Page 1 of Something to Prove (Smithton Bears #2)

TY

“You alone are enough. You have nothing to prove to anybody.”—Maya Angelou

Sunshine, blue skies, and good news went together like peanut butter and jelly.

“Congrats, man!”

“Way to go, Ty!”

“Go, Bears! Go, Jackals!”

I smiled, waved, fist-bumped, and high-fived my way across campus, adjusting my Ray-Bans against the late-summer glare from Lake Ontario in the distance through the canopy of trees.

The first week of my senior year at Smithton was off to a sweet start.

I couldn’t go anywhere without being followed by an entourage of hockey fans who seemed as thrilled as my folks had been on draft day.

Smithton took hockey very seriously, and the idea that someone from our little private college was going to the pros next year was a big fucking deal.

Like…a supersized big deal.

Langley thumped my shoulder, shaking his head with a laugh. “So this is what it feels like to hang out with a celebrity. I like it.”

“Fuck off.” I snorted. “They’ll forget about me after our first loss, so hey…I’m enjoying the love while it lasts.”

“Smart, but we’re not losing to Trinity. No fucking way.” Langley frowned so hard, his thick brows resembled a fuzzy caterpillar in midcrawl.

Gus Langley was the Bears captain and had been for the past three seasons.

He was an inch shorter than my six four and built like me, thick and muscular.

I had more tattoos, and though it was trim at the moment, I could grow a beard that put most guys my age to shame.

Langley, on the other hand, had a scruffy chiseled jaw, a wild mane of chestnut hair, and his eyes almost always had that stoned “I’m having way more fun at life than you are” look.

Probably true.

He was a perpetual senior, a serious party animal, and a very questionable leader. Don’t get me wrong—everyone loved the guy, but Langley usually prioritized a good time over all else—even winning. Getting pre-riled up for an upcoming game wasn’t like him.

I paused in the middle of the quad and lowered my sunglasses. “What’s wrong with Trinity?”

“Their new coach is a prick and—” Gus paused, his attention fixed on something or someone behind me. “Incoming. Your favorite redhead.”

“Huh?”

“The little shit with What’s New, Smithton? Are you still boycotting him, or is that last year’s news?”

I pivoted toward the eager-looking man marching our way and barely suppressed a growl.

Listen, I considered myself to be a friendly dude. I tried to always be fair and congenial. After all, everyone was fighting their own personal battles and had reasons for their actions they might not be able to share. Live and let live…or something like that.

But that rule didn’t apply to the snazzily-dressed dickhead blinding me with a psycho megawatt grin.

“Hello, gentlemen! It’s good to be back at the old grindstone, isn’t it?

And on such a gorgeous day. It feels like summer—which, of course, it is!

I’ve never understood the rationale of starting school in August. The first week of September is perfect, in my opinion, but…

no one consulted me.” The smiley jerkwad chuckled awkwardly, tapping the strap of his leather designer bag as I rearranged my expression into something cold, unapproachable, uninterested, and unfriendly.

So not me…I swear. I went out of my way to be nice to everyone—except Walker Woodrow.

He could eat glass or black licorice or cilantro for all I cared.

He was a two-faced opportunistic influencer who didn’t think twice about using unsuspecting Smithton students for content to promote his online channel.

Not cool. Walker had shown his true colors, and I didn’t want anything to do with him or his show.

Honestly, it bummed me out that he’d turned out to be a creep.

I’d been a fan. Walker was a clever host—engaging, upbeat, witty, smart, and interesting.

He took random places, people, and events in our small college town in Upstate New York and somehow made Smithton seem like the ultimate destination.

Apparently, tourism had increased by three hundred percent since he’d launched What’s New, Smithton?

Three hundred percent.

His channel had a million subscribers. I shit you not.

By all accounts, Walker had done more for our local economy than all of Smithton’s sports programs combined.

That was both remarkable and a hard pill to swallow.

I mean, c’mon…his tour of the kitchen at Vincento’s, a sixty-year-old greasy institution in a two-hundred-and-fifty-year-old town, couldn’t compare to Smithton’s division conference hockey game, right? Wrong.

People from all around the freaking globe had tuned in for his interview with the owner, Vincento Senior, which included tips on how to knead and throw pizza dough.

Yep, hundreds of thousands of folks had watched an octogenarian fire up a woodburning pizza oven while less than a thousand had shown up to cheer on the Bears.

And I’d been one of them. Well…after my game, obviously.

Sue me. I’d liked the peppy redhead’s vibe and though I’d deny it with my last breath, I’d thought Walker was cute with his wayward curls, tawny-brown eyes, and tight compact body.

But that was before he’d sold out my best friend.

I knew Langley and some of our other teammates thought I was being unreasonable and that Walker had atoned for his mistake, but he was done-zo in my book.

I gave a curt nod and spun away.

Langley followed, flinging a quick, “Later, dude” over his shoulder.

“Hang on! Ty, may I have a word, please?” Walker called.

I wasn’t going to reply. I didn’t owe him an explanation, and I was pretty damn sure he knew the score anyway.

But Langley grabbed my elbow and leaned into my space. “Be nice, Ty. New school year, blank slate, and all that.”

“Bullshit,” I coughed under my breath.

“C’mon, Jett forgave him. You can afford to be magnimonious too.”

“Magnanimous,” I corrected.

Langley rolled his eyes. “Whatever the fuck. The point is…you’re going to the AH-fuckin’-L. No reason to be bitter, right? At least hear him out.”

With that, Langley strode away, leaving me to deal with the annoyingly cheery Walker Woodrow.

I was a good six inches taller and outweighed him by at least thirty pounds of muscle. My height, brawny size, and less-than-sunny demeanor should have been intimidating, but Walker was apparently immune.

“Congratulations are in order,” he gushed. “AHL…wow! And to Jacksonville, no less.”

“You’re a hockey fan?” I heard myself ask out of the blue.

“Honestly, I think everyone at Smithton is—or they will be, knowing they’ll be able to root for one of our own in the pros.”

That wasn’t really an answer, but his smile was more brilliant than the last. It made him incandescent, as if he had some kind of inner glow.

I had to admit, Walker had a good TV face. He wasn’t classically handsome, but that spark in him transmitted nicely on-screen. It made him interesting, and it made it seem as if he were interested in you. An excellent quality for a talk show host. Or a con artist.

“Thanks,” I replied tersely. “I have to get going.”

“I’ll walk with you.” He fell into step beside me, uninvited. “I know you’re probably busy getting ready for classes. I just finalized my schedule and bought a few online textbooks. OMG, highway robbery. Am I right? I can’t believe how much collegiate e-books cost.”

His melodic laughter rang between the buildings like birdsong.

Do not cave. He might look pretty, but the man is rotten to the core.

I stopped in my tracks. “Is there something you wanted?”

“Actually…yes.” Walker bit into his bottom lip and gave a sheepish look.

“I’d love to interview you for What’s New, Smithton?

Our audience will go nuts for a chance to hear all about the draft, how it’s changed your life so far, what you imagine life will be like in Florida next year, and…

what it’s like being an out bisexual athlete on the rise.

The interview itself is generally thirty minutes long.

Super low-key. We could meet at the rink or at my?—”

“No.”

He recoiled as if I’d punched him in the gut. “I…uh, I can work around your schedule, of course, and?—”

“No,” I repeated.

“ Um …is there a problem?” Walker asked carefully.

“No problem with me. I just don’t want anything to do with you. And I’m not going to change my mind.” I stepped away from him, relishing his pointedly shocked expression. “Tell your followers that’s what’s new in Smithton.”

Okay, not my best line, but it did the trick. Walker blinked like an owl, stunned into silence. Good.

I quelled the strong desire to flip him off, settling for the nasty sneer I usually reserved for riling opponents on the ice.

Curled lips, ugly stare with dead eyes…not pretty at all.

He flinched, which kinda made me feel bad.

But fuck that. My anger was totally justified, and it pissed me off that he dared to pull the innocent act.

Did he really think I’d forget what he’d done? Not fucking likely.

Maybe he didn’t owe me an apology, but I certainly didn’t owe him my time.

I hoped he’d gotten the message loud and clear ’cause this—right here, right now—was the last interaction I’d ever have with Walker fucking Woodrow.