“Well, shit.” I drink my beer and nod again. “What else?” He asks.
“Nothing, man,” I say quietly.
“Don’t bullshit me.”
I let the silence sit thick around us for a moment before I decide to let him all the way in. He was goingto be pissed. There was no one who hated my dad more than Beck—except maybe my sister.
“My dad’s calling again.”
Anger flashes across his face. “Of course he fucking is,” he snaps. “He always does. What kind of bender is he on this time?”
“No idea,” I say honestly. “I haven’t answered the phone.”
“How long?”
“Just since Christmas.”
He snaps his eyes to me, glaring. “So a few weeks? Rhodes, you’ve gotta tell Coach. Tell Kelsey, before he runs his mouth about you when you’re already in hot water.”
He was right. My dad had a habit of selling inflammatory stories to the press, no matter how untrue. And with my current standing right now, they’d probably eat it up.
“Yeah,” I say, tipping my head back to finish my drink.
“By the end of the week, man. You’ve got to tell them. He could make this so much worse for you, especially if you aren’t replying.” I hang my head back along the edge of my chair, pinching the bridge of my nose with my fingers.
“Yeah,” is all I can say. “I know.”
Chapter Five
Monroe
Elsie (4:30am):No work this morning—locker room duty tonight at the arena.
I groan into my pillow. I had planned on cleaning the rink this morning, heading to my first class of the semester, then spending the rest of the day holed up in my apartment, decompressing from the extreme socialization I’d been forced to participate in over the last week and a half.
Me (4:58am):Dad doesn’t own that slab of ice so why do I have to go?
She left me on read.
My first communications class is at nine-thirty on campus, so now I have a little extra time to kill. Despite being out of the early-morningpractice routine for months, my body surprised me with a muscle memory for getting up before the sun, so going back to sleep is out. I’m up now.
I open the social media accounts I’ve ignored for the last several months. After my accident, I spent many hours hate-scrolling through everyone’s perfect lives, but I wasn’t posting anything. The last picture on my account was of me and Aaron from one of our last competitions, on the podium. I suck in a breath and exit my profile. No need to be pissed off this early in the morning.
But apparently Iama glutton for punishment, so I tap the search bar at the top of the screen and typeRhodes McKnightinto it. His profile comes up immediately—@rhodesMcKnightofficial—and I click onto his profile and scroll down the page. It’s mostly hockey, with a few smatterings of ski trips, nights out at the bar with his teammates. I have to scroll a long time before any girls show up on the screen. I wonder if that means he’s single. I tap the tag of the girl in the photo, one from nine months ago. @LindsayShay. She’s gorgeous. I gag.
When I finally do get out of bed, I’m running late. Stalking Rhodes’ social media took more time than I realized. I hastily pour myself an iced coffee, grab my laptop, and get out the door in record time.
The classroom is packed by the time I’m walking in with exactly thirty seconds to spare. Squeezing into a seat in the back, I try to make myself as small as possible. The classroom smells like whiteboard markers and stale coffee, and I crinkle my nose.Communications 324: Professional Writing and Media Presenceis printed neatly on the board, and the professor is typing something into the computer at her desk. I take a moment to people-watch the studentsaround me. A group of girls sit near the front, laughing. Something in my chest twinges at watching their friendship. I see a smattering of university sports team sweatshirts on a few of the guys—swim, lacrosse, baseball. No hockey. I am relieved to find I’m not the last person to come into the classroom as a few other stragglers make their way to my back row as well.
The professor clears her throat to signal the start of class, and I sit a little straighter in my seat. I keep my focus glued to my notebook as she launches into the syllabus. Group project expectations, weekly assignments, online discussion posts. All the regular college nonsense I haven’t done in…a little over a full year exactly. I jot everything down and make note of important dates.
I surprise myself by really paying attention in class, which past-Monroe would be shocked at. I consider texting my dad a picture of the room just to prove that I’m here and doing the damn thing. But I don’t.
He can see the diploma in May if I make it that far.
* * * *
I step into the arena that afternoon, annoyed that I even have to be here at all. It’s exactly what I don’t need, a room full of cocky hockey bros tossing their sweaty jerseys at me.