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

Rain pelts the window. I stare at the streaks running down the glass, make a face, and then turn back toward the mirror so I can finish my makeup. I haven’t washed my hair since last night, the spray Eve put in my hair keeping the curls intact. They’re pulled up in a high ponytail so my hair isn’t covering the back of Conor’s away jersey.

It was the first thing I grabbed to put on this morning, and Conor told me I should keep it on to wear to the game tonight. I think he was teasing me, but I surprised us both by telling him I was going to. And then we had sex again, because apparently the three seconds it takes to roll on a condom were slowing Conor down before.

The doorbell rings.

“Harlow!” Eve calls. “I’m not expecting anyone.”

“I’m not either!” I shout back.

“Well, it’s definitely your turn to get the door.”

I sigh, twist the mascara tube shut, and then head down the hallway. Eve is at the kitchen table drawing. “Probably your boyfriend,” she tells me.

I don’t deny the title this time. After last night, it feels like he might be. Will be. But Conor should already be at the rink, getting ready for his game.

I swing the front door open. I was right.

It’s not Conor.

It’s three people I wasn’t expecting to see in Somerville until graduation in May.

“Wh—what are you guys doing here?” I ask Hugh, Allison, and Landon.

“Happy Birthday, honey,” Allison says. “We wanted to come celebrate with you.”

I was expecting a phone call. A card from them arrived in the mail Thursday. But the Garrisons have never just shown up here. And this year—the way Landon is avoiding looking at me and Hugh is focused on the Holt Hockey jersey I’m wearing—seems like suspicious timing. I’m certain Allison is using today as an attempt to address what happened over Thanksgiving.

The smile slips off Allison’s face, the longer I stand here silent.

“I’m sorry. I should have called first. We were just hoping we could walk around campus a little, grab a late lunch with you?”

Landon still won’t look at me. Hugh is smiling, and it doesn’t look forced.

“Um…”

They drove all this way. But I told Conor I would go to his game. I want to go to his game.

Once again, I’m caught in the middle.

I decide to be honest. “I’m supposed to go to the hockey game. It starts in an hour.”

“Who are they playing?” The question bursts out of Hugh like he’s been dying to ask it.

“Edgewood.” The team they lost to in the playoffs last year. According to Conor, this will be their toughest opponent yet.

“We could all go to the game, get some food after?” Hugh suggests.

It feels…strange, going to Conor’s game with the Garrisons. But it’s not like the basketball games’ empty, conspicuous stands. I’m sure the game today will be just as packed as the Friday night one I went to. Possibly even more crowded, since it’s in the middle of the day. I can go with the Garrisons, spend a couple of hours with them after, and then go to dinner with Conor.

“Sure,” I say. “That sounds good. Let me just go grab my stuff. We can walk around campus before the game.”

Allison smiles. “Perfect.”

“Come on in.” I leave the door open, then head into the living room.

Eve is standing by the couch.

It’s your birthday? she mouths to me.

Later, I mouth back.

Allison has always attempted to make today a happy occasion for me. Finding out I didn’t tell Eve because I’ve never wanted to celebrate at school will only make her feel bad.

“Eve!” Allison says, giving my best friend a hug. “How are you?”

“I’m good, thanks. Nice to see you guys.”

She waves at Hugh and smiles at Landon. They’ve all met multiple times before.

“I’ll be right back,” I say, then head down the hallway to my room. Finish dabbing on some concealer and then grab my phone and keys.

There’s a knock on my door.

“Yeah?”

I’m expecting it to be Eve, but Landon’s voice is the one that asks, “Can I come in?”

My chest contracts. The first words he’s spoken to me in over a week. “Sure.”

The door opens and Landon steps into my room. He glances around the space quickly before his gaze settles on me. He came to help me move in August, but this is the first time he’s been to Holt since.

“Hey,” he says.

“Hi.” I play with my keys nervously.

Landon blows out a long breath. “I’m sorry, Harlow. I’m really sorry. I…there’s a lot there, for me, when it comes to Conor. Years of anger and resentment, and I haven’t had to deal with it. I could shove it all away and act like he doesn’t exist. And then you…you were my friend first. I had to share a school with him and a town and my dad—even though Conor pretends that’s not the case—but I never thought I’d have to share you. Not with him. It messed with my head, and I didn’t handle it well. Some of the shit I said to you—inexcusable. I mean it, I’m really sorry.”

I nod. “Thank you for apologizing.”

