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

I tap my pen against my notebook. Marine Evolutionary Biology is my favorite course.

Most lectures, I can’t scribble down what the professor is saying fast enough.

During today’s, I’m barely listening. I’m distracted.

I have been ever since Conor walked away from me three days ago.

I shouldn’t have gone to meet him at the track. I knew it before I arrived at the football stadium, and I’m just as certain of it now.

But I did.

And it was nothing like I expected.

The fascination that appeared after our first conversation in the kitchen was nothing compared to my intrigue after talking with him while running on the track.

Conor Hart confuses me.

I know what type of guy he is.

I’ve heard the stories swirling around campus about the fights on the ice. Seen the girls hanging all over him. He’s a cocky player in both senses of the word, and he acts like it.

He’s also…more.

Funny. Intuitive. A good listener.

I formed my opinion of Conor Hart a while ago—long before I saw him, much less talked to him. It was amplified when the Garrisons took me in after my parents died. When I witnessed the kindness Conor seemed to lack up close and every day.

I never considered choosing sides. I was just…on theirs.

I also never considered anything from Conor’s perspective. I’ve seen the anger on Landon’s face when he talks about his half-brother. The hurt on Hugh’s whenever the topic of his older son comes up.

But I’ve never thought about what it must have been like for Conor to grow up without a dad.

For your father to have a separate family.

Class ends, and I’ve taken less than a page of notes. I huff an annoyed breath as I pack up my belongings, pushing them into my backpack and then heading out into the hallway.

I debate my destination for a few minutes once I’m outside. All around me hoods are being raised, but I don’t bother to lift mine. It’s misting out, but the damp air feels refreshing after the stuffy, dry classroom I just spent an hour in.

Rather than head home, I walk toward the library. I have a microbe lab analysis due tomorrow, and I know it’ll take me twice as long to complete on the couch in sweats as it will here. And tonight is my date with the guy in my aquatic resources class, so I need to get this done as quickly as possible.

I stop at the water fountain just inside the main doors to fill up my bottle. I’m holding it under the stream and staring out at the sea of tables, trying to decide where to sit, when a male voice speaks behind me.

“Hi, Harlow.”

I turn to see Hunter Morgan standing behind me, holding his own water bottle.

“Oh, hey,” I reply, in what I hope is a casual manner.

Hunter makes me nervous.

Not because he’s ever been anything but nice—because he hasn’t—but because I know he’s Conor’s best friend. I’m confident Conor has shared nothing about his family life—the fractured half, at least—with his friends here. Hunter has always looked just as confused by his behavior toward me as all the other guys. That doesn’t mean he’s not privy to plenty of other parts of Conor’s life, though, which he confirms with his next question.

“How was your Monday?”

I take my time capping my water bottle. “It was fine.”

“Hart can be a real drill sergeant. And I’m not sure whatever marathon training forum he found was legit.”

“It wasn’t that bad.” I hobbled around all day Tuesday, but that was due to a stupid urge to impress Conor, not because he set too rapid a pace or ran for too long. I forced myself to jog downtown and back yesterday and I was still able to dance at the Halloween party last night, so maybe something is working.

“Huh.” Hunter is eyeing me like he wants to ask more questions, but something is stopping him.

“I’ve got a lab report to finish. See you around, Hunter.”

He nods and smiles.

I find an empty table and spend the next two hours finishing my lab analysis, then head for the main parking lot where I left my car this morning.

I know where I’m going, but I lie to myself about it. Mostly to combat the nerves and excitement fighting for real estate in my stomach.

There aren’t many cars outside the sports center, but the black SUV Conor drove to the track is one of them. I hope the many available parking spots means hockey practice is over. The last thing I want is the whole team watching while I talk to their captain.

Cold air laced with the smell of stale sweat greets me when I step inside Holt’s hockey arena for the first time. It should be gross but somehow isn’t. I inhale deeply as I walk along the rubber mats covering the floor.

There’s only one figure out on the ice. I walk up to the boards that surround the rink to look through the clear plastic. Shove my hands into my jacket pockets as I watch him.

I could count on a couple of fingers the number of times I’ve been skating. I prefer my water in liquid form. Watching Conor skate is the first time I’ve experienced any appreciation for its frozen state.

He glides across the ice like a bird of prey in flight. Wild, controlled strength eats up the entire length of the rink in the blink of an eye. He barely leans, and he’s turned, flying along the opposite side of the ice.

Conor makes skating look effortless. Easy. Graceful.

My two times on the ice left me with the distinct impression it is anything but.

