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CHAPTER FOUR

HUNTER

“ S orry I’m late!”

Aidan’s apology beats his arrival by half a second. He flies past me and carves a clean circle in front of the bench, sending a spray of ice shavings into the boards.

Phillips is never one to make a subtle entrance. His shout echoes across the empty ice and cavernous ceiling. The open bleachers and (former) silence don’t bother me. This is how I prefer an ice rink, actually. The cool, still air feels hallowed, filled with the same peaceful majesty disciples experience in a church.

I glance at the giant clock located above the scoreboard. 9:09.

Phillips is rarely punctual. But it’s almost guaranteed he runs late if he’s coming from Rylan’s. Hart and I have been here for fifteen minutes, waiting for him, because Conor has the opposite problem and aims to always be early.

Holt usually melts the ice after hockey season ends. Predating Hart’s arrival on campus, that was before playoffs even started. This year, at Conor’s request, the school agreed to keep the rink frozen until mid-April. They probably would have agreed to keep this building open until graduation, if he’d asked.

Division III teams in Middle of Nowhere, Washington, don’t win national championships. Forget unlikely. Plenty of people said it was impossible. I’ll be shocked if this arena doesn’t get named after Conor whenever they get around to updating the facility. He brought a ton of positive press to a college that’d never been known for anything extraordinary. I’m praying it was enough of a splash that I’ll be able to buy a jersey with my best friend’s name on the back this fall, but there are no guarantees in professional sports. It’s not the standard nine-to-five. There are injuries and salary caps and all sorts of other factors to consider.

Conor sends the puck he was handling into the open net. It’s a beautiful shot, one I’d admire if I wasn’t accustomed to Hart shooting bullets like that regularly. “You don’t sound sorry,” he comments.

Aidan grins. “Yeah. I’m not. Seemed polite to say it, though.”

“Since when do you care about being polite?” I ask.

Phillips yanks his hand out to flip me off before adjusting his chin strap. “Good morning to you too. Sorry you two had sucky nights, but mine happened to be fantastic .”

“Hart!”

We all glance toward the bench. A reflex that’s been drilled into us for the past four years. Holt’s head hockey coach, Anthony Keller, is standing with his arms crossed, a familiar, inscrutable expression stamped on his face. Coach Keller is infamous for his stoicism.

Coach’s gaze travels to me as Conor skates toward the bench. I give him a respectful nod, which he returns. Then Coach glances at Aidan. Phillips immediately straightens, the cocky smirk on his face dissipating instantly.

I skate toward the opposite end of the ice before anyone catches my grin.

Now that the season is over and I don’t have to worry about Aidan’s decisions affecting the rest of the team, I mostly just find Phillips’s mild terror around Coach amusing.

“Thanks for the moral support, man,” Aidan says sarcastically, catching up with me mid-lap.

“What?” I ask innocently.

“I’m going over there for dinner tonight.”

“Whoa. Meeting the parents. Big deal.”

“You’ve gotten more sarcastic lately, Morgan.”

“Too much time around you, I guess.”

Aidan laughs reluctantly. “I…I want her folks to like me.”

“Why wouldn’t they like—oh. I guess there was the whole getting caught in their daughter’s hotel room the night before the championship thing. And the making out with their daughter in front of the entire team thing.”

Phillips groans.

“Plus the four years of practices where you either showed up hungover or fucked around during?—”

“Wow, you’re crabby. How long of a dry spell has it been? One month? Two?”

My mouth stays firmly shut.

“ Longer than two?” Aidan sounds aghast.

I sigh. “It’ll go fine with Rylan’s parents, Phillips. They’ll see how much you like her. Coach cares more about how you treat his daughter than how subpar a hockey player you were.”

Aidan scoffs, then clears his throat. “Thanks, Morgan.”

That’s the thing about Phillips. Everyone on this campus knows who Aidan Phillips is. He’s the life of the party—the first to crack a joke or tap the keg. It’s not a facade.

But there’s a lot to Aidan beneath the boisterous exterior. He reminds me of my brother, in a lot of ways. But unlike Sean, who displays selfishness most of the time now, Aidan is all sincerity and loyalty at his core.

We skate a few more laps in silence. I feel the tension dissipating from my body a little more with each circle on the ice.

I love playing hockey. But what I really love? Skating. There’s something addictive about the smooth strokes on a flawless surface. The scrape of metal against ice is audible when there’s no raucous crowd or whistles. All the stressful shit in my head—mostly about my post-graduation plans—settles, like it got left behind at the blue line.