“You’re my best friend, and I want you to be happy. I know you’ve had to deal with a lot. But as your friend… I don’t think he’ll make you happy. This isn’t me giving my blessing. I think you’re too good for him and I think he’ll hurt you. I still hate him, and I don’t see that ever changing. But…it’s not worth our friendship. So I’ll shut my mouth where he’s concerned. Your life, your decision.”

It’s about the best-case scenario I could have hoped for. But it still leaves me right smack dab in the middle. “I might be dating him, Landon.”

His arms cross. “Yeah. I noticed the jersey.”

“And I’m just supposed to…what? Disconnect a huge part of my life like that?”

“You’ve never talked to me about guys much before.”

“Yeah, because they weren’t…” Because they didn’t matter to me. Because they weren’t huge parts of my life.

“Look, Conor made his choices. He decided he didn’t want a dad, and he wasn’t very nice about it, I might add. That’s not on me. That’s not on my dad. Are you asking Conor to mend fences? Inviting him to family dinners, on the trip to Vancouver with us this summer?”

“No.”

He wouldn’t go, if I did.

Landon nods, knowing the answer already. “Don’t ask me to accept him if you’re not asking him to accept me. I’m saying you can keep us separate, that I won’t hold your shitty taste in guys against you. Don’t ask me for more than that.”

I sigh. “Okay.”

“Great. Mom wants to take photos of us all over campus so she can relive her wild college days. Hurry up.”

He grins at me, then leaves my room.

It’s raining out as we approach the main entrance to the hockey rink. No surprise there.

The misty, wet weather matches my mood.

Walking around campus with the Garrisons wasn’t as awkward as I was worried about. Landon is back to acting like his normal, upbeat self, laughing and joking with me. The relief was obvious on Allison’s face, watching us.

Hugh spent the walk studying the campus curiously. Unlike Allison, who was here for four years, he’s only visited a couple of times. He seemed lost in his own head, and I’m guessing he was thinking about Conor.

Allison was in her element. Just like Landon said, she took photos of us all over campus. In another life, I could easily picture my mom beside her, both of them giddy over seeing the changes on campus since they went to school here themselves.

My nerves ramp up to a new degree as we follow the crowd headed into the arena. I was right about the turnout being even larger than usual. We have to literally fight our way into the lobby. Part of the issue is that the lobby wall with the sad trophy display is cordoned off. All the plaques from last night’s banquet are being added to the wall.

My gaze snags on the Caddell-Spade Award that’s already hanging back up, and Hugh notices it too as we pass by. It’s the largest one, which I guess is some indication of its prestige.

“Conor won that?” he asks me.

“Yeah. Last night.”

We pass through the lobby and walk along the rubber mats that lead to the boards surrounding the ice. The bleachers are already packed, and more people keep streaming in.

“Wow. This is really something,” Allison states, looking around at the crowd.

“Should we meet you after the game?” Hugh asks.

“No, it’s fine. Let’s try to get seats together,” I say.

They came all this way. And part of me is curious to see what Hugh’s reaction will be to watching his son play hockey for the first time.

After some pushing and shoving, we finally find a section in the bleachers wide enough for the four of us to squeeze into. They’re not great seats, at an awkward angle and partially obscured by the net hanging behind the goal, but they’re better than nothing.

Loud pop music is playing, and it continues blaring as players start appearing on the ice. Holt’s blue jerseys are at the opposite end, Edgewood’s maroon nearer to us.

I lean over Allison and hand Hugh the program I picked up on the way in. “Fifteen,” I tell him.

He mouths me a Thank you, then alternates between studying the roster and glancing at the ice.

“How have you been? Really?” Allison asks me.

“Okay. Really,” I tell her. “School has been crazy lately, with the end of the semester coming up soon.”

“And everything else?”

“He’s taking me out tonight. On a date.”

Allison smiles. “Have you told him? How you’re feeling?”

“Not yet.”

I almost did, last night when we were lying in bed after the banquet. It seems like the way I feel about him must be obvious, the way Conor appeared stunned I thought he might be hooking up with anyone else. My feelings for him are so consuming, it’s hard not to get swept up in them.

But I hadn’t spoken to him before October. My experience with relationships is minimal, and I’m not sure there’s any long-term future possible for us between the complication of the Garrisons and our individual dreams.

I’ve never asked Conor what his back-up plan is if hockey doesn’t work out, because I don’t want to imply he needs one. If he plays professionally, he could end up anywhere in the country next year. If he doesn’t get signed, I have no idea what he’ll do.