I can hear the scrape of metal blades against the ice, but that’s the only indication he’s exerting himself at all. He flies around and around the rink in rapid circles.

Sometimes he shoots one of the pucks into the goal.

Sometimes he turns it into a blur of black, weaving and spinning around invisible opponents.

Sometimes he abandons it on the ice and rests his stick on his shoulders.

Suddenly, Conor stops, sending a white spray across the ice right by the bench. Pulls off his helmet and runs a hand through his hair. Glances down toward me.

I swallow, realizing he knows I’m here. Walk down toward where he’s standing, fiddling nervously with the zipper of my jacket.

His eyes look more blue than gray against the light background. The unblemished ice and bright lights.

“You’re really good,” I blurt.

“Thanks.” There’s no sign of a smirk. The word is matter of fact.

I glance around the rink. “So…this is it, huh?”

“Yup.”

He hasn’t texted me.

And nothing in his expression says he’s pleased about me showing up here.

Maybe this was always Conor’s intention, to streak across my life like a comet and then disappear just as fast. Technically, he helped me, just like he said he would. Except he kept using the word we when we were at the running track, and I relied upon that. I might not need his help, but I want it.

“I just, um, I wanted to say thank you for Monday. I’m not sure if I ever said it, so, thanks…”

“Don’t mention it,” he says.

I’m not sure if he means that literally or more as a you’re welcome.

“Okay, then. See you—”

“Do you skate?”

I raise a questioning eyebrow. Conor says nothing else, just waits for me to answer. “Not well.”

A door in the boards creaks open. “Come on.”

I glance between the gleaming white surface and my black rain boots. “What, now?”

“Yeah. Come here.”

Conor takes his glove off and holds a hand out. I pull my hand out of my pocket and reach for it as I step from the mats onto the ice, forcing myself not to react when our palms connect. His fingers are calloused and warm, wrapping around mine securely.

Heat races up my arm and spreads through my entire body. I imagine his hands running over my entire body. I’m positive I wouldn’t laugh. Couldn’t, no matter what came out of his mouth. He’s…consuming. His proximity wraps around me like a warm blanket, insulating me from the chill emanating off the ice.

I look around, pulling in deep breaths of cold air that burn my lungs.

Conor guides me to the center of the ice, towering over me in his skates. He matches my slow pace, my tentative steps and his slow strokes drawing us closer and closer to the middle.

He drops my hand once we’re there.

I shove my hand back into my pocket and then look around. The ice is polished to a flawless gleam that resembles glass, stark red and blue lines the only interruption. There are a few spots where the lights reflect the marks Conor’s blades left on the ice. Bleachers stretch all around the rink. They must accommodate a few hundred people when they’re full. It must get loud in here, instead of church quiet.

“Wow,” I say.

Conor leans on his stick, his gaze focused on the goal at the opposite end. Then his eyes flick up. I follow their motion, focusing on the worn banner hanging from the high ceiling. The only decoration among the beams.

“Only one championship.”

“For now, yeah,” he tells me.

I shake my head, smiling.

I used to find Conor’s confidence irritating. But now, I’m a little in awe of it. I’ve never felt that sure about anything. I know I want to work as a cetologist, but I also know it’s a hard field to make a living in. Grants and funding can be hard to come by. The money my parents left me is a safety net, but I’m reluctant to rely on it completely. There’s a good possibility I’ll have to settle for something else and use my degree as a hobby.

“Can I ask you something?”

“You just did.”

I roll my eyes. “Why did you choose Holt?”

Conor glances over, a new tension appearing on his face.

“You’re really good. You could have played at a school with an arena that fit thousands of people. That’s won dozens of championships. And I know it’s not because you don’t think you could have, so…”

It’s a question I have no right to ask him. But if this is the last time we talk—and that’s the vibe I’m getting from this conversation—it’s something I’ve always wondered ever since I found out we were attending the same college.

He doesn’t answer right away. Maybe he won’t.

“I wanted to stay close to my mom,” Conor eventually says. “Holt was my best option in state.”

I do a poor job of hiding my surprise at his response. I thought selfish was a synonym for his name. Thought his list of priorities was just the word hockey, bolded and underlined.

“What about Brighton?” I ask. It’s the biggest school in the state. And Brighton University boasts competitive athletics, including a Division I hockey program. “Couldn’t you have gone there?”

Conor nods. “Yup. Got a full ride.”

I don’t voice the question, but I know it’s scrawled across my face.

He looks away. At the old banner again. “You know Hugh went there?”

