Page 3 of In the Net (Sin Bin Stories #5)

SEBASTIAN

“ H arper Brees,” Professor Braxton announces. “You’re up.”

I look across the room to Harper sitting at her desk. I wish I could say that this is the first time I’ve done so during this class session, but I’d be a liar.

With that strappy shirt she has on, showing off her smooth, shapely shoulders, and the way her auburn hair looks resting against her glowing skin, my eyes have strayed in that direction far too often today.

Harper holds some stapled sheets of paper in front of her and says, “The short story I’m critiquing is titled, Third Shift .”

Tension knots inside me. Shit. That’s my story. Which means Harper’s about to absolutely tear it apart in this peer critique session.

Short Fiction Composition is the one class Harper and I have together this semester. I was surprised when I saw her here the first day. As far as I know, Harper doesn’t have much interest in writing fiction, though she’s an English major. Her goal seems to be getting a PhD and becoming a professor.

Maybe the fact that critiquing classmates’ stories is a major part of this class is what drew her.

Something tells me that Harper can spot my voice through my writing. She just knows me too well. When our eyes briefly catch as she glances across the room before launching into her critique, there’s a flash in her emerald greens that confirms that suspicion.

“This story starts with an interesting premise,” she begins, and my chest leaps thinking that maybe I don’t have anything to worry about after all—until she continues, “but it’s almost immediately undermined by the fact that the author is clearly writing to impress the reader, rather than to actually tell their story. ”

She doesn’t relent. “It’s almost like this author was determined not to use the same word twice.

I’m all for having an expanded vocabulary, but there’s a line you can cross where it just looks like your writing is showing off how many different words you know, undermining the flow of the prose.

And this story doesn’t just leap over that line, it books a long-haul plane flight over it. ”

My lips curl down as Harper’s quip draws some laughs from the class.

“Toward the middle of the story, the author kept trying to describe the way the protagonist was feeling through clumsy, convoluted metaphors. Again, they were clearly trying to show off and impress the reader, but they tried so hard that they lost track of the different metaphors and dissolved into sheer incoherence.”

I’m like a boxer on the ropes. All I can do is cover up and try to withstand the blows raining down as Harper continues to dissect my writing style, clearly without the slightest interest in sparing my feelings. Or my ego.

“On the plus side,” she mercifully concludes, “the plot was interesting. I actually cared about what happened and wanted to find out how it ended. It held my interest. And the protagonist was sympathetic.” She slides her eyes toward mine again for a brief moment before finishing, “though I couldn’t shake the feeling that he was sort of a self-insert. ”

“Very thorough, Ms. Brees,” our professor nods in approval. I get the sense from his old-school vibe that he isn’t easily impressed, but his arched brows indicate that Harper’s critique managed to do it.

I wish I could deny it, but it impressed me, too. She’s not wrong about anything she called me out on.

I should be grateful for genuinely accurate criticism, I guess. It would probably be easier to be grateful if it wasn’t obvious how much she enjoyed dishing it out.

Shit. Now that my gaze is already pointed in Harper’s direction to listen to her, I’m having a damn hard time ripping it away.

The next students’ turns at peer criticism filter in one ear and out the other as my attention remains pointed at the redhead who seems to always have my number.

The sun coming through the classroom window falls on her in just the perfect way to turn the hair resting on her neck and shoulders into a copper-gold blaze.

Not to mention how it highlights the outline of her collarbone.

And those cutoff jean shorts she’s wearing …

It’s not until I see her move to put her stuff into her bookbag and feel everyone around me doing the same that I realize I’ve tuned out the entire rest of the class session while staring at the girl who can’t stand me.

I’m just lucky that Braxton didn’t call on me.

I pack my stuff away and join the mass of students quickly heading outside.

It’s a gorgeous day. The sky is smooth and blue, the sun is bright and warm, and only the gentlest breeze brushes through the air. Campus is packed with people having picnics on the grass, sitting on the benches, playing frisbee and other games.

