Famous Last Words: A College Hockey Romance (Holt Hockey Book 1)

Game days always feel different. There’s a quiet hum in my bloodstream. A special awareness tingling behind every thought. Every molecule and muscle knows what is coming later, primed to perform.

I know what is expected of me.

I don’t know how it will end.

There’s an added excitement to that. Even if I could choose to know what the scoreboard will read at the end of a game, I wouldn’t. There’s a thrill to the unexpected. To the challenge. Knowing the undefeated season I’ve worked so hard for could slip away at any moment. There’s no room for complacency.

I’m making noise. Nine games into the season, and we’ve won every single one of them. There was an article about Holt on Center Line Commentary last week, titled “Division III’s Dark Horse?”

One article is not enough to get me signed anywhere. But it might be enough to get a few people to dig into my background. To realize there’s a good reason why I didn’t attend the combine. Enter the draft. To realize I’ll work three times as hard as one of the rookies already under contract with millions of dollar signs in their eyes.

A chip on your shoulder is a much better incentive than a fat check. At least for me.

The alarm on my phone starts blaring. I roll out of twisted sheets and swear when my toe collides with a textbook on the floor. My room needs a thorough cleaning. One I know it probably won’t get anytime soon.

I pull on a pair of sweatpants and a shirt and make my way downstairs in search of coffee.

Hunter eyes me when I hobble into the kitchen. The pain in my toe has begun to recede, leaving behind the reminder that skating for an additional hour last night was a massive mistake.

“Jesus, Hart. The other guy look better?” Hunter asks.

I flip him off. “I’m fine. I stayed at the rink a while after practice ended.”

Hunter looks worried. “You sure you’re fine? Hampton is going to be out for blood tonight. Yours, specifically.”

I don’t need the reminder.

“I know. I’ll be ready,” I assure him. Hunter has already brewed coffee, so I fill a generous cup.

“I’m serious, dude,” Hunter presses. “Are you all right?”

“Yes,” I snap. “Let me worry about the game, okay?”

“Okay.” Hunter raises both hands.

I sigh. “Sorry.”

“We spend a lot of time together, Hart. I already know you’re a grump most of it.”

I roll my eyes as I pull a carton of eggs out of the fridge. The scent of frying bacon and scrambled eggs is enough to draw Aidan downstairs. He stumbles into the kitchen in just a pair of boxer briefs.

“Well, isn’t this domestic.” He nods between me standing at the stove and Hunter pouring a glass of orange juice at the fridge.

“Good thing you’re here to ensure it’s no longer family-friendly,” Hunter comments. “Do you own pants, Phillips?”

“Yup,” Aidan replies in a cheerful tone. He’s one of those annoying people who wakes up with a smile on his face.

“So you’re walking around like that because you think we want to see your beer belly?”

Aidan laughs and pats his abs. “I’m out of clean clothes. I need to do laundry.”

Hunter rolls his eyes. “Your smelly ass better be planning to sit in the front of the bus then.”

“My game gear is clean,” Aidan replies, grabbing some coffee.

I tune out their boring-ass clothes conversation as I eat my breakfast and scroll through my phone. I end up in my messages. I send the whole team a reminder about what time the bus is leaving. Then open the text thread with Harlow. I haven’t texted her since Sunday night, when I got back from her place.

I’ve wanted to, but Northampton is one of our main rivals in the conference. Preparing for tonight’s game has meant my schedule is especially hectic. It hasn’t just been Coach. Regardless of what he told me, it does feel like keeping the undefeated season going is one of my responsibilities. Hinging on my ability to score goals, my work keeping the guys focused. Me staying focused.

This week I’ve squeezed in extra practices and watched hours of Northampton’s recent games, doing everything I can to ensure we’ll win tonight. Maybe part of me is also trying to prove to myself that Harlow isn’t a distraction.

I shut off my phone and stick my breakfast dishes in the dishwasher.