“Yeah, I know.” Shock ripples through me. I can’t believe he mentioned his biological father.

“Well, I promised myself a long time ago that I’d make different choices than he did.”

“Is that why you didn’t play football?”

“No. I just always preferred hockey.”

“What would you have done if he’d played hockey?” I ask.

Conor doesn’t answer right away. “I don’t know,” he finally admits. “Guess I’d have to decide if I love the game more than I hate him.”

“What if not going to Brighton cost you your shot at going pro?” I ask.

I’m treading on thin ice—literally—with these questions. But I’m desperate to know more. To hear more, from his perspective.

Is he selfish or stubborn? Neither? Both?

“Then I don’t get to play pro. At least I’ll have my damn pride.”

I’ve never had any doubts about how Conor feels about the Garrison family. The resentment has been obvious every time he’s looked away from me. Walked in the opposite direction. My last name isn’t even Garrison, and I’ve felt the chill of his contempt.

“Hugh ate the pumpkin pie I burned last Thanksgiving,” I whisper. “No one else would even try it.”

Hugh Garrison has done a lot more for me than just eat an overcooked dessert. For some reason, it was the first thing that popped into my head. And in this moment, looking at Conor’s flinty expression, it’s the best defense I can come up with for the man who’s become a second father to me.

“My mom was working a double shift at the hospital on Thanksgiving,” Conor states.

Does that mean he spent the holiday alone? He sure didn’t spend it with us.

“People make mistakes.”

His eyes flash like blue steel. “Have you ever done the math between my birthday and Landon’s?” It’s more of a demand than a question.

“I don’t know your birthday.”

It’s a cop out, and we both know it.

“He’s a year younger than us. Eleven months younger than me.”

“I had…an idea,” I admit.

I might not know the exact date of Conor’s birthday, but I know Landon’s. Know the two of them are just a year apart in school. Know when Hugh says Conor has good reasons every time an invitation gets shot down, he’s not just saying it; he means it.

And those good reasons were a lot easier to ignore back when I thought Conor Hart was just an obnoxious hockey player.

“Passing the puck when you should shoot it is a mistake. That…he…it fucked up my whole life. My mom’s whole life.”

“He’s tried to make amends.”

“By inviting me to spend time with his new family? Visit the house that’s five times the size of what my mom can afford?” Conor snorts. “Some things can’t be forgiven. Can’t be fixed.”

I swallow, hearing the certainty in his words.

Maybe he’s right. If the drunk driver who killed my parents had survived the accident, I don’t think I could have forgiven her decision to get behind the wheel.

I’ve known Hugh Garrison for most of my life. He’s been nothing but kind and loving toward me. But the more time I spend in Conor’s presence, the more I find myself facing the unwelcome reality that the man who has stepped up as a father figure for me didn’t do the same for one of his biological children.

“Hey! Conor!”

I glance toward the voice. A little kid, probably around eight or nine, is standing in the open door that leads off the ice. Waving this way and beaming at the guy beside me.

The annoyance dissipates from Conor’s expression as he waves back at the kid. “Hey, Cody.”

“Friend of yours?” I ask.

Conor glances at me. “I help out with the PeeWee practice on Fridays. It’s why I’m still here.”

“Oh,” is all I can think to say.

It’s humbling, realizing just how completely wrong I was about him.

“Cody shows up early, but the rest of them will be here soon.”

“Right.” I start shuffling across the ice toward the door, Conor skating silently beside me.

“Are we doing the same zone entry drill this week?” Cody pays no attention to me as I step off the ice, his focus entirely on Conor.

“Up to Coach Cassidy,” Conor says.

“Could you ask him about it? Please? I’ve been practicing all week.”

“Yeah, I’ll ask him.” Conor’s eyes flicker to me, and I realize I’m staring.

“I’m, uh, I should go,” I say.

Cody glances at me. “Who are you? Another coach?”

“Uh, no. I’m…”

“Harlow’s headed out,” Conor says. “You’re stuck with me. Come on. You should get changed and I need to get the cones out.”

“Okay,” Cody agrees easily, totally forgetting about me once again. I can see the hero worship on his face as he gazes up at Conor. It’s a purer form of the admiration I’ve seen aimed at Conor many times before.

Conor glances at me. “See you, Hayes.”

“Bye,” I say.

I was hoping he’d use my first name again. I’m searching my mind for a time he’s said it to me before, and I’m not sure he has. Because it’s still affecting me, many seconds later.

Conor and Cody head past the bench, toward what must be the entrance to the locker rooms.

And I have to force myself to turn and walk away.