2. Griffin

" W hy are you acting like such a little pussy?" I shout as fire races through my veins, wanting nothing more than to drop my gloves and beat this prick into the ice.

My team and coaches would be pissed off if I chose to do that. It's a tied game against our rival team, the Knights, and I can't risk getting my ass put in the penalty box because of my temper.

The guy begging to get his teeth knocked in says something under his breath, and it takes a lot of willpower not to retaliate. Our coach calls a time-out, and I skate over to the bench. I lean against the boards, and he nods at me, his way of acknowledging my use of self-control … for once.

Coach talks to us about what we need to improve in order to take the lead. My job? Being a bit of a pest on the ice, riling the other guys up, getting their blood boiling, and pushing them to make mistakes. Once you get into someone's head, you can ruin their game. Over the next five minutes, that is exactly what I do, and it works because we score again, taking the lead.

Number thirty-eight on the Knights is about to fucking snap as I pick his pockets, stealing the puck away, and dish it to Malik Ravenwell, a foreword on my team. My legs are completely dead, and I'm dying to get off the ice. I'm hurting my team more than helping them right now.

Right before I reach the bench, I'm shoved hard from behind and into the boards, hitting it awkwardly because I wasn't expecting to be plowed into while changing out. My fists clench, and Coach nods at me, cocking his head to the side at number thirty-eight. I hate to admit that even without his approval, I planned on beating the ever-living shit out of this kid.

My blood pumps hard, and my heart races excitedly as I spin around. "I have been waiting all fucking night for this," I growl and spit on the ice.

"Waiting to get your ass kicked? I would love to do the honors," he chirps, and I don't hesitate to drop my gloves.

As a smile tugs at my lips, I welcome the adrenaline spiking in my veins and grab on to the collar of his jersey. I rear back and punch him straight in the ribs. He bends over, somehow surprised that I hit him.

Taking advantage of him bending at his waist, I rip his helmet off as he thrashes and fights to grab on to any part of me. It's too late though. There's not enough time for him to recover. He lost this fight the second he decided to start it.

My knuckles crash into his cheek, the side of his head, any part of him I can reach. He's so discombobulated that he can't land a single punch. It's okay; I'm doing it enough for the both of us.

The ref skates over and waits for us to stop—or rather for me to end it. But I'm not done yet. Letting up, I let thirty-eight hit me across the jaw to give the illusion of a fair fight. But the pain only eggs me on more. From the smile forming on this idiot's face, he thinks he actually earned it. How sad.

A smirk kicks the corner of my lips up, and I watch the moment thirty-eight realizes he is thoroughly fucked. He's the biggest guy on their team, and he probably thought he could take me. God, I love proving people wrong.

Pulling my elbow back, I smash my fist into his face over and over and over until he falls to the ground and red speckles the ice around us.

"Is this where you'll do the honors of kicking my ass?" I deeply snarl as I stand to my feet, victorious.

"All right, that's enough, Hawthorne," the ref warns me as he grabs my shoulders and starts skating backward, pulling me along with him.

Thirty-eight stays quiet—the first smart thing he's done tonight. He holds his side, and I wonder if maybe I shouldn't have gone so hard. But if I'm frank, I don't care; it's part of the game. Something comes over me when I start a fight, and I can't stop myself.

As the blood pounding in my ears begins to settle, I hear the crowd and my team shouting my nickname, one I earned from mercilessly dominating the ice.

The Beast.

"Beast!"

"Beast!"

"Beast!"

"Beast!"

The crowd bellows, the entire arena vibrating with praise for taking him down. Adrenaline courses through me, and my spine tingles at the sensations.

Fucking hell, I love hockey.

One of the linesmen skates over, handing me my equipment.

"Thank you," I grumble as I grab my stick, gloves, and helmet.

"Just couldn't help yourself, huh?" He laughs as he escorts me to my bench.

Shrugging, I laugh. "More like the other way around. He kept pushing me, and in my defense, he started it. I was just giving him what he wanted."

"Right." He chuckles, releasing me as I step through the board door, my team whistling for me.

They all pat me on the back and sing their praises, along with the crowd, as I walk through the tunnel to the locker room. I'm done in this game, and I won't be allowed back onto the ice.

