Against All Odds (Holt Hockey Book 2)
Against All Odds: Chapter 5

Icy air burns my lungs as I inhale deeply, trying to focus on Coach as he runs through our schedule for the rest of the week. It’s hard, since my legs feel like limp noodles and I know that Hart will make sure I’m wherever I need to show up this week. The mechanic he recommended hasn’t been able to figure out what’s wrong with my truck yet, so I’m still reliant on him and Hunter chauffeuring me around like a little kid.

I went hard today to make up for Sunday’s shitty performance during practice. It paid off several times, but it also means my muscles are trembling from exertion. I’m in great shape, just not the kind where I can skate as hard as I did tonight and not feel it afterward. Usually, it’s a push I reserve for games. But our next one isn’t until Saturday, and I felt some pressure to prove to Coach I’m capable of more than I’ve showed him lately. To make him not regret his efforts to keep me on the team and ensure I walk across the stage in May. To not be the unreliable, irresponsible guy most know me to be.

Coach wraps things up.

Our huddle breaks, everyone skating toward the open door that leads off the ice.

“Gaffney’s?” Hunter suggests to my left.

“Fuck yeah,” I answer.

The best part of Tuesdays are the half price wings and pints at the most popular campus bar. My tired muscles gain new strength as I imagine taking a bite of crispy chicken and washing it down with a cold beer. Fucking delicious.

I shower and change, then chug a Gatorade while I wait for Conor to finish getting dressed. The only upside of relying on him as my means of transit is that I don’t have to stay sober. One pint is my maximum tonight, though. Sunday’s hangover is a fresh, painful memory.

Most of the guys end up in the Gaffney’s parking lot. Every team I’ve been part of at Holt has been close-knit, but this year’s is exceptional. We’re gelled, we’re focused, we’re electric. Win or lose, I’ll be sad to see this season end. It’ll be the end of my hockey career, and all I won’t miss is the bruising. My side still hurts, but at least I was fast enough to escape any checks today. Once it heals, I’ll be back in fighting shape.

I walk inside behind Hart, who suddenly takes off to the right.

I’m confused until I spot Harlow sitting at one of the high-top tables with a group of girls. Conor immediately lays one on her, and it’s not a quick peck, more like he’s trying to fuse their tongues together.

A few of the guys around me hoot and holler, drawing the attention of anyone who wasn’t already looking, which appears to be approximately no one.

I follow Hunter over to the long table we always occupy. Stacey, one of the waitresses, immediately rushes over to take our order. I get my usual—a dozen wings and an IPA—flirting back with her until my full bladder commands me to stand and head for the restrooms.

Clayton Thomas, the star—and I use star very loosely—of the basketball team is washing his hands when I walk in.

“Hey, Phillips,” he greets, looking slightly nervous.

Probably because he knows who I’m best friends with and is also aware that he’s high on Conor’s least favorite people list due to some shit he pulled with Harlow. I don’t have any issue with Thomas personally, but I’m firmly on Conor’s side with whatever happened. Thankfully, working things out with Harlow seems to have mellowed Hart out when it comes to anything off the ice.

“Hey, Thomas. How’s it going?”

“Not bad.” He grabs a paper towel and dries his hands. “Last home game is next week, which is hard to believe.”

“Wow. Just one left?”

“Two, technically. We’re playing Edgewood in the first round of the playoffs, and we all know how that’ll go.”

Yeah. The basketball team is notoriously terrible. I’ve heard Thomas is semi-decent, but the rest of the team is not.

“You never know.”

Thomas snorts. “Right. It’s all good. I’ve got some fun plans for the rest of senior year.” He grins at me. “I’ll probably see you out.”

I grin back. “Yeah, you probably will.”

“See you, man.”

“See you.”

Clayton leaves. I take a piss, wash my hands, and am drying them when my phone starts buzzing in my pocket. I toss the paper towel in the trash and pull it out.

It’s my dad.

I suck in a deep breath, then answer. “Dad.”

“Aidan.” He sounds so surprised, I almost smile.

Obviously, he’s become as accustomed to leaving annoyed messages as I’ve become to receiving them.

“Did you get the plane ticket?”

No How’s hockey? No How was your winter break? No asking about my friends or any part of my life.

“Yeah,” I lie.

I mean, I probably did get it. I just haven’t checked my email lately, but admitting so will give my dad one more thing to complain about.

“Good.”

I take a deep breath, staring at the puddle of water on the counter. “How’s Mom?”

“She’s doing well. Excited about the wedding.”

Yeah, I bet she is.

“School going well?”