“I’m headed to class,” I tell my two roommates, who have moved on to debating different brands of laundry detergent. “Do not be late, got it?”

“We got the reminder, Captain.” Aidan flashes his phone screen at me, displaying my latest message in the group chat.

I roll my eyes before I grab all my stuff and head outside. A light mist is falling from the sky, coating everything in a thin layer of moisture. I toss my backpack and hockey gear into the trunk of my car and drive toward campus.

I only have one class today: an African American literature seminar.

Most of the guys on the hockey team are Business majors. It’s well known to be an easy path to a diploma, but I enjoy my classes. I have no idea what I’ll do with an English degree if hockey doesn’t pan out, however. Hopefully it’s something I won’t have to figure out.

I’m early; there’s no one else in the room besides the professor. Since this is a smaller seminar, it’s not held in one of the larger lecture halls on campus. Just an average-sized room overlooking the quad.

“Hi, Conor,” Professor Ashland greets as I walk inside.

“Hey, Professor,” I reply, slinging my hockey jacket on the back of a chair and dropping my backpack on the floor.

Professor Ashland glances at the door and then back at me. She pulls a stack of papers out of her briefcase. “I was going to wait to return these until the end of the class, but since you’re here early…” She grabs one and walks over toward me. The essay I turned in last week has a big red A at the top of the page. “I was very impressed, Conor.”

“Thanks, Professor.”

“Have you given any thought to your plans after graduation?” she asks me.

“I’m hoping to play hockey professionally,” I admit.

It’s common knowledge on campus, but I usually avoid saying the words out loud. Doing so seems like a taunt to the universe. Here’s what I want! A glaring neon sign pointing at what will hurt most to lose.

Professor Ashland nods. “I heard the hockey team is having quite the season. Congratulations.”

“Thank you.”

“I imagine there’s some uncertainty about the path to becoming a professional athlete.”

I nod at the understatement. “Yes. Quite a bit.”

“You’re a very talented writer, Conor. It doesn’t hurt to have options. If you’re interested in applying to any graduate programs…” The door to the room opens, and Adelaide Jackson walks into the room. I cover my essay with my notebook. “Just think about it,” Professor Ashland says.

I nod. “I will. Thanks.”

Preparing for a Plan B is smart. I have no idea what my odds of actually getting signed are, but I know they’re discouragingly low. There are guys at schools with huge, respected hockey programs who will never make it to the professional level. Holding on to hope that I will is probably a wasted effort. But…considering alternatives feels like giving up. Like accepting those shitty odds. And I can’t bring myself to do that, no matter how logical it is. Heart over head, I guess.

“Hey, Conor,” Adelaide says as she takes the seat beside me.

“Hey,” I reply.

Freshman year, I could tell all the girls in English 101 were wary of having a male classmate. They all assumed it was a joke or I wouldn’t take it seriously. Now, I’m one of two guys majoring in English in my graduating class. The other, Paul Deering, looks a lot more like the stereotypical literature student: glasses, button-down shirts, and a thick mop of curly hair. A fitting reminder not to judge a book by its cover.

Class starts with a discussion of the book we’re currently reading and ends with Professor Ashland returning everyone else’s essays. I head straight for the door. I’ve got ten minutes to get to the bus on time. After threatening everyone else to not be late, it would look especially bad to show up tardy myself.

Hunter and Aidan are waiting by one of the benches outside the humanities building.

I clutch my chest. “Aw, you two are so sweet to wait for me.”

“Told you he’d be a dick about it,” Aidan tells Hunter. “We walked to campus and we’re bumming a ride to the bus. Hunter is worried you’re not in the zone.” Those two sentences are directed at me.

“Yeah, remember how I said that, and then I said to keep it between us?” Hunter says, scowling at Aidan.

Aidan rolls his eyes. “How’s he going to know you’re worried if you don’t tell him you’re worried?”

“I have told him. Just like I told you he wasn’t listening to me.”