It’ll catch up to me, I know. At some point, I’ll have to decide what I’m doing and commit to what’s next.

But for now, I can skate with a clear head.

A blur of black blazes by on my left.

Conor’s chat with Coach is over. And, fuck, is Hart fast. He’s training as much—maybe more—than he was while we were in season.

Even after playing with him for four years, I’m still in awe of his talent. It’s rare, witnessing someone excel at what they were clearly meant to do. I’ve watched a lot of hockey, and I’ve never seen anyone look more at home on the ice than Conor Hart.

I’ve never been jealous of it. I knew I was good enough to play in college—good enough for Division III, at least. But I never thought playing in college would involve getting to observe someone chase a dream the way I’ve gotten to see Conor pursue his.

If he doesn’t make it all the way, it’ll break my heart too.

“What’d Coach want?” Aidan asks.

“Just some drill suggestions,” Conor replies.

There’s a new tension to his expression that wasn’t there when we first arrived at the rink.

Our team had two goals this season: win a championship and get Hart to the pros. We earned that trophy. Every guy busted his ass to get us there. So did Coach Keller. Because we weren’t after a trophy. We did it for Conor. And when I look back on my college hockey career, I won’t remember the early morning practices or the bruises on my ribs. I’ll remember how special it felt to be part of a team that rallied because of such a selfless outcome.

As stressed as I am about my own future, at least I know what the options are. Hart is waiting to find out what his will be, and uncertainty is unsettling.

“What are you wanting to run?” I ask Conor.

He comes here by himself during the week, but weekend mornings have become the designated time for me, him, and Aidan to skate together. We mostly just fuck around, playing pickup. Once, we talked Aidan into playing goalie while I defended Conor.

Phillips put on the pads and everything, waddling across the ice like a baby penguin. Hart and I practically pissed ourselves laughing, and Aidan swore he’d never play goalie again.

Willis, our actual goalie, has practiced with Conor a few times since the season ended. But most of the guys on the team are still riding the high of the championship, knowing it’ll be the only one they win. Few share Conor’s competitive mindset.

It’s what makes him such an incredible athlete, excluding his natural talent. He’s driven in a way that elevates everyone around him but that only some can sustain.

“Thought I’d start with some shooting,” Hart answers.

“I am not playing goalie,” Phillips announces.

I laugh, and then skate off to grab the bucket of pucks. They spill onto the ice, a few rolling into the boards.

The next hour passes quickly. It always does, when I’m on the ice.

We head into the locker room to change. It’s strange to be in here without the ruckus of the whole team. Slamming my metal locker shut sounds louder than a gunshot.

The final time I clear out my gear will be weird too. Wherever I end up living this fall, I doubt I’ll be skating regularly. Definitely not with my best friends.

I’m exiting the showers when Conor brings up spring break.

The break snuck up on me, maybe because the weather has felt like we’re stuck in the dead of winter. It’s warmer today, over freezing at least. Last night’s snow was melting into icy rivers when Conor and I left the house this morning.

“—Eve’s coming with us, by the way.”

My shoulders stiffen as I reach my locker and start getting dressed.

My sweatshirt muffles Aidan’s indifferent response. “That’s cool. She driving with us, or Morgan?”

“Morgan. Eve has a Friday class too.” I yank the hood off so Conor’s reply is clearer.

“Okay. You guys in for breakfast burritos?”

That’s it . That’s their whole fucking conversation about Eve coming with us before Hart replies that he’s starving.

I can’t decide if Harlow’s best friend joining our trip is a positive development or will be a worse week than I was anticipating. When we made plans for spring break—in hopes it would be right after we’d won a national championship—neither Aidan nor Conor had girlfriends. I said I was fine with Rylan and Harlow joining us, and I am.

Graduation is rapidly approaching, and once it arrives, everything will change.

Conor’s praying for a shot at the pros. Aidan, I have no clue where he’ll end up. My guess is he’ll try to stay in Washington since Rylan has another year left at Holt. And me? I got accepted into every graduate program I applied to, and I haven’t told a single person.

I knew having Harlow and Rylan join our trip would change the group dynamic. And I’m not sure if adding Eve to the equation will make the week any less uncomfortable for me. She’s single—still, apparently—but she also just broke up with her long-term boyfriend. If she’s looking for anything, it’ll be a rebound.

“Morgan? Breakfast burritos?”

I tug a pair of Holt Hockey sweatpants on and shut my locker carefully. “Yeah, I’m in.”