When I’m with him, it’s easy to think emotionally instead of rationally. Sitting in a cold arena next to the closest thing I have to a mother figure is more confusing.

Allison squeezes my thigh, right as the loudspeaker crackles to life. The announcer runs through the same welcome and emergency evacuation information as before, then the national anthem is played. And then the starting line-ups are announced.

I glance down at Hugh the moment before I know “And your captain and leading scorer…CONOR HART!” will be announced. His expression is awed and proud as he looks around at the packed bleachers of spectators screaming for his son, and I wish I could snap a photo and show it to Conor. Wish he could see past his resentment and anger to acknowledge he has more of a father than he thinks.

The puck drops a minute later, and the clock starts ticking down. Edgewood is aggressive from the start, and Holt matches their intensity. For most of the first period, players keep zipping up and down the ice repeatedly, each team fighting for possession while only managing a few shots on goal.

The second period starts out the same. Then, five minutes in, Edgewood scores. There’s a collective groan among the crowd.

Thirty seconds later, Edgewood gets called on a high-sticking penalty. Fresh excitement ripples through the crowd, watching the maroon jersey step into the penalty box and giving Holt a prime opportunity to even the score.

Conor’s line gets sent out. Hunter is the one who carries it down toward Edgewood’s goalie, passing to Robby Sampson, who then passes it to Conor. They set up a circular formation, their familiarity with each other obvious as the puck ricochets between their sticks, none of Edgewood’s defensemen able to stop its trajectory.

Hunter is the one who takes the shot. The net bulges from the velocity, the siren sounds, and the arena erupts as the score gets tied.

I glance down at Hugh, who’s beaming. Allison, who is not normally much of a sport spectator, is paying close attention. Even Landon looks intrigued, I notice. He’s not even pretending to act disinterested, leaning forward on his elbows like he’s trying get as close to the ice as possible.

Hockey’s an easy sport to get wrapped up in. The energy humming in the air is electric, punctuated by the rattle of boards and the scrape of blades against ice.

Play resumes again, Edgewood clearly pissed about giving up a goal. They press harder and the game grows more physical. I wince, watching Conor take a hit that I know will be another bruise on his ribs. Conor manages to keep possession of the puck, skating behind the goal and then passing to a waiting Robby. Robby shoots, and the siren sounds again.

I relax a little once Holt is officially winning.

Four minutes later, Edgewood scores. The second period ends, tied 2-2.

I make small talk with Allison during the second intermission, my knee bouncing wildly the entire time.

I wasn’t this invested the last game I watched, and I know it wasn’t just because that score wasn’t this close. It’s because I care more, about Conor. I want this win for him, more than anything else.

The third period is a battle, both teams desperate to score. Edgewood earns two penalties and Aidan takes one for Holt. No one gets another power play goal.

And then, with just over three minutes left, Edgewood scores, pulling ahead. My hands curl into fists, my fingernails biting into my palm, the flash of each second expiring all I can focus on. Only one hundred and eighty-three of them left.

It’s chaos on the ice, lines changing and boards clanging as Edgewood struggles to maintain its lead and Holt fights to protect its undefeated season. Time keeps ticking down. If they can get just one goal, they could win in overtime.

There’s a whistle on the ice, then a congregation of jerseys near the center. A blue jersey is waving at the ref with his hand raised, while two other blue jerseys try to pull him back.

I have a bad feeling, even before the player turns and I see the number on the back.

“Holt penalty on number fifteen, Conor Hart. Two minutes for tripping.”

Instead of heading into the penalty box, Conor steps off the ice at Holt’s bench. He passes the row of his teammates. I watch his coach call out something that has Conor shaking his head, then continuing under the opening beneath the bleachers. He stops, a few steps later, swinging his stick against the cinderblock wall. The wood splinters, falling to the ground in a cracked heap. Conor keeps walking until I can’t see him anymore.

“He left the game early?” I hear Landon ask Hugh.

“There’s less time left in the game than his penalty,” Hugh replies. “He wouldn’t have been able to go back out on the ice.”

Under other circumstances, I would take Landon’s interest in Conor and hockey as a positive sign.

But I’m focused on the slumped shoulders beneath the blue jerseys on the ice. The cracked stick no one has moved yet. The quiet, somber crowd.

Fifty-three seconds later, Holt’s winning streak ends.