Page 1 of Revolve
ONE
DYLAN
“YOU FAILED YOURdrug test.”
Fuck.
With my phone pressed to my ear, I drop my head against the steering wheel, feeling the cold leather imprint on my forehead as I fight the urge to bang it until I forget everything that’s gone wrong since I set foot on campus yesterday.
Dalton University is officially back in session. Well, classes may begin in a few days, but hockey has definitely started. Unlike coaches at other schools, Coach Kilner insists on getting all the introductions out of the way early, determined not to waste any precious practice time. I imagine he wakes each morning in a cold sweat, obsessively checking if he still holds the record for the most consecutive Frozen Four wins.
So, hearing those life-altering words over the phone at six in the morning from Vik Chopra, a junior studying premed, jolts me enough to make my hangover fade. A hangover I shouldn’t have in the first place.
Vik, who volunteers at Dalton University Hospital, is the first to know all things health-related in college sports. He was one of thepledges for Kappa Sigma Zeta last year, and I helped get him into our fraternity. So, this call is an IOU if I’ve ever seen one.
The party from a week ago right before our preseason drug tests was sweaty bodies, booze, and clouds of marijuana smoke. The typical college party—though the ragers I’ve thrown have been much wilder—but I remember nothing except two girls, a brunette and pink-haired one, who really wanted me to see their bedroom. It was great, I mean it always is if I’m involved, and we didn’t get any sleep that night. It’s why I woke up in the middle of the afternoon, with the sun in my face and rope marks on my wrist.
My memory dips in and out, but I think it’s better if I don’t recall exactly how wasted I got, and if I indulged in way more than just whiskey and beer. Clearly, I fucking did.
What I do remember—vividly—is the conversation I had with my parents right before I left the house. I hung up on them mid-conversation, and that’s when Tyler Sampson, our alternate captain, texted me about the party. If I hadn’t been so irritated by the call, I would have had some fucking sense to turn down his invite. My first sign that this fall semester was off to a rough start should have been the fact that I willingly went to aYaleparty.
“Is there anything you can do?” I ask.
In other words:Bury it.
It’s a lot to ask of Vik, considering he’s here on scholarship and is our frat’s philanthropy chair. The guy organizes fundraisers and supervises frat parties from the good of his heart. He’s the kind of guy you leave your drink with, and I’m the kind of guy that will drink your drink. He’s a damn saint. His sister, on the other hand … well, let’s just say she’s the reason I’m in the parking lot of the Iona House dormitory at six in the morning. But I don’t tell him that.
“You know I’d do anything for you, D,” Vik says with a heavy sigh. “But even an inconclusive test would raise flags. Either way, the sports director and your coach would get an email about it.” A seriesof keyboard clicks sounds. “I can keep your results private for now and see what I can do.”
“Appreciate it, man. Text me with any updates.” I drop my phone into the center console of my car. If this gets out, I’m screwed. Getting drafted to New York last month won’t have meant shit since I haven’t signed a contract. Nothing like a failed drug test to throttle you back to reality.
The sun is still rising when I pull away from Iona House. Last night, Mehar, Vik’s sister who’s on the diving team, invited me to her team’s preseason party. She told me I reminded her of Nicolas Vasquez, a soccer player she’s obsessed with. I didn’t mind one bit when she asked me to come back to her dorm. Though, as it turned out, it wasn’t Nicolas’s name on her lips when her hands roamed over my body and her legs wrapped around my waist.
When I step inside the hockey house—my off-campus refuge because I refuse to stay at the frat house—I find Kian face down on the living room floor. He’s got a textbook open on the coffee table and a bowl of soggy Shredded Wheat.
Kian Ishida and I have been friends since second grade. Back when I still thought he was the quiet new kid, fresh off a move from Japan to Connecticut to live with his aunt. Since then, we’ve gotten detention more times than I can count, and barely made it into Dalton.
Yesterday, we promised this was our last party and we wouldn’t fuck around this semester. Our last semester was brutal because Coach Kilner tortured us all season when Yale trashed our campus after we invited them to a party. So, even though Kian was belting out karaoke classics on the countertops of a party last night, he still dragged his hungover ass out of bed this morning to catch up on his reading for the upcoming semester.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“I’m having floor time.” His words are muffled into the Persian rug.
“That rug is filthy.” It was herebeforewe moved into the house, and the parties we’ve had since then did not help whatever is living in that thing.
“So am I,” he responds. Then suddenly he jerks upright, fumbling to grab his phone. “Did I miss my study group?” He sighs loudly when he realizes it’s still early.
In the kitchen, I rummage through the fridge, already knowing it’s a graveyard of questionable leftovers. Half-finished bottles of condiments, milk, a stale loaf of bread, and some orange juice.
Kian walks into the kitchen. “Why are you up so early? Practice isn’t until this afternoon. But Sebastian and Cole are already at the rink; they’re not taking any chances to piss off Kilner.”
That explains why our other two housemates and newly turned seniors are nowhere to be found. It’s the first semester back where the house feels empty since Aiden Crawford, our previous captain, and Eli Westbrook, our defender, went off to the big show. If Kian and I hadn’t spent the last four years slacking off, expecting to get drafted early, we’d be with them. Instead, we’re stuck finishing this last semester because we delayed free agency just in case the draft didn’t go our way. Luckily, it did, but we’re still here completing our degrees before we’re called up next year.
“I just got home.” I drain a half-empty carton of orange juice. I’d be an idiot to give Kian an inkling that I might have just blown up my entire life and the team. The guy gets a little obsessive over fixing things for people, and that’s the last thing I need right now.
“Were you with Crystal? You two were pretty close last night.”
I don’t recall a single thing aside from waking up with someone who most definitely wasn’t named Crystal. Though, I am getting vivid flashes of Kian ripping off his shirt because it lit on fire, and then everyone jumping into the pool. That explains why I’m wearing a T-shirt that isn’t mine. I probably jumped in the pool too.