“Cool. Let’s go.”

It’s drizzling when we head outside, washing away the last of the snow.

Aidan scowls up at the gray sky. “I checked the weather for Calaveras earlier. It’s not supposed to be much warmer there than it’s been here.” He makes a face, then brightens. “But I double-checked the rental comes with wetsuits. And—there’s a hot tub.”

I clap a hand to my chest. “ Really ? No way!”

I couldn’t tell you anything about the place Aidan rented except that it has a hot tub, with how frequently he’s mentioned the feature. At least he’s stopped suggesting we install one in our tiny yard.

“Have you noticed Morgan has been extra sarcastic lately?” Aidan asks Conor. “I think it’s a side effect of celibacy.”

I roll my eyes. “Know a lot of sassy priests, do you?”

Hart laughs. “What is it with you and hot tubs, Phillips?”

He shrugs. “What’s not to like about them? It’s where I met the love of my life.”

Conor snorts. “You were naked and drunk.”

“I don’t want to see anything , Phillips,” I remind Aidan.

That was a stipulation before I agreed to the girls coming. I’m glad they’re both happy—Conor in particular is way more relaxed when Harlow is around—but that doesn’t mean I want to spend the week being reminded how single I am. Or see anything R-rated. It’s bad enough our house has thin walls and Aidan abandoned his no girls over rule when he got with Rylan. Earplugs are one thing, but I refuse to walk around wearing a blindfold.

“I can control myself, Morgan,” Aidan retorts.

“News to me,” I reply.

I found him and Rylan making out in the upstairs bathroom three days ago. Fully clothed—thank fuck—but lots of wandering hands. The door was half open, so I walked in without realizing what I was walking in to.

Aidan rolls his eyes. “How come you’re not lecturing Hart?”

“Because I’ve yet to find him hitting second base in the bathroom.”

I don’t think that’s because of consideration of me, though. Hart’s just possessive of Harlow. He wouldn’t hook up with her anywhere there’s a risk of someone seeing.

Conor groans. “The bathroom? Really, Phillips?”

Aidan shrugs. “Why not?”

“Because it’s a communal space. Because I can’t use the bathroom if you’re?—”

“Relax, Morgan,” Aidan interrupts. “We’ll keep it in the bedroom at the rental. I don’t want to make Eve uncomfortable.”

“So thoughtful of you to do that for her ,” I say, rolling my eyes.

I’m acting normal—I think. But there’s a clench in my chest, hearing Aidan toss Eve’s name out so casually. I’m not used to it. I’m used to her name being a thought in my head, not a word spoken aloud.

We reach Conor’s SUV. It’s the only car in the entire lot. Aside from Coach and the facilities staff, Conor is the only one with a key to the rink. And not many people are lining up to exercise first thing on a Saturday, so the rest of the athletic center is empty as well.

As soon as we’re in the car, Aidan starts blasting a new band he found and has been listening to at full volume most mornings. He’s a terrible singer—totally off-key—but his enthusiasm makes it sound better, somehow.

“Come on, Morgan,” he shouts, catching my gaze in the rearview. “I know you know the words.”

I do. Not by choice.

Aidan and I rock-paper-scissored for the front seat. I lost, so my legs are crammed against a bunch of extra hockey equipment. I assume Conor is planning to clear his car out before driving to California. If not, Aidan and Rylan are in for a long trip. Actually, they’re in for a long trip regardless.

Aidan is the only one with money to spend on expensive plane tickets, which is why we chose a spring break destination we could drive to. Calaveras is nine hours from Somerville. A doable day drive, considering I’ve gone all the way home to Wyoming—seventeen hours—in a straight shot before. I was fine with driving alone rather than cramming in Conor’s crowded back seat. Now that Eve is joining me, I’m more unsure about the arrangement. I’m not dreading it. I’m…nervous about it, I guess.

Nine hours is a long time to be trapped in the car with someone you barely know. Phillips would fill that time with endless chatter about who the hell knows what, but I’ve never had that talent of spouting random shit to fill silence. I’m not shy, more deliberate. I don’t say stuff just to talk, I say what needs to be said.

That could translate to an awkward road trip.

“Morgan! Come on.”

Hart is grinning as Phillips bugs me again.

“Why doesn’t Conor have to sing?” I whine.

“I’m driving, man,” he yells. “Requires full concentration.”

I can barely hear him over the music. There’s a chance Aidan is going to blow out Hart’s speakers. We’re waking up every single squirrel on campus.

Reluctantly, I start singing.