Page 6 of Collide
“So you know you’re the captain? I thought maybe you’re too hungover to remember!” he shouts.
I wince. “I’m sorry coach. Next time—”
“There will be no next time. I don’t care if you’re my star player or Wayne fucking Gretzky, you will be a team player first.” He releases a deep agitated breath. “You should be leading your team, not partaking in their stupid games. Those boys respect you, Aiden. If you’re at a party thinking with the wrong head, so are they. Smarten up, or I will have no choice but to put you on probation.”
My face contorts with confusion. “What? There’s no chance I get academic probation.”
“We’re not talking about your classes here. The party is being investigated.”
Ah, fuck. Remember when I said I wouldn’t know if I regretted drinking until I saw the aftermath? I regret it now. Probation is bad, like tearing an ACL bad. If the news gets to the league, they’ll send agents out here to assess me as an eligible player. I had just signed with Toronto, because draft didn’t mean shit until you put pen to paper. Making a mistake now would be fatal.
“I can’t be on probation.”
Coach nods. “You’re in luck, because before the dean went on sabbatical, he informed the committee that anyone involved in the trash fiasco is to be dealt with. Since you have taken on that very stupid responsibility, your name is first on the list.”
I am going to kill my fucking teammates. “What does that mean?”
“That they gave me the option of probation or community service.”
An air of relief fills me. “That’s great. I’ll do community service. I will single-handedly scrub every inch of Sir Davis Dalton.”
Coach gives me an unsettled look. “As great of a mental image as that is, it’s not that simple,” he informs. “A lot goes into eligible community service hours, and since we don’t have a precedent, it’s going play-by-play.”
I snort. “Like a prison sentence where I get out on good behavior?”
“You’re in no place to be a smart ass,” he reprimands. “I would have been forced to put you on probation if it wasn’t for her.”
“Who?”
3 | SUMMER
DESPERATION REEKS. OR maybe it’s the hockey team's locker room after practice. Running showers and loud voices drift through the halls as I try to find Coach Kilner’s office. Staying away from the rink like it has a contagious disease is proving to be a disadvantage when the long hall of blue doors resembles a maze.
When a phone rings behind me, my eyes meet a shirtless guy in a low-hanging towel. “Summer?”
Crap. “Hey, Kian.” I awkwardly wave.
Kian Ishida was in every psychology class I took in junior year. We became friends when we got partnered at an extra credit seminar about brain dysfunction. I was happy to have someone who cared about sports psychology as much as I did, until I found out he’s a hockey player. Much to my dismay, the six-foot-two right-winger has been playing for Dalton since freshman year. After I learned that, our friendship fizzled because even the depth of the ocean couldn’t take me as far as I wanted to be from hockey. Just hearing someone talk about it made my insides churn at a slow, agonizing rotation.
He steps toward me. “I texted you about my schedule. Do you have Chung for Advanced Stats?”
I saw his text, and we do have two of the same classes this semester. I was hoping I could find a seat in the back of the lecture hall to avoid him. “I do, and Philosophy with Kristian.”
“Sick, I’ll see you in class then.” My plastic smile doesn’t match his bright one. “What are you doing here? I didn’t take you for a hockey fan.”
“I’m not. I’m here to see Coach Kilner. Do you know where his office is?”
His gaze moves down the hall in confusion before he suppresses a smile.
“What’s so funny?” I ask warily.
“Nothing.” He clears his throat. “He’s the last door on the right. See you in class, Sunny.” He’s gone before I can analyze his expression or the weird nickname.
Finding Coach Kilner’s door, I knock on the translucent glass panel, and a gruff voice calls, “Come in.”
The door creaks ominously like it’s telling me to run before I get caught in a mess. I’m met with a smiling Coach Kilner and someone sitting before him. Shower damp hair and the Dalton logo sit on the back of his shirt.
I pause, thinking I’m intruding, but Coach waves me in. “Have a seat, Ms. Preston.” The guy doesn’t acknowledge me when I sit beside him, and I don’t bother to, either. “Laura contacted me about your assignment. I understand you would like to do your project on hockey,”