“I can hear you both,” I say, heading toward the parking lot. I ignore the looks being cast my way. Nod at the people who call out to me but don’t stop to strike up any conversations. I’m not in the mood and the clock is ticking.

“Want to tell me what Morgan is so worried about?” Aidan asks, falling into step beside me. “Or do you want me to get it out of him and then act surprised when you tell me?”

“I have no idea what Morgan’s problem is,” I tell Aidan, sending a hard look to Hunter. There is only one topic we’ve butted heads on lately, though, so I’m pretty sure I have an idea.

“Does it have anything to do with Harlow Hayes?” Aidan asks innocently.

Damnit. “Absolutely nothing,” I insist.

“I thought you were training her for the marathon? Did you back out of that?”

“No, I didn’t back out of it. I’ve been distracted, preparing for tonight.”

Hunter mumbles something. Aidan laughs.

I close my eyes and take a deep breath. “Jesus, you two. Can we focus on a winning a hockey game? You’re worried I’m not focused? Seems like that’s you two.”

Silence. Just feet pounding pavement.

“I think he’s ready for the game,” Hunter mock whispers to Aidan.

I snort and keep walking.

The rest of the team is already standing around the coach bus that’s going to transport us to Hampton University for our game tonight when the three of us arrive at the sports center.

“That’s everyone! On the bus, boys!” Coach shouts.

No one moves. They wait until I stash my bag in the cargo compartment.

As soon as I reach the stairs, there’s a rush of activity as everyone follows my lead.

I smile. Even as a freshman, I was a leader on the team. Part of it is my stats. On what has historically been a mediocre, dull team, I’m the flashy star who scores goals and steps on the ice with confidence. The leadership role comes naturally to me.

But this year is the first time we’ve worked as a cohesive unit rather than just pockets of talent. I’m the central component, and there’s not a guy on the team who doesn’t know it. And I feel it. That hum I woke up with is close to reaching the fever pitch that always corresponds with the drop of a puck directly in front of me.

Hunter plops down in the seat beside me. “I didn’t tell Phillips to bug you,” he tells me. “I’ve seen you prepping this week. You’re in the zone, man.”

“Yeah. I am.”

“And I’ll drop—” He glances across the aisle at Sampson. “I’ll drop the other thing. I was just worried, man. I want this for you and…it just seemed like maybe you needed a knock to the head, to get it on straight. But it’s your business. I trust your judgment on the ice. I trust it off the ice too.”

I pull my headphones out of my bag and plug them into my phone. “Thanks, man,” I say.

Coach starts calling roll. I raise my hand when he reaches my name, then start my usual pre-game playlist.

A new message flashes across the screen, right before I turn my phone off.

HARLOW: Good luck, Hart.

Fifteen minutes from campus, I decide to reply to Harlow’s text. The bus is dark and quiet, most of the guys fast asleep. All of the celebrating faded about an hour ago. Holt is too cheap to spring for hotel rooms for the whole team, so we had to make the three-hour drive back to Holt after beating Hampton University by five goals. I scored two.

It was a dominant performance against what’s historically been a better team. Another mark in the win column. Our streak has continued.

I’m exhausted, my entire body battered and bruised. Hampton took a high-sticking double minor penalty for splitting my bottom lip. I prod the cut with my tongue, wincing.

Fuckers.

CONOR: You awake?

She replies instantly.

HARLOW: Congrats.

She checked the score.

A stupid grin forms on my face.

My mom always came to as many of my games as she could. And every time we talk, she asks how the season is going. But she’s busy. She can’t check scores in the middle of a busy shift at the hospital. So I’ve never felt like I had a cheering section, anyone who was concerned with just me instead of the game’s outcome as a whole. I blame that warmth—that appreciation—for my response.

CONOR: Can I come over?

HARLOW: See you soon.

Once we pull into the parking lot of the sports center, I elbow Aidan awake. His mouth is open, and I’m pretty sure he’s drooling. I wish Hunter had sat next to me on the way back too, but he ended up in the row behind.