When you drop gloves and fight in college hockey, it's an automatic game misconduct penalty, meaning I'm out for this game and, unfortunately, the next. Sometimes, the referees play nice and only give me misconduct. But my reputation doesn't usually encourage much grace.

Our team scores again, and by the end of the third period, we're crushing the Knights four to two, increasing our win streak to five games since the season started only a week and a half ago. No one expected our team to be dominating this early on in the season because we are relatively young in terms of strong talent.

The seniors are usually on the first line because they are the most talented players with the most experience, but for some reason, when us first-year students we came in, we took over. It's not like the rest of the team isn't talented because they are. We're just better.

The plus side of hockey is that different lines get time on the ice, so we aren't taking too much away from them. But they respect our grind and the fact that we are winning. They want that above anything else. The more we win, the more scouting our team gets from the pro league. And that is the most important part of it all. That's the dream for any one of us—getting to the big show.

But HEAU gets noticed by everyone. It doesn't matter what industry you're in; if you can get into this school, you're pretty much set for any goal you have in life. It doesn't mean every college hockey player attending HEAU gets to go pro. But it does mean they have a hell of a better chance than at any other university. I have no doubt that Malik and I will go pro after college.

Malik Ravenwell is my best friend on the team. We understand each other without having to say too many words. We know that we haven't had the best cards dealt to us our whole lives, but we still worked our asses off and got here.

He's a little shit with a hell of a reputation, but if you knew his story, you'd know that his coolness and harshness are just armor that he had to build around himself to survive. I know that because I had to do the same. But even I had more support than him, growing up.

After my family left when I was fifteen, I was practically all alone. But I still had Mrs. Pottinger, and her son, Charlie. Although I haven't called them by those names in years. I only refer to them as Mrs. Potts and Chip. Mrs. Potts was my family's chef and maid. She still technically is, I suppose, but rarely do I allow her to do anything for me.

She has tried to convince me more times than I can count to stop paying her, but that will never happen. I might not let her do any cleaning for me, but that doesn't mean I will stop taking care of her and Chip. I want them to have everything they need.

When I finally get home and step inside the quiet house, each step feels heavier than the last. My body is exhausted from tonight, more so than usual. But that probably has to do with the fucking stress headache I'm going to have to deal with tomorrow.

I'm smart, even more so than I let on. But for some goddamn reason, I am nearly failing my English class. My head coach and teacher are threatening that if my grade doesn't start to climb, my ass won't be taking the ice anymore. Which is a big fucking problem. Mainly because I plan to be playing professionally after this. If I'm not on the ice, I'm not getting seen.

I have a meeting with a tutor at the school's library at ten tomorrow morning. Hopefully, whoever it is can make enough of a difference. I've never struggled with my English classes, and I don't quite understand why this curriculum doesn't click with my brain. I just need someone to fix it so I can get on with the season without the looming cloud of failure over my head.

Quietly, I walk through the foyer and reach the large sitting room, dropping my bags next to the oversize velvet sofa, hearing an echo through the house as they hit the ground. I meander into the kitchen, and something on the island catches my eye. The aroma of sweet chocolate invades my nose.

Flicking a light on, I see a Tupperware of chocolate chip cookies with a note propped up beside them. It reads, Congrats on another win, Griff. We were cheering you on. Love, Mary and Chip.

Lifting the transparent lid of the container, I snatch a cookie out and take a bite.

Fuck. These cookies are so good. I don't know how she keeps them so soft with a crispness on the outside. Regardless, they're perfect every time. Putting the lid on the Tupperware, I chug a glass of water before walking out of the kitchen, shutting the light off behind me.

This house has been in my family for a few generations, and it's breathtaking, but it's just too much for three people to live in. There are twenty beds, twelve and a half baths, an in-home movie theater, a basement that my parents transformed into an inside faux ice rink, a playroom filled with every toy a kid could want in a vaulted room with skylights. For God's sake, there are wings in our house. My room is on the upper level in the east wing. Chip and Mrs. Pottinger reside on the main floor in the east wing. The west wing is closed off, completely untouched.

My teammates have been begging me to let them move in, but I know better than that. They would throw the biggest party and get me in so much fucking trouble. On top of it, I hate having my space invaded. I don't mind parties, as long as they aren't in my house.