“Yep,” I lie again.

“I’m getting pulled into a meeting,” he tells me.

Bullshit. It’s dead silent in the background.

“You called me, Dad.”

A beat of silence. “I’ll see you soon, son.”

He hangs up first.

I scoff and stuff my phone back in my pocket.

“I can’t wait to watch you play on Saturday,” Mariah gushes.

“Thanks,” I reply.

There’s a flash of confusion on Mariah’s face before her expression reverts to sultry.

Usually I’d at least tack on a gorgeous. More likely I’d tell her to make a sign for me, or say that I can’t wait to celebrate with her after we win.

But I do none of that.

All I needed to do was return to the table after taking a piss, but Mariah is the third girl who’s stopped me on the way back from the bathroom.

Each interaction, my annoyance has ticked a little bit higher.

I don’t know what the hell is wrong with me. Neither does Mariah, by the looks of it. Ordinarily, this is attention I eat up.

It should be the exact distraction I’m looking for after talking to my dad. Instead, I’m fighting the urge to walk away.

“You’ve been playing so well this season,” she tells me, smiling.

So well is a stretch to describe my performance.

I was better at practice today than I’ve been skating, but it’s a low fucking bar. I’ve played fine in games lately, but nothing spectacular. The last game I scored in was before break began. If you ask my sore muscles from practice earlier, I forgot what doing more than the bare minimum feels like.

“You okay?” Mariah asks me, and I realize I’ve just been standing and staring at her, totally spaced out.

“I’m not feeling great, actually.”

“Oh, no.” Her confusion instantly transforms into sympathy.

“Just a headache. From practice. I should go get some water.”

I take off before Mariah can say anything else—or offer to act as my nurse. Normally, it’s a hot fantasy I’d be all over. But all I feel like right now is downing a pint, eating some wings, and then heading home to ice the bruise on my ribs. It’s been bothering me all day.

The food has already arrived when I finally get back to the table. A perk of being on a championship-chasing team, I guess. The people seated nearby who were here before us and still haven’t been served don’t even look annoyed.

“Thought you fell in,” Hunter teases as I take the seat next to him.

I pull my phone out of my pocket and check my email. Sure enough, there’s a new email from my father’s secretary. I shut off the phone and set it on the table before replying to Hunter. “Nah. I was just talking to Thomas.”

Hunter glances toward where Conor is sitting down the table, aware of the hole in Hart’s bedroom wall just like I am. “He start shit?”

I shake my head before grabbing my pint glass and taking a long sip of beer. “We were just talking about the end of his season. They only have two games left.”

“Two games? Really?”

“Uh-huh. Unless they make it past first round.”

“You mean if Edgewood doesn’t show?”

I snort, demolishing a wing in two bites. “Yeah.”

“That’s gotta be a rough way to end things.”

I shrug before picking up another piece of chicken. “He seemed fine with it. Looking forward to the off-season.”

Hunter scoffs. He’s as competitive as Hart is.

“Tuesdays are the best,” Robby says from his spot across the table, reaching for a wing.

“Hell yeah they—fuck.” I freeze. “It’s Tuesday.”

Robby laughs. “How many drinks have you had, Phillips? That’s what I just said—shit!”

I almost upend his beer—and mine—hastily reaching for my phone. I open my school email and scroll through the messages, ignoring Hunter as he asks me what’s wrong. Finally replace Professor Carrigan’s email and confirm I fucked up.

I was supposed to meet my tutor a minute ago.

All day, I’ve had the niggling suspicion I was forgetting something, and I was.

Fuck. Talk about a terrible first impression.

“I gotta go.” I abandon my beer and dinner, grabbing my phone and practically sprinting toward the door.

Only to realize…I don’t have a car.

I pivot and rush back over. “Can I borrow your keys?” I ask Conor.

Hart’s texting someone on his phone, and from the wide smile on his face, I’m guessing it’s Harlow, who couldn’t have left more than ten minutes ago. If I wasn’t in such a mad rush, I’d tease him about it.

He glances up, frowning. “Why?”

“Because I don’t have my truck back yet and I need to get somewhere fast. It’s important.”

I silently plead with my eyes, close to just shouting that I have a tutoring session for the whole world to hear. If I get kicked off the team, the entire campus will replace out anyway.

“Must have been one hell of a tit pic,” Robby comments.

“Probably a full frontal,” one of the juniors, Jake Brennan, says.

I flip them both off, staying focused on Conor. He reaches into his pocket, pulls out his keys, and tosses them to me.

“Not a fucking scratch, Phillips,” he calls after me.

I’m already out the door.