The Graham Effect (Campus Diaries Book 1)
The Graham Effect: Chapter 47

You fall, I pick you up

THE BUS DROPS US OFF ON CAMPUS AROUND ELEVEN, AND IT’S CLOSE to midnight by the time I make it home. Shane and Beckett went directly to a party at the Kappa Beta sorority house, determined to celebrate our advancement to the finals by hooking up with as many women as humanly possible. But as thrilled as I am about the results of tonight’s game, I’m exhausted and ready to go home.

When I pull up to the house, I spot the white SUV parked at the curb. Then I glimpse the yellow glow behind the living room curtains. Gigi must have used the key I gave her.

I replace her on the couch. Sitting there silently, staring at an action movie on the TV.

“Hey, how long have you been here?” I say from the doorway. “Why didn’t you text to say you were coming over?”

“My phone’s dead.” Her face is devoid of emotion.

Concern flickers through me.

“What’s wrong?” I ask immediately. Her entire vibe is off, from her vacant expression to her empty voice. The women’s team literally moved on to the finals tonight—she should be beaming from ear to ear right now.

I shrug out of my winter coat and duck out to hang it up. Then I come sit beside her, pulling her onto my lap. The moment we make physical contact, she buries her face in my neck and starts to cry.

“Hey, hey,” I say in alarm, rubbing her shoulders. “What’s going on? What’s wrong?”

“Brad Fairlee showed up to our game tonight to talk to me.”

Her voice breaks.

And with a sinking feeling, I know there’s no way she would be crying if it was good news.

“All the roster slots have been filled,” she mutters. “I didn’t make it.”

“Oh, fuck, babe. I’m sorry.”

I tighten my grip and she burrows her face deeper into my skin. Wetness coats my neck, a cold trail sliding down to soak the collar of my shirt.

“I played the best game of my life tonight,” she moans. “And it still wasn’t good enough for this asshole. He just fucking threw it back in my face.”

“Did he say why?”

“He said I’m one of the best college players, but he’s not looking at stats. He’s trying to focus on some of the older players, the women out of the pros who have more experience competing on the world stage.”

It makes sense, but I don’t say that out loud. She’s far too distraught to hear it right now.

“I can’t believe I didn’t make it.” The words are spoken on a shaky, anguished moan.

I slide my fingers through her hair, stroking gently. “I’m sorry. I’m really fucking sorry.”

She tips her head back, her bottom lip trembling wildly as she fights another onslaught of tears.

“I failed,” she says weakly.

“You didn’t fail.”

“Am I on Team USA, Luke? Because last time I checked, I’m fucking not.” She drops her forehead in her palm, breathing unsteadily.

“You’re not on Team USA yet,” I correct gently. “You’re still young.”

She’s doggedly shaking her head, refusing to accede to the point. “I failed.”

And suddenly she’s shuddering in my arms again, crying harder this time. Choked, breathless, hiccupping sobs. I’ve never seen her like this before. I’ve seen her tear up during sad movies. I’ve seen unshed tears of frustration. Welled-up tears of anger, like the time she kicked me out of her house after we fought.

But this is something else. This is agony. Deep, tortured sobs ripped from the depths of her soul.

And I’m utterly helpless. All I can do is hold her as tight as I can while she shakes in my arms.

“It’s okay, let it out,” I urge.

I don’t know how long she cries for, but her voice is hoarse by the time she settles. Her eyes are swollen and red, and my heart breaks for her.

I’m so goddamn in love with this woman. Seeing her cry makes me want to replace the person who did this to her and slam his head through a wall.

I inhale a deep breath, searching for the words to ease her pain.

“You didn’t make the team,” I finally say. “I know that hurts. But that doesn’t mean you won’t ever be on it.”

She inhales too. Her breathing still sounds ragged to my ears.

“The average age of the current roster is, what? Twenty-six? Twenty-six, G. You have plenty of years ahead of you to make it.”

“But the Olympics are next February,” she says in a small voice. “Now I’ll have to wait four more years. I’ll be ancient by then.”

I chuckle softly. “Their current team captain is thirty-two. You’re not ancient, I guarantee it. Look, maybe you won’t compete in these Olympics,” I relent, and she releases another choked sob. “But the national team plays a lot of other significant games. There’s Worlds every year. The Four Nations Cup. Maybe next year, Fairlee will have an open slot. Or maybe it’ll happen the year after.”

“Or maybe I’ll never make the team.”

She starts to cry again, and although it kills me to make it worse, we promised each other we’d always be honest.

“Maybe you won’t,” I agree softly.

She rears back, releasing a cross between a laugh and a wheeze. “You are so bad at this.”

“Maybe you won’t ever make the team,” I repeat. “Doesn’t change the fact that you’re the single greatest player in women’s college hockey right now. Fairlee said so himself. He’s not looking at stats, because if he was, you’d be on that roster in a heartbeat.”

“But why don’t I have that other quality he’s looking for? What the hell about me is lacking?”

“Nothing about you is lacking. Ever. You’re perfect, exactly the way you are. Even with all your flaws. Like needing to be the best. And your taste in music.”

Her answering laugh is a bit wobbly.

“Nobody likes failure, G. But I maintain that this isn’t failure. This is just one moment in time.”

“A moment in time,” she echoes weakly.

“Yes, and right now, in this moment, you’re down. But that’s okay because I’m here to lift you up.”

“Always?” she whispers, peering at me with those big gray eyes.

“Always. You fall, I pick you up. Always.”

Her tears are drying up, her breathing growing steady. She loops her arms around my shoulders and presses her face into my neck. “Thank you.”