Running my fingers along the cool railing, I ascend the marble steps, veering left toward the east wing. Pushing the double-door entrance open, I step into the hallway and hear the doors click shut behind me, sealing me in my personal slice of paradise.

Over the years, I have turned this part of the house into my safe haven. No one comes in here, not Chip, not Mrs. Potts, just me. I like knowing that it's just mine and only mine.

Twisting the gold handle, I push the door open to my room, shutting it behind me. I drop my sweats, tear off my T-shirt, and throw them in my hamper across the room. Grabbing the corner of my comforter and sheets, I pull them back and slide between them in only boxers, loving the cooling touch of the golden silk.

Powering the TV on, I turn on whatever professional game is playing, happy to fall asleep to the sound of pucks and skates on the ice.

You've got to be fucking kidding me .

I'm meeting up with my tutor right now at the library, and the second I see her, I know this isn't going to work out. I recognize her not just from campus, but also from games, where she practically presses her tits against the glass to get our attention.

Rubbing the back of my neck, I approach her table, and her smile widens as I wrap my hands around the back of an empty chair, leaning against it. She's practically drooling. Although this is nice for my ego, it's not doing shit for my grades.

"Oh my God, I didn't know you would be my new student!" she squeals and feigns naivety because I know damn well she was aware it was me coming.

She's wearing a low-cut tank top that plunges far below the average neckline, a full face of makeup, and a pleather skirt with heels. I don't know about you, but I don't typically see many people dressed like that for a tutoring session. I'm not saying it's impossible, but it's more improbable. She knows what she's trying to do. But it's just not going to work on me.

"Yeah …" I trail off and take a seat across from her.

It's not that I'm not into her; sure, she's cute. But I don't have the time for the clinginess oozing out of her every pore. When my hand doesn't do the job, I occasionally hook up with someone, but it's rare. I can count on two fingers the number of partners I've had. It's harder to make that list than it is to get into this school, and that's saying something. No offense to her, but she isn't the type of girl I want to fuck. She is the girl who has aspirations of being a WAG—a partner of a pro athlete—and I have zero intentions of granting that wish to her.

"So, I know a bit about what you need help with. Your professor passed that along. But what are you looking to get out of this?" She bats her eyelashes at me and leans forward against the desk between us.

Annoyance quickly turns into anger at the amount of my time she is wasting right now. This whole fucking meeting is pointless. Taking a slow inhale, I try to calm my racing heart and growing rage.

My temper hasn't always been my greatest source of control. But I'm trying not to completely jump to conclusions about her ability to do her job. If she has what it takes to fix my problems and focus on the tasks at hand, I will put up with a little flirtation.

"Just to get my grade up so it doesn't affect my playing time," I say coolly.

She pushes the tip of the pen between her lips and hums, "Mmhmm."

Jesus Christ, could she be more obvious?

"I've been struggling with the work for the final," I admit, giving her everything she needs to know in order to do her job.

"Yeah, totally," she sighs. "Do you have any distractions impeding you from fully focusing?"

"Like what?" I ask, rolling my eyes at where I think this is heading.

She smirks and asks, "Like a job? A girlfriend?"

And there it is.

"We're done here." I laugh and push off of the chair.

Her jaw drops, and her eyes widen. "W-what?"

It's hilarious that she doesn't understand why she's being fired .

Slowly, I step around the table, holding her eye contact the entire time. Placing my hand down on the tabletop, my arm muscles rippling, I inch forward and close the distance between us, feeling her breath on my lips. She is practically panting; she wants this so badly. Maybe I would consider her if I didn't need help and was looking for a hookup. But hockey is too important to me, and some random girl isn't going to mess with my future.

Inching forward, I lean further down, feeling the slightest graze of her lips. Her eyes drift shut, and I whisper, "I'm not fucking you."

Her eyes fly open, and she scoffs like that isn't what she wants. Her shoulders fall, and she stutters, "I-I w-was not trying to fuck you, Griffin."

"Is that why you were going to kiss me and are completely out of breath right now? Sure." I chuckle and push off the table, standing up straight. "Nice meeting you …"

I would say her name, but I didn't even catch it, or maybe I don't remember it. Oh well, I don't have time to learn it because I'm now back at square one.

Coach might kill me for firing her, but he can get over it because I'm not putting up with that shit for the remainder of the semester. Fucking hell, now, I have to find a new tutor.