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D errick Carole. On my first day, in my first sports finance class, Professor Carole had me stand in front of my peers so he could demonstrate how a system that, in his mind, favored the athletically gifted, had wronged him and his fellow geeks.

“The STEM departments receive a quarter of the funding in this school, yet it contains ninety percent of its functioning brain cells. This young man right here is a perfect example of that. He most likely coasted through high school on a hockey blade, good luck and easy winks. Well, to you Mr. Petterson, and to any in this class like you, I say this. The free ride is over. I don’t care if the team, the school or the country needs you. If you fail my class, you will fail my class. There are no exceptions. Understood?”

Playing hockey since I could walk, means I’ve experienced my fair share of asshole players, coaches and over- caffeinated hockey parents. But this guy doesn’t just take the cake, he spat in it, baked it, served it, then smashed it in my face. He didn’t know or care that I’d earned a more than respectable three-point five GPA. He just saw a dumb jock in a varsity jacket and hated me for it.

He probably has a small dick, too.

I’ve put up with that ass talking to me like shit for three years, but him belittling Lotte in a similar, or worse, manner has my hands itching for a fight. Claire paid her a visit last night, came home and confirmed it was definitely Lotte that Quinn was talking about, then made me swear I wouldn’t say or do anything to the prick in retribution.

Now, as I stand opposite him at the library, breaking that vow is becoming more and more appealing. All five feet nothing of his sausage-like body is vibrating with anger as he reams out Wendy, the lovely librarian who has worked here for a good twenty years, calling her a simpleton because a textbook he wanted is out on loan.

Perhaps he can feel the intense heat of my glare, because his outburst stops suddenly, and he turns and gives me a look of disgust in return. “Can I help you with something, Petterson?”

Telling him to choke on my fist would help me, but I probably shouldn’t open with that. Pausing, I run my thumb over my bottom lip and try to slow my thoughts and mouth. It doesn’t work. “You really do get off on talking down to people don’t you, Carole? Actually, wait.” Using every inch of my height and weight advantage. I step in and loom ominously. Maybe even crack my knuckles accidentally. Not punching that smug face takes all my strength. “I guess in your case it would be talking up to people, wouldn’t it?”

Bloodhound like jowls wobble as he scoffs and tuts and loses his absolute shit. “Who … How … You … You can’t talk to me like that! I’ll report you.”

“Go ahead. I’ll be at the Dean’s office making a complaint about you. Hey, maybe we could file it together and save paper?”

“What will you be reporting me for? Requesting for once, not to be surrounded by incompetence?”

“I think I would start with unfair treatment of students with disabilities.” His mouth flops open wider. “Maybe move to bullying. I’m sure I could think of a few more too.”

“Ohhh, snap!” cheers Wendy, who’s still standing behind the service desk, her lips curved into a shit eating grin.

“So, Carole. Should we carpool to Dean Mankato’s office, or just meet there?”

The dude is straight up purple and that mouth flaps and squeaks like a rusty old door, but nothing remotely close to a formed word is expressed. He just picks up his briefcase, one that looks the same vintage as Lotte’s Dr Pepper and storms out. Wendy gives him a little wave as he goes. “That is not going to sit well with him, Noah.”

“Good. Let’s hope it doesn’t.” She grins at me, then begins to fan her flushed face and neck with her hand. “Are you alright? Would you like some water or something?”

“Gosh, don’t worry about me, I’ll be fine. I’m quite experienced in nasty little surprises taking place within these walls, but they’re normally of the stumbling upon some half naked students in the stacks, variety. Fellow faculty openly abusing me is a rarity.”

“Again, good. And I meant what I said. I’m more than happy to make a complaint. That guy has gotten away with too much for too long.”

“It’s fine, Noah, I promise.” She ducks down beneath the counter and reappears grunting with a weighty stack of books. Occupational hazard, I guess. “Here are the books we had about Tourette’s Syndrome. I didn’t realize you were taking psychology this semester.”

“Oh, I’m not. This is just to help me with a … friend.”

Wendy’s smile returns, and this time I am the one red faced. “I take it by that look, that this is a friend you like very much.”

“Very much, yes. But she is just a friend though. Just a friend. Definitely a friend deep in the friend zone.”

“Hmm. Who are you trying to convince? Me, or you?”

Me. Definitely me.

It’s been a week since my run in with Professor Asswipe, one where a girl I barely know continues to consume an unreasonable chunk of my thoughts. I’ve checked every page of every yearbook. Scoured social media, dropped into Beanz and Bookz every day hoping to accidentally run into her again, but have yet to find a trace of those golden locks or crystal eyes. My stop off and latte pick up today made me late for training … again … and when I finally hit the ice, I skated right into a shit show.

Some pindick, no prize for guessing which one, went to the head of Athletics about the appalling behavior of us hockey players at the first big Kegger of the semester - the one none of us should have been at so close to our first preseason game - the one I ditched to take that Sydney chick to In-N-Out.

Apparently, things got a little out of control once I’d left. We’re talking underage drinking arrests, property damage, the works. Even though I wasn’t there when it all happened, as the captain, I’m taking a fair chunk of the blame and Coach Harris is kicking all of our asses.

It’s been drill after drill of stick handling, agility, skating and shooting skills, then power play breakouts. Callum White, our second line winger has his head over the boards bringing up his lunch and Brady doesn’t look too far from joining him. The worst thing is, Harris hasn’t just dished out physical punishment.

He’s in our heads.

The fucker had us all cool down and shower only to demand we suit back up in wet and stinky gear and hit the ice again. Up till now, I’ve harnessed the rage still coursing through me from my run in with Carole as fuel, but we’ve done two day’s worth of practice in half of one, and now … I am done.

“Next time you idiots want to play hockey inside a private residence, smash windows, flatten a dining table, then take photos of the damage and post them.” That last bit is said drowning in such painful disbelief, it’s hard not to laugh. I don’t. But yeah, it’s hard. “I hope you remember this day the next time you go to do something so moronic and know the repercussions will be four times as bad if it happens again. Now get the fuck off my ice.”

Callum has collapsed, Ryan is vomiting, and Shane and I are forced to practically carry Brady from the ice. The title of goalie hasn’t spared him from today’s punishment, but the extra weight of his gear means it hurts more.

“Send my body back to my family,” he whines. “Tell them I died fighting a pointless fight.”

“You’re not going to die, Brady. Not today anyway.”

“That’s very reassuring, thanks.” We haul his ass into the locker room, straight into the showers and toss him under the spray, pads and all. “Why the fuck did I leave all my friends and family to come play this stupid sport, in this stupid country, with you stupid dickheads? Someone please remind me.”

“Aww, we love you too, mate.” I toss him a bar of soap then head back to my cubby, stripping off and tossing my gear in the laundry bins as I go. Apart from taunting Brady, the usual post practice chirps are missing. Even when Cory Michelvich drops his pants to reveal tiny spider man boxers, the biggest mouths on the team remain closed.

“Anyone up for O’Reilly’s?” Shane asks once the majority of us are showered and changed. “I can hardly walk, or feel my arms, nose, or ears, but the promise of beer is enough motivation to get me there.”

I’m not much of a drinker, and am equally wrecked, but I must admit, the thought of an ice-cold house IPA sliding over my lips does sound appealing. And O’Reilly’s, our team’s favorite bar, is on the way home. “Okay, but just one. I’ve got to study.”

An hour later, we’re packed around three tables filled with Nachos, hot wings and fries. A predictable number of bunnies have joined us, and for all but me and Brady, a few more than one drink has been chugged. “You do realize if Coach walks in here, he’d drag our asses back to the rink, don’t you?” Shane huffs, as I flick the hand of a cute redhead from my shoulder.

“It’ll be fine. As long as we play it cool, we’re allowed to blow off steam.”

“Speaking of blowing,” Red’s hands run the length of my arm and tickle my ear before she leans in and blows. “This place is played out. Want to get out of here?”

I wait for the dick twitch that would normally occur right about now, but there’s nothing. “You know, thanks, you’re a real rocket, and normally I’d be carrying you out the door, but we’ve had a really tough session. I’m spent.”

“That’s okay, Captain. lie back and relax while I take care of you.”

Again, I wait, and again we have limp linguine.

It’s like I’m dead from the waist down.

Shane senses it’s his time to shine and moves in. “Captain America over here might be too pooped to party, but I’m not. Why don’t you save your sweet ass for someone who’s interested?” The speed at which she transfers her attention, and her busy fingers should shock me, but I’ve been around too long and seen too much for that. Brady on the other hand.

“I will never get over how these girls throw themselves at you. I don’t get it. Do you even like any of them?” He’s fidgeting with something in his pocket again. I need to ask about that one of these days.

“I like ’em plenty. Well, I used to. I don’t know why, but the whole bunny thing is losing its appeal.” My mind immediately conjures the answer - Lotte’s sweet face.

“Maybe it’s just me,” Brady winces as Shane and friends make a hasty exit toward the bathroom. “but I could never see the attraction in the first place. It’s cheap and gross and–”

“Hey, we will have no slut shaming at this table.” A round of cheers spring up around me. “There’s nothing wrong with two consenting adults having a bit, or a lot, of fun. It’s what college is all about. But there’s also nothing wrong with not wanting that.”

“Or wanting it with only one person … say a cute little blonde you’ve sworn to protect and mentioned every ten minutes?”

“Got no idea who you’re talking about, Brady.” I take a long pull of my beer, then push out from the table. “I told you she’s just a friend.”

“I thought you had no idea who I was talking about?” The earlier cheers turn to jeers, and I try but can’t fight the smile that spreads across my face.

“Whatever. Later losers. I’m out.”

Fucked is what I am.

Intent on an early night, I leave the hoots behind, slam through the old-fashioned saloon style doors, and wander to my truck parked across the street. But a flash of movement in my periphery, and a petite yet curvy body climbing onto a green line train steals my focus and changes my plans.

“Lotte.” I’m not sure if I think, whisper, or scream, her name but either way she disappears behind the tinted glass doors and the carriage pulls away from the curb. Suddenly I’m super pleased I only had one beer and turned down the redhead. “Don’t stand here, idiot.” I definitely scream, “Follow that train!”