be part of,” I say with a grin.

“You want to know the most horrifying part?” Gigi says.

---