Groans echo around the bus as the lights flicker on.

Coach Keller stands in the very front. “Hell of a game tonight, boys. And because you all worked your asses off today, I’m cancelling practice tomorrow.” Loud cheers erupt. Coach has cancelled practice…never. “Back to the usual schedule Thursday,” he barks. “We’ve got a game to win on Friday. Get some sleep.”

We file off the bus, shivering as we wait for the driver to open the cargo compartment so we can grab our gear. I can see my breath in the air.

I grab my bag and sling it over one shoulder, waiting for Aidan and Hunter to grab theirs before we all head for my car.

“Do we stop for food?” Aidan yawns.

“Nah, I’m not hungry,” Hunter says. “I just want to crash.”

“Yeah, all right,” Aidan agrees.

I say nothing as I drive toward our house. Pull up along the curb, instead of parking in the driveway. Aidan shoots me a questioning look from his seat on the passenger side.

“I’m going to Harlow’s. See you guys tomorrow.”

There’s a beat of silence.

“Harlow…Hayes?” I don’t know what Hunter said to Aidan about my distraction, but it couldn’t have been much, because Phillips sounds stunned. “You’re sleeping with her?”

“See you tomorrow,” Hunter says, then climbs out of the back. Bails, in other words.

“Night, Morgan,” I tell him.

“You are having sex with Harlow Hayes?”

“Yup. Can you get out of my car, Phillips?”

“How is it?”

I glare at him. “Get out!”

“Okay, okay. Jeez. You’d think you’d be in a better mood if you’re getting laid. I thought you were having a major dry spell. Have fun, Hart.” He smirks, finally climbing out.

Once he shuts the door, I pull away from the curb, making the short drive to Harlow’s. I park behind her car, wincing when I climb out of the driver’s side.

I walk up the path, knocking on the front door. It opens a few seconds later.

Harlow’s in her pajamas, her long hair pulled up in a ponytail.

“Hey.” I sound like a chain smoker, my throat raw from shouting on the ice for an hour.

“Hey. Come on in.” She steps to the side, letting me into the small entryway and closing the door behind me. “Do you want anything to…” Her voice trails as she gets a look at my face. “Shit.”

“It feels better than it looks,” I lie.

It feels like I took a stick to the face, which is exactly what happened. At least we got a power play goal out of it.

“Do you want anything to eat? Or drink? I have—”

I shake my head, cutting her off. “I’m good. The bus stopped on the way back from the game.”

“You look tired,” she says.

“It was a tough game.”

“Were you wanting to…”

“Only if you want to. I mean, I always want to. But I also feel like I just got hit by a bus. So sleep sounds good too.”

“You came here to sleep?”

She sounds surprised. I can’t get a read on anything else.

I’m acting like a boyfriend, and she’s not my girlfriend. I just…wanted to see her. And it’s been less than two days. Fuck.

“Yeah, I’ll go. See you.”

She grabs my hand when I try to turn and tugs me deeper into the house, flipping lights off as we walk. We pass the couch where we hooked up on Sunday night, then Harlow pulls me down the hallway and into the room on the left.

I look around her bedroom curiously. It’s more settled than mine. A large bed—a queen size, I’d guess—takes up most of the far wall. Her desk is to the left, piled high with textbooks that have marine or aquatic in the title. A large wardrobe is on the right, clothes literally spilling out of it.

“Wasn’t expecting company,” Harlow mumbles, picking up a sweatshirt off the floor.

I smile. “I don’t care about the mess, Hayes.”

I step out of the sweats I put on after my post-game shower then pull off my sweatshirt, leaving me in just my boxer briefs. A reddish-purple bruise is blooming across my ribs thanks to a couple of the hits I took tonight.

“Jesus, Conor.”

“They started playing pretty dirty toward the end, trying to get through to Willis.”

“Don’t you wear protective equipment?”

“This is wearing the protective equipment.”

