1
Jacobs
The excitement thrumming through my veins isn’t the same as when I’m about to hit the ice. That’s anticipation and adrenaline. This is so much more than that. This is impatience. It’s a frustrating pull that makes sitting through this lecture painful. The moment it’s over, I’ll be out of my seat and trying to duck around the steady stream of students making for the door.
I should have taken a seat near the exit for a quick getaway, but alas, when the professor does finally release us, I’m surrounded by warm bodies, all of which seem to be in just as much a hurry as I am.
As soon as I hit the corridor, I’m stopped by my teammate Cohen coming the other way.
“Yo, Jacobs!”
Shit.
“Can’t talk right now.” I keep my feet moving as fast as I can without running.
He joins me, keeping pace easily. “I heard you have a meeting with Coach. This is it, right? Congratulations!”
I shove him. “Don’t jinx it. Fuck. You’re not a true hockey player if you don’t believe in superstition.”
He snorts. “You and Grant wiped the ice with the rest of us last season. You’ve got this in the bag.”
“Duuuude.”
His laugh follows me as I leave the building, headed for the arena.
With Grant leaving his CU captain position for the NHL, the spot is up for grabs. I’ve been working my whole college career for this moment.
Forgetting the fact hockey is what allowed me to go to college in the first place, I genuinely love it. I worked my ass off every minute I spent on the ice to make sure my senior year was my year.
I’m going to own it.
I get to the arena and breathe in deep, cementing this moment to memory.
I’ve walked these corridors for three years, skated in this arena six days a week, and now it’s finally happening.
I force myself to slow down and take a breath, then try to channel Grant. This is my year, damn it, and I’m going to show the team I can back up our Frozen Four win with another of my own.
The adrenaline hit is similar to the high right before we hit the ice. It buzzes in my veins.
I knock and give my arms a shake to expel all this excess energy, but it’s impossible. Coach calls me in, and here I go, ready to take my future by the horns … or whatever that saying is.
“Hey, Coach, you wanted to—” My words die the second I see another person in the room. And he doesn’t need to turn around for me to work out who it is—I’d know that expensive blond haircut anywhere.
TJ fucking Beckett.
Beck.
An elitist asshole who has more money than any twenty-one-year-old should be allowed.
And also, the second-best player on this team. The best defenseman CU has ever had.
I will never admit that aloud though.
Beck and I don’t pay each other compliments. We have more of a I scowl at him while he snarks at me kind of relationship.
This … isn’t good.
My amazing high starts to fade. I have a million different theories on why Beck is here, and I really hope it has something to do with him failing a recent drug test or something. Losing him from the team wouldn’t be ideal, but it’s better than my first instinct.
“Jacobs, thanks for coming,” Coach Hogan says.
My stare flicks between Beck and Coach as I take my seat next to my teammate. That’s all we are. Not friends. I wouldn’t even consider him an acquaintance. “No problem. What’s this about?”
Coach leans forward and props his forearms on the desk, linking his fingers together. “I’d like to think you both know why you’re here.”
Well, I thought I did. Now …
“I’ve been hoping.” Beck’s acting like he’s got all the cards as usual.
We’ve been teammates for three years now, linemates for a season, but while we work well as a team and know how to share the ice, we’ve never gotten along when we’re not wearing skates. He’s the trust fund kid, and I’m barely scraping by on my scholarship. He likes to think everything in the world is good and fair because he’s so used to being able to laugh his way through anything. The dude needs a reality check. Not everyone is given what they want on a silver platter.
“You might need to spell it out to me,” I say.
Coach leans back in his seat. “You were both outstanding this season. Jacobs, your point scoring rivaled Grant’s, and Beck, your stats are the best I’ve seen in a long time. You are both excellent captain material.”
Both?
Fucking Cohen. He just had to go and jinx me.
My jaw tightens, but I manage to keep my disagreement inside. While I was working my ass off every practice and in the gym every weekend, Beck was partying it up any chance he got. He’d turn up to mandatory weight training and practice, but he has never put in any extra effort.
“Thanks, Coach,” Beck says.
Ugh. Even in humbleness, he’s cocky.
“It can only go to one of us,” I say, somehow succeeding at keeping my voice even.
Co-captains and alternates are common in hockey, but not at CU. For as long as I’ve been here, there’s only been one captain.
“Thing is”—he holds his hands out—“between the assistant coaches and myself, we can’t decide which of you it should be. Picking a captain isn’t something we take lightly. The choice can make or break a team, and with a shitty leader, you can kiss the Frozen Four goodbye. As defending champs, we need the best.”
I already know all this. That’s why I’ve been so determined to prove to everyone that I’m what this team needs. Not some shithead D-man who thinks he’s better than everyone.
I can’t deny the guy is talented on the ice, but I was supposed to be captain next season. Me. Grant’s practically been grooming me for it since he took me under his wing freshman year.
My excitement is dead.
Please don’t take this one thing away from me.
“Because of this,” Coach continues, “we’ve decided to let the team decide.”
“What?” I shoot forward in my chair, which Beck seems to find hilarious. Team votes are technically allowed, but this is unprecedented.
“Great choice, Coach,” Beck-the-suck-up says. “The team knows what’s good for them.”
“Yeah, and it won’t be you.”
He smirks, and I scowl at the predictable response. But Beck has a right to be cocky.
Grant and I were a solid team. Grant has always been seen as an authority figure because of his hockey talent and his natural ability to charm people. If any of the team had a problem, they’d go to Grant. If any of them want weed, alcohol, or a wingman, Beck would be their guy. The team dynamic goes in his favor.
The right choice would be to pick me, but popularity doesn’t play into what’s right.
I get along with the other guys, but it’s not like I go out all the time. After games and the occasional frat party is all I allow myself. I play hard but work harder, because with my hockey scholarship, if I don’t meet the academic grades needed to keep my spot on the team, I not only can’t play hockey, I’ll get kicked out of school.
With Beck … the asshole could have the team licking his shoes and they’d ask for more. I dunno if it’s the charming smile, his carefree attitude, or the witty retorts, but everyone loves him in a way I’ve never been able to work out.