Chapter 2

Chapter

Two

OTTO

The party was wild. Too wild. My entire body hurts. The little bit of sun that peeks through the blinds is enough to make my head pound. Even with my eyes closed, it's too goddamn bright.

Groaning, I roll to my side and attempt to open one eye, then the other. Staring at the wall, I wonder if it's always been this shade of white. This is too vivid. I should paint it a darker color. Maybe the color of our jerseys—navy blue—something not white. This is too much.

When I force myself to sit up, my stomach rolls. I grunt. My head pounds, and I wonder if there is a boxer inside beating the shit out of my brain. Standing, I try not to fall on my ass. Thankfully, I don't.

Shuffling to the bathroom, I hope that I don't blow chunks. I can handle the pounding head of a hangover. I can handle the rolling stomach. I cannot handle the puking. Starting the shower, I use the head and then rinse off.

I need to get the stink of booze, sweat, and sex off me. I'm not usually someone who drinks and parties much, but last night was a special occasion.

We won the Calder Cup.

We are the best team in the league.

And that deserved celebrating. Although, I may have done it a bit too hard. I can't remember the last time I drank so much. Probably never. The booze, the women, the music, it was flowing. I can't recall everything that happened, but I remember enough.

Once I've showered and brushed my teeth twice, along with a rinse of mouthwash, I put on some athletic shorts and a sleeveless shirt before heading downstairs to the kitchen. I need coffee and toast or something to calm my stomach.

I'm surprised when I place my foot down on the last step to see all my roommates holding their heads on the sofa. At least they're hurting just as much as I am. I open my mouth to ask them if they made coffee but decide against it.

Nobody needs any smart-assed remarks this morning, especially since I can't smell the coffee brewing. It's pretty fucking obvious there isn't any made. Moving around the kitchen, I start a pot of coffee, then lean against the wall and flick my eyes around at the men in their stages of sickness.

"We're in a goddamn state," I growl.

Alexei turns his head, his eyes finding mine before he speaks. "We'll worry about life tomorrow. Today, I think we should just relax and bask in the glory of our victory. Maybe nurse these fucking hangovers."

"That would be nice if I didn't have a private lesson this afternoon," I grumble.

The room fills with groans. I chuckle, knowing they all have a similar schedule to mine. It's the only way we supplement our income—private hockey lessons. And those don't stop even when you win the Calder Cup.

When the coffee is finished percolating, I pour four cups. The guys make their way into the kitchen to collect their drinks. Then Lev lets out a heavy sigh. He takes a sip of his coffee before his gaze meets mine, and then he speaks.

"Fuck this," he grunts. "Let's go and get some breakfast. We're never going to be able to function without some grease to soak up all this booze. And the last thing I want to do is cook or clean anything up."

Fifteen minutes later, we load up into a car and head straight for The Tipsy Tavern. It might not be evening or after a game, but it's past noon, and they'll have exactly what we need to feed our hangovers.

GRACE

My father's red face stares back at me. He's trembling slightly with anger, and I think about trying to give him some kind of excuse, but he wouldn't buy it, so I don't even try. Instead, I stare at him, wondering if he's going to speak. I wait for him to tell me something, anything.

At least my mother screamed her head off and told me what a useless girl I was. What a slut I was. And how I ruined my whole fucking life and probably didn't even get an orgasm… she was right.

Not my father. He's just red-faced and pissed off but silent. I suck in a breath then let it out slowly as I wait.

And wait.

And wait a little longer.

"Well," he grunts. "You can't stay at my place. It's only a one-bedroom, and I don't give up my bed, not even for my daughter. I meant it when I said that I would help you. I'm not taking that back."

I nod my head, wondering how this ended up being my life. A year ago, I was embarking on a journey that I was so excited about—college. I had no idea it was going to be my nightmare, my living hell. And now I'm here, and I can't help but wonder if I've just traded one hell for another.

When my father's redness vanishes, he reaches out across the table and wraps his fingers around my wrist, squeezing gently. "I know you haven't told me everything. I don't think I'm supposed to be angry with you. I have a feeling that what you haven't said will fill in the pieces and make me feel like an ass for being angry."

My lips curve up slightly, mainly because this is exactly the kind of thing my dad would say when I was little, and it makes me nostalgic. It also makes me feel… guilty. Not because he's wrong. He's not. Because he's right.

"So, what happens now?" I ask.

He smirks and shrugs his shoulder before he lets out a sigh. "First off, place to live. Second, a job."

"Shouldn't that be reversed?" I ask, my lips curving up in a smile, knowing without a doubt that my father loves his space and won't be able to handle me in it for more than a night or two.

"It would be if I didn't have a one-bedroom," he says with a grunt.

I can't help but laugh. I knew that was exactly what he'd say. Reaching for my glass of water, I bring it to my lips, wishing it were something stronger. The images of what happened a few weeks ago flash in my mind.

I should forget it, pretend it never happened—but I can't. It lives rent-free in the back of my mind, playing on a loop repeatedly. I see my professor at his desk, calling me into his office, my paper in his hand.

My paper has a big fat F on it. It's my paper that he's already turned in to the chair of the department to be researched for plagiarism. He gives me a disgusted look. When I open my mouth to ask him what has happened, he holds his hand up.

"I don't want to hear your excuses. You plagiarized, and we are a zero-tolerance school. I also think you're doing drugs, but that's just a suspicion. You're going to be expelled for the plagiarism part."

His mind is made up. I can tell. I don't bother trying to justify or stand up for myself. But I do ask one question. Because I know that I wrote the paper myself and didn't plagiarize a word of it.

"Who did I plagiarize?" I ask.

He narrows his gaze on me, curling his lip before he says a name. "Hayze Estrada."

The name is a punch in the gut. I cannot believe he's said that. Hayze is my boyfriend. Or at least I thought he was. I take this class on Tuesdays and Thursdays, while he takes it on Mondays and Wednesdays. He turned his paper in on Wednesday, and I turned mine in on Thursday.

That asshole.

I should have known that all his sweet words, all of his showing up at odd hours with food and drinks was nothing more than him wanting to steal my work. I should have known that he wasn't interested in me. Men never are, and Hayze is cute and popular.

He's definitely not for me.

He never was.

I feel stupid.

"Gracie," my father calls out.

Blinking, I lift my gaze to meet his. I'm thankful he's brought me out of my memories. Giving him a smile, I wait for him to finish saying whatever it is that he's got on his mind. He clears his throat.

"That school doesn't know what they're missing by kicking you out. I know you didn't cheat. It's not in your blood."

I almost laugh, but I don't because my father does take his sportsmanship very seriously. I'm shocked that he believed me at all. Instead, I give him a smile. "I know," I whisper. "Burns's work hard, but we win. We always come out on top. Always."

"That's absolutely right," my father agrees with a single nod.

Pressing my lips together, I think about those words for a moment. I worked my ass off. I never cheated, but I didn't come out on top, at least not at that school. But that doesn't mean I won't.

I will.

I have to.

There is no other choice.