She gnaws on her bottom lip, and I realize…she’s worried. Aside from my mom, I’ve never had anyone express concern about my well-being. And I can’t believe it’s Harlow Hayes, who’s looking at my bruises with a mixture of alarm and anger, like she’s contemplating taking on Northampton’s defenders herself. A month ago, I wouldn’t have been shocked if she’d tried to shove me in front of a bus.

“Seriously, I’m fine.”

She exhales. “Okay. I’ll be right back.”

I snoop around her room while she’s gone. There are a couple of framed photos on her desk. One of her with a beaming couple. Her parents, I realize. They’re standing at the edge of a massive cliff, blue sky behind them and vivid green grass in front. The other photo…my jaw clenches. Two kids—probably about nine or ten—sitting on an old porch swing. Harlow’s hair is shorter than it is now, pleated into two pigtails. And the guy next to her—I don’t see any resemblance. But I know it must be Landon.

It’s the same uncomfortable jolt as when he called her in the car on Saturday. I knew they were friends—it’s the whole reason I avoided her ever since I heard the girl the Garrisons had basically adopted as a daughter was attending Holt as well. But now that I know Harlow, it’s much harder to ignore.

This can only work if I keep them separate, though. If I pretend I don’t know anything about her except what she’s revealed to me herself.

I flip through her aquatic resources textbook as a distraction. That’s what I’m doing when Harlow walks back into her room, holding a bag of frozen blueberries. “This is all I had in the freezer,” she tells me. “I keep forgetting to get more fruit for my smoothies.”

Something thickens in my throat.

“This is perfect, thanks.”

If my lip wasn’t split, I’d kiss her.

“What are aquatic resources?” I ask instead.

She glances at the textbook and scrunches up her nose. “Seriously?”

I nod.

“Uh, marine reserves, protection of endangered species, extinction risk, population dynamics. Stuff like that. Most life on Earth lives in the water. There are zooplankton and phytoplankton you can’t even see, and then cetaceans that are over a hundred feet long.”

Harlow’s eyes are alight; her cheeks flushed.

It’s the same expression she wore when we went out on the Sound and saw that orca. Maybe the same way I look, when I step on the ice.

“What?” she asks.

I shake my head. “Nothing.”

“You think I’m a nerd, huh?”

“No. I think it’s cool, that you found something you’re so passionate about. Some people never do.”

I head for her bed, the dark green comforter thick and inviting. This should feel strange, climbing into bed with a girl and having no intention of having sex. Just like being in her room should be weird. But…it’s not.

I climb under the covers like I’ve done it a thousand times before, tucking the frozen blueberries against the bruise on my side. It does help some.

Harlow pulls off her sweatshirt. My blood heats as soon as her boobs appear, perky and perfect. She opens the wardrobe topless, sifting through a few sweaters before pulling out an oversize T-shirt. It’s one I have too, the generic class shirt they handed out at orientation. Blue and white, for the school colors.

Her leggings go next, leaving her in black lacy boy shirts. Maybe I should look away, but I can’t. It’s not like she doesn’t know I’m here. She steps into a pair of pink cotton shorts patterned with ice cream cones and then climbs onto the bed, crawling over me carefully and then settling down on the other pillow.

I relax into her mattress, Harlow’s warm body on my right and the cold bag of blueberries on my left.

I don’t fall asleep right away.

But I pretend to.

Being here isn’t odd, but I feel weird that my first instinct was to come see her. Worried what Harlow might read into it—what she should read into it.

I also don’t want to keep her awake. I no longer have a weight session first thing, but she might have an early class.

I’m not sure how much time passes before Harlow rolls over to face me. She stills, like she’s waiting for a reaction. Like she’s making sure I’m still asleep.

When I don’t move, she inches closer. Little by little, until she’s pressed against my uninjured side.

Her hand rests gently on my chest. And then she lets out a soft, contented sigh.

Finally, I fall asleep.

Snuggling her.