The Graham Effect (Campus Diaries, #1)

I rise out of the spin and cross my arms. “Don’t call me that. My name is Gigi.”

He snorts. “Of course it is. That’s such a figure skater name. Let me guess. Short for something girly and whimsical like…Georgia. No. Gisele.”

“It’s not short for anything,” I reply coolly.

“Seriously? It’s just Gigi?”

“Are you really judging my name right now? Because what’s your name? I’m thinking something real bro-ey. You’re totally a Braden or a Carter.”

“Ryder,” he mutters.

“Of course it is,” I mimic, starting to laugh.

His expression is thunderous for a moment before dissolving into aggravation. “Just stay out of my way.”

When his back is to me, I grin and stick my tongue out at him. If this jerk is going to intrude on my precious early morning ice time, the least I can do is get on his very last nerve. So I make myself as invasive as possible. I pick up speed, arms extended to my sides, before executing another series of spins.

Damn, figure skating is fun. I forgot how fun.

“Here we go, now you’re about to get it,” comes Ryder’s snide voice. A note of satisfaction there too.

I slow down, registering the loud echo of footsteps beyond the double doors at the end of the rink.

“Better skedaddle, Gisele, before you piss off Garrett Graham.”

I skate over to Ryder, playing dumb. “Garrett who?”

“Are you shitting me right now? You don’t know who Garrett Graham is?”

“Is he famous or something?”

Ryder stares at me. “He’s hockey royalty. This is his camp.”

“Oh. Yeah. I only follow figure skaters.”

Flipping my ponytail, I glide past him. I want to get one last move in, mostly to see if I still remember any of the stuff I learned during my lessons.

I pick up speed. Find my balance. I don’t have a toe pick because I’m wearing hockey skates, but this jump doesn’t need to kick off the pick. I enter on a turn, gaining momentum as I take off from the edge of my skate and rotate in the air.

The landing is atrocious. My body isn’t properly aligned. I also overrotate, but somehow manage to save myself from falling on my face. I wince at my total lack of grace.

“Gigi! What the hell are you doing? You trying to break your ankle out there?”

I turn toward the plexiglass, where my father stands about twenty feet away, frowning deeply at me. He’s wearing a baseball cap and T-shirt with the camp logo on it, a whistle around his neck and foam coffee cup in one hand.

“Sorry, Dad,” I call out, sheepish. “I was just messing around.”

I hear a choked noise. Ryder sidles up to me, those blue eyes darkening.

I tip my head to flash him an innocent smile. “What?”

“Dad?” he growls under his breath. “You’re Garrett Graham’s kid?”

I can’t help laughing at his indignation. “Not only that, but I’m helping with your shooting drills today.”

His eyes narrow. “You play hockey?”

I reach over to pat his arm. “Don’t worry, prom king, I’ll go easy on you.”





HOCKEY KINGS TRANSCRIPT



ORIGINAL AIR DATE: 07/28

? THE SPORTS BROADCAST CORPORATION


JAKE CONNELLY: SPEAKING OF UNMITIGATED DISASTERS, I GUESS this is a perfect segue to our next segment. Massive news coming out of the college hockey world: the Briar/Eastwood merger. Talking about your alma mater here, G.

GARRETT GRAHAM: My kid goes there too. Keeping it in the family, you know?

CONNELLY: On a scale of one to ten—one being catastrophe and ten being the apocalypse—how bad is this?

GRAHAM: Well. It’s not great.

CONNELLY: I believe we call that an understatement.

GRAHAM: I mean, yes. But let’s unpack this. Setting aside the fact that it’s unprecedented—two D1 men’s ice hockey programs merging into one? Unheard of. But I suppose there could be some advantages. Chad Jensen is looking at a superteam here. I mean, Colson and Ryder on one roster? Not to mention Demaine, Larsen, and Lindley? With Kurth in the crease? Tell me how this team isn’t unstoppable.

CONNELLY: On paper, absolutely. And I’m the first person to give credit where credit’s due. Chad Jensen is the most decorated coach in college hockey. Twelve Frozen Four forays and seven wins during his tenure at Briar. He holds the record for championship wins—

GRAHAM: Does your father-in-law pay you to be his hype man? Or you do it for free to score approval points?

CONNELLY: Says the man who won three of those seven championships under Jensen.

GRAHAM: Yeah, all right. So we’re both biased. All jokes aside, Jensen is a miracle worker, but even he can’t erase decades of bitter rivalry and hostility. Briar and Eastwood have battled it out in their conference for years. And suddenly these boys are expected to play nice?

CONNELLY: He’s got a tough job ahead of him, that’s for sure. But like you said, if they manage to make it work? Come together as one team? We could be seeing some magic happen.

GRAHAM: Either that, or these guys are going to kill each other.

CONNELLY: Guess we’re about to find out.





CHAPTER ONE


GIGI



Slutty bad-boy dick magic


A HOCKEY PLAYER ISN’T JUST SOMEONE WHO PLAYS HOCKEY.

Someone who plays hockey shows up at the rink an hour before a game, throws their skates on, pounds out three periods, changes back into their street clothes, and scampers on home.

A hockey player lives and breathes hockey. We’re always training. We pour our time into it. We show up two hours before practice to hone our game. Mental, physical, and emotional. We strengthen, condition, push our bodies to their limits. We dedicate our lives to the sport.

Playing at a collegiate level requires a staggering commitment, but it’s a challenge I’ve always been eager to meet.

A week before classes start at Briar University, I’m back to my usual early-morning routine. The offseason is great because it lets me spend more time with friends and family, sleep late, indulge in junk food, but I always welcome the start of a new season. I feel lost without my sport.

This morning I’m running drills in one of the two rinks at Briar’s performance center. Just a simple shooting exercise where I accelerate on a turn and slap the puck at the net, and while I chide myself every time I miss, there’s nothing like the sound of a puck striking the boards in an empty arena.

I keep at it for about an hour, until I notice Coach Adley by the home bench gesturing at me. I’m sweating through my practice jersey as I skate toward him.

One corner of his mouth quirks up. “You shouldn’t be here.”

I slide my gloves off. “Says who?”

“Says the NCAA rules regarding offseason practices.”

I grin. “Regarding official practices led by the coaching staff. This is just me free skating on my own time.”

“You know you don’t have to push yourself this hard, G.”

“Wow,” I tease. “Are you saying you want me to perform to less than my abilities?”

“No, I want you to keep some gas in the tank for—” He stops, chuckling. “You know what? Nothing. I keep forgetting I’m talking to a Graham. You’re your father’s daughter.”

My spark of pride is dampened slightly by a teeny sting of resentment. When you have a famous parent, you tend to spend a lot of your time in their shadow.

I knew when I started playing, I would be forever compared to my father. Dad is a living legend, no other way around it. He holds so many records, it’s impossible to keep track of them anymore. Dude played in the pros until he was forty years old. And even at forty, he kicked ass that last season. He could’ve kept playing another year or two easy, but Dad’s smart. He retired on top. Just like Gretzky, who he’s constantly being likened to.

That little aggrieved pang is one I need to rein in. I know that. If there’s anyone you want to be compared to, it’s one of the greatest athletes of all time. I think maybe I’m just scarred from the misogynistic