Up here in Vermont, we know that days like this are scarce and are going to abandon us before we know it, so everyone wants to take advantage of them while they can.

Harper’s auburn hair flashing in the sunlight makes it easy to spot her several paces ahead of me. I catch up.

“Couldn’t take it easy on me even after I did a good deed, huh?” I say, falling into step next to her.

She glances at me, and her nostrils flare a little. “You’d rather I sugar-coat my judgment instead of giving it to you straight so you can actually improve?”

“I’m sure it was pure selflessness that drove you to tear apart my story in there. I detected no glee at all in your voice when you called my metaphors clumsy,” I say sarcastically.

“The story was anonymous. How was I supposed to know it was yours?”

“Probably has something to do with your sixth sense for detecting any opportunity to knock me down a peg.”

She tilts a shoulder. “If I don’t do it, who will?”

My brows crease as Harper reminds me that ever since freshman year here at Brumehill College, she’s made it her personal mission to criticize, undermine, or insult me at any opportunity.

I don’t know when exactly she developed this grudge against me that sure as hell didn’t exist when we were growing up together, or if she plans on ever relinquishing it, but …

“My class is this way,” she says, taking a sharp left. “Catch you later, unfortunately.”

I breathe a quiet laugh as I watch her blazing hair bounce as she picks up her pace and disappears into the stream of students walking between classes.

Yeah, we’ll catch each other later, alright. That’s one thing we can’t seem to avoid.

I try to shake off thoughts of Harper and head home. A wistful feeling slices through me when I cross the street, approaching the big, Victorian-style house where top players from the Brumehill Black Bears hockey team live off campus.

Ever since this semester started, there’s been a bittersweet air hanging over the place, at least for me. Because four of the guys I’ve lived with in this house for the last couple years moved out after graduating last semester.

Hudson, Tuck, Rhys, and Lane have all left Cedar Shade for their various professional teams, and fuck if I don’t miss them.

Don’t get me wrong. My new roommates are great.

There’s Jamie and Carter, guys who I’ve known for a while already, and two new players who Coach Torres scouted as major transfers this year.

I’m already enjoying living with this new group, but I’ll never stop missing the old crew who felt like family to me.

Still do, really. We keep in touch through our group chat that’s constantly active, but of course it’s nothing like living together was for the last two years.

When I step inside, I see across the living room that the door to the backyard is open. I can hear some of the guys out there. I let my bookbag slide off my shoulder onto the floor and step out to join them.

Carter, Jamie, and our new goalie, Felix Marshall, are hanging out. Felix has his shirt off and is leaning back in a reclining chair, soaking up the rays with a big pair of sunglasses on.

Every time I see Felix, I chuckle, because he’s the total opposite of our former goalie, Hudson Voss.

While Hudson is grumpy and no-nonsense, Felix is laid-back and goofy.

He’s a life-of-the-party kind of guy, and it seems like he can’t step outside without making a new friend.

He sure as hell can’t step outside without picking up a few girls’ numbers.

Jamie and Carter are at the side of the yard underneath the shade of the big tree whose branches arc over the fence.

Carter’s trying to teach Jamie how to play hacky sack.

It’s amusing enough watching Jamie flail his legs around hopelessly, but what really catches my attention is the conversation they’re having.

“Have you noticed the new girl working at Last Word?” Jamie asks, referencing the big bookstore-slash-coffee shop in downtown Cedar Shade.

“New girl?” Carter asks, running to kick the hacky sack that Jamie’s awkward leg-flailing launched way off course. “Don’t think I have. Why?”

Jamie shrugs, his shoulders stiffening a little, his tell-tale indication of shyness. “No reason. Just asking.”

Felix sits up, lifting his sunglasses to look at Jamie. “You have a thing for her?” he asks with interest.

By now, Felix has found out that Jamie still has his V-card, and he’s taken a keen interest in the romantic prospects of the new first-line defenseman.

Jamie’s cheeks turn pink. “Nah. No thing. Just noticed her and wondered if anyone else did.”

Carter laughs, shaking his head. “Sure, dude,” he says.

“I’ll give you some book recs, Jamie,” I say, announcing my presence as I stroll into the backyard.

“You’ll have excuses to keep stopping by to pick them up whenever she’s on shift.

Just don’t tell her where you’re getting the recommendations from, because then she’ll lose any interest in you and come looking for me because of my stellar taste in literature. ”

“Yo, Sebastian,” Felix greets me, sitting up to exchange the special housemate handshake that he insisted we all learn. “Now that you’re here, you can add your perspective on a very important topic we were discussing earlier.”

I sit down on the grass, feeling the warmth of the sun on the back of my neck. “Shoot,” I say.

“Alright,” Felix continues, “say there’s this really ugly guy. Like really ugly. Not just ugly, but his hygiene is terrible .”

I tilt an eyebrow in amusement. “Yeah?”

“And you have a choice. You have to either give him a blowjob, or a certain number of handjobs.”

My lips twitch. “A certain number, huh?”

“Yeah. Obviously, you’d rather give him one handjob than one blowjob. But what’s the number of handjobs where you’d finally say, fuck it, I’ll just give him the blowjob. Ten? Twenty? More?”

I roll my eyes, shaking my head. Tuck may have moved out of the house, but his spirit lives on. “I assume I’d have to swallow?”

“Of course,” Carter supplies.

“Shit, I dunno.” I push my tongue against my inner cheek thoughtfully. “This is a hard one.”

“In more ways than one,” Jamie pronounces solemnly.

“I mean, definitely more than ten, if I have to swallow …”

I’m mulling over the prospect when I sense someone walking into the yard behind me.

“There he is!” Felix exclaims. “Veikko the Viking!”

I turn to see our new defenseman, Veikko Eskola, regarding Felix with a flat expression. “Why Viking? Viking is Sweden. I am from Finland. Very different places, though Americans think they are similar.”

“The alliteration just works too well, brother,” Felix says, getting up to pat the big Finn on the shoulder. “You gotta run with it.”

Felix and Veikko are a real pair. While Felix can’t go a minute without making a joke, Veikko is insanely literal. Jokes, sarcasm, and irony fly right over his head. They remind me of Hudson and Tuck, though in a lot of ways they’re very different.

“Hey, Veikko, add your perspective to this conundrum,” Carter says.

“Conundrum?” Veikko asks.

“Alright, so there’s this really ugly guy,” Felix begins to lay out the scenario for him. I excuse myself, saying I need to head out to a coffee shop to focus on some schoolwork for a while.

It’s not exactly schoolwork that I’m working on, though. It is an essay, but it isn’t for a class.

The English department is holding a competition where students submit essays on a literature-related topic of their choice, and the winner gets to present their paper at a major literary conference.

That opportunity itself is cool enough, but the thing that compelled me to work on a submission is where this conference is taking place: Paris.

If I win this competition, I get a free round-trip flight and a free hotel room for a week, and the opportunity to explore the city I’ve always wanted to see while attending the conference.

That opportunity is enough to make me want to pile even more work on my shoulders, trying to perfect this essay while I already have my pre-season hockey schedule and my full slate of classes keeping me busy.

Once I settle in at a table at Last Word, I glance around to see if I can spot the girl who Jamie might have been talking about, but I don’t recognize any workers who weren’t here last semester.

So, I open my notebook, grab my pencil, and get to work organizing my thoughts so that the next couple paragraphs of my essay are as good as they can possibly be.

With a trip to Paris riding on it, I’m demanding perfection from myself.

As I start to think about how I’m going to transfer these thoughts into words on the page, Harper’s criticism about my writing style plays in the back of my mind.

I wish that were the only thing about Harper preoccupying me as I try to focus.