4. Griffin

" F ire your new tutor yet?" Malik laughs as I skate up next to him, my legs burning with each stride, completely gassed.

"Not yet." I smirk and bump my shoulder into his as I glide past him. "But we haven't even had a session yet."

"There's still time," he snarks and pushes away, scooping a puck up with this stick.

"Ha-ha," I mock him, picking his pocket and stealing the puck.

Coach blows his whistle, and the team skates over to him, silent and ready for his instruction. We leave tomorrow for a doubleheader weekend against our biggest rival, the Knights, and everyone is wound a bit tighter because of it. They nearly beat us the last time we faced them in their barn, and we don't want that to happen again. The problem is, our teams are so goddamn similar in talent, grit, and dedication. We might as well be fighting for our lives when we play against each other. We are both out for blood.

"All right, boys, the bus leaves tomorrow at eight a.m. Please do not give me a reason to bench you for being late; I want every one of you on the ice tomorrow night. Am I understood?" He pauses for our response.

We answer him with a slew of, "Yes, sir," and, "Yes, Coach."

"Good. See you boys tomorrow. Bruce, take us out," he instructs our assistant coach, who steps forward from his command.

"Legends on three. One. Two. Three," he shouts over us.

"LEGENDS!" we shout in unison.

I wanted to be on this dream team since I was old enough to understand college hockey. The best of the best go to school and play here. They truly are making legends here with legacies that will live forever on and off the ice. The diplomas they give out at graduation should be a golden check with a blank line that you can fill in with whatever you want. Because having this school on your résumé is the only thing you need to do whatever the fuck you want in life. All I've ever really wanted is to make it to the big show—the National Hockey League—and this school will get me there.

Now, all I have to do is not get benched for bad grades. I've always coasted through school with minimal effort and never had any issues. Until now, that is. I swear this professor has it out for me. Okay, maybe that's a bit of a stretch. But I don't see why opening up about my feelings will help me in the long run. It sure isn't going to help me play hockey.

The professor decided to focus this entire semester on autobiographies and self-reflection, and our main project requires us to write a twenty-page paper about our past, present, and future. Our assignments and homework are pieces of the final project's puzzle.

I'm a smart guy. I really am. But there is something about digging into the past that makes me want to take a skate blade to the throat.

Hopefully, this new tutor of mine will make everything easier. Honestly, I'm looking forward to having a session with her. For one, she's more intelligent than everyone else in the class. Second, she literally ran away from me because she didn't want to tutor me so badly. That might make someone else shy away from wanting to work with her, but not me. I usually have the opposite problem with tutors, like the last one I just fired.

Her immediate disdain was precisely what I wanted to see because if she's going to make my grade better, then we both need to be able to focus, which seems to be her top priority.

Five hundred dollars is a bit fucking steep, but I'd have agreed to a thousand if she requested it. There isn't an amount I wouldn't dole out to get my grade up. Money isn't an issue; I'm not worried about it, and she needs it. We're a match made in heaven.

"What's the jail time for murder?" Malik catches his breath, heaving as he skates up beside me next to the bench for a time-out.

"Pretty sure it's prison time, but more years than that shithead is worth," I scoff, trying to encourage him to cool off before he takes the head off of Knights' number twenty-nine.

"Did you see him? He was trying to split my ribs in fucking half with his stick and elbow." Malik is starting to turn red with every breath, and if I cared, I would be concerned for that player's well-being because he fucked with the wrong guy.

Malik is malicious without provocation. But twenty-nine has been spending the entire last period poking the bear, and he's about to get fucking mauled to death. As entertaining as a pissed-off Malik is, we have to win this game, and we need him to stay on the ice, meaning he can't end up in the penalty box as long as we can help it.

Coach spends the next minute talking us through a couple of errors and corrections we can make in our play. We need to tighten our passes up, and we need to be quicker with them too. We are hesitating with our decisions, allowing the Knights a chance to step in and steal the puck before we make our move.

The ref blows the whistle, and we skate over to the dot on the ice just outside our offensive zone for puck drop .

The second the puck hits the ice, Dean Kensington dishes the puck back to Asher Kensington, who takes off into the zone. Speeding up, I cut off their defender, opening the lane up for Elias Lancaster, our center, who doesn't waste a second of the opportunity and sinks it into the net, right through the goalie's five-hole. We hold them off from scoring the rest of the game while getting two more goals of our own, sealing the win in our books.

Leaning my head on the chair of my seat in this comfy charter bus, I pull my phone out and start typing to my new tutor.

Hey, are you free tomorrow for our first session?

I don't even know what our meetings will look like. I hope she'll go over the previous tests and assignments, tell me where the hell I went wrong, and then tell me how to do better next time. When she explains everything, I need her to treat me like I'm five years old.

I dread discussing the parts of class I've been avoiding—the self-reflection and digging into our pasts. I don't want to do any digging. Keep the shovels far away from me. I live in the present. I don't fantasize about what's to come, and I definitely don't spend time visiting ghosts. I don't want to start now .

I mean, I guess I could lie about everything in my papers and assignments. I could make up a story and pretend that it's real. No one would know the difference. That's probably a better option than the half-assed work I've been submitting.

My phone vibrates.

Tutor: Yes, I am. What time would you like to meet up?

I respond immediately.

Preferably not before 10 a.m. so I can at least sleep in.

Tutor: Would noon work?

Nope. I have weight lifting. Then practice at 5. By then, I'll be starving and will need to eat, or my brain will be worthless. How about, like, 7:30?

Tutor: Are you serious? That's so late.

It's not that late, but it's funny that you think so. I'll pay you extra tomorrow if you can make 8 p.m. work. Six hundred.

Tutor: Fine. 8 p.m. Sharp. Where do you want to meet?

I should offer the library, but it will be closed for the night by then. We could meet at a coffee shop or diner, but I don't want to have to deal with any HEAU hockey fans or puck bunnies. So, I offer the one place I typically keep to myself.

Here's my address. Don't worry. I'll be ready and set up at my dining table.

Tutor: There is no way in hell I'm going to your house. You could be a creep for all I know.

I chuckle, taken aback by her response. She seemed so meek and shy in person, and for her to be snarky behind a screen is a pleasant surprise. I like this side of her. I need someone to tell me like it is.

I'm not a creep, thank you very much.

Tutor: Oh, perfect. Then, I won't worry at all.

Am I talking to the same girl who sits quietly in the back of class? What the hell is going on?

If it makes you feel better, bring a friend. They can hang out while we work.

She doesn't answer right away, and I swipe out of our messages and get distracted playing a game on my phone while waiting. Before I know it, two hours have passed when she finally gets back to me.

Tutor: Deal. See you then.

Sweet! I don't know why that felt more victorious than our win tonight. Maybe it's because I won't get to keep winning on the ice if I don't start performing off of it.

I like her message and return to my phone, falling asleep a few minutes later.