Page 17 of Trick Shot (Bainbridge Hockey #4)

Claire

G oodbye, paradise , I think as the giant tin can blasts off into the stratosphere, carrying me and my fellow classmates—though I use that term loosely—back to Maryland.

The last two weeks have definitely been eventful, but it’s back to reality now, and that means my days and nights will be filled in pretty much the same way they have been for the past three years—going to class and writing for The Howler .

And hanging with Holland, of course. But she’s student teaching this semester, so she’ll be busy planning lessons for first graders.

Shudder. There is not enough money in the world for me to even consider spending my days wiping other people’s noses or tying their shoes.

And teaching them to count or spell or read?

No, thank you. But spending my days sniffing out the story, tracking down the truth, and delivering the news to readers across the globe?

Yes, please. I know I’m not reaching that goal by writing columns like Am I the Dumbass?

Sure, it’s fun, and I love doing it, but it’s not exactly hard-hitting.

I want to write stories that make a difference, that open readers’ eyes to the world around them. I want to be known for penning stories that affect change, not for writing about the pie-baking contest at the county fair or the hottest items on the local school board’s monthly agenda.

Will I sound like a bitch if I say I think I’m destined for bigger, better things?

For a second, an image of Pete Santos flashes through my mind.

He’s telling me he’s got bigger, better things for me right here.

Gah. He’s dirty even in my daydreams. The man knows how to use his hands, that’s for sure.

And his mouth, and that giant freaking dick.

I have to admit, if only to myself, that leaving Pete was harder than I wanted it to be.

Not that we really said goodbye. There was no reason to.

He’s flying out tomorrow with the other TAs and professors, and we live on the same campus.

It’s not like we’ll never see each other again.

Not that we need to.

I will be perfectly happy if I only ever see Pete in passing.

And after my graduation in a few months, our paths may never cross again and that’s fine.

It’s great, really. For the best. First off, a girl could develop a serious sex addiction after repeated exposure to the kind of monster cock he’s walking around with.

And who has time for the kind of treatment that would require.

Besides, and most importantly, I can’t stand the guy.

Okay, sure, there are parts of him that are…

tolerable. He has his moments. But he also has the kind of privilege that’s afforded to athletes at Bainbridge, privilege that runs deep.

I learned a lot about biology these past two weeks, but I learned a lot more about human behavior, and none of it’s good.

All around me, students are zoned out watching movies, listening to music, or taking naps. I’m lucky I scored an aisle seat and that no one clamored for the window seat next to me. Maybe I should be insulted, but I’m just grateful for the privacy.

Pulling my laptop from its protective sleeve, I settle into my seat and fire up my device.

After launching the WolfChat app, I check my messages.

I’ve been good about keeping up with mail for The Howler , but I’ve been too busy to check my personal messages.

I’m no social butterfly, so other than my co-workers at the paper, Holland is the only person I talk to regularly.

When you’ve chosen the highest quality human in the world as your bestie, you don’t really need back-up friends.

I’m not exactly antisocial. Holland and I live in the Honors Dorm and I say hi to my neighbors when I see them.

And I’m always happy to meet up with Mel and Josie when Holland drags me out of my writing cave and off to lunch or dinner or coffee at Drip.

I’m a born introvert and yet my job at the paper requires me to people on a semi-regular basis.

It’s exhausting, but I don’t hate it. I’m just not one of those people who makes friends everywhere they go.

Dammit.

I need to make it longer than five minutes without thinking about Pete Santos or hearing his voice or picturing him in a variety of delicious, dirty positions.

As I scroll through my unread messages, I spot a potential solution to my current predicament.

Russ Conroy is a guy I matched with on an app last semester.

He’s cute enough. And nice enough. We didn’t get to know each other well, but he asked if I wanted to go for coffee sometime, and I said sure.

Our schedules never meshed, though, so we never got together.

I’d forgotten all about it, to be honest, but apparently, he hasn’t.

Russ : You still owe me that date. When will you be back on campus ?

Claire : Tonight, actually. And coffee sounds good.

Russ : I’ll be back Tuesday. How about dinner instead? We’ve tried to schedule this so many times that I think you owe me an upgrade.

My first instinct is to tell Russ exactly where to put his upgrade, and I smile to myself. Maybe that’s why I come off as antisocial…

But, in his defense, tone is a tricky thing on a screen. If he were standing in front of me, his line might have come off nearly as funny as I’m sure he meant it to be.

And the best way to get over Pete is to get—woah. I can’t get over Pete. I was never in him. He was technically in me, but that’s fully beside the point. We were just a fling. A temporary thing. A never-to-be-mentioned-again hook up. Because I hate Pete.

But I don’t hate Russ.

Russ has never done me dirty, so you know what? That deserves an upgrade.

Claire : Dinner sounds great.

Russ : Score. I’ll send you deets soon.

Wincing, I remind myself that tone is tricky. And not everyone is a wordsmith. And Russ is kinda cute. And he’s not Pete, which is definitely a good thing.

Clicking out of our chat, I pull up a blank doc and begin my brain dump.

My fingers fly over the keys as details and questions from the last several days make their way from my mind to the page.

I’m not writing an advice column or even writing about the highlights of my trip.

I guess you could say I’m writing about the lowlights?

I want to make my mark on the world through journalism and this article feels right.

It’s not just the thrill I’m after, even though I can’t lie.

The adrenaline is unreal. I also feel like I have a purpose.

Like my words are making a difference. Change is necessary.

And my words are the spark that Bainbridge won’t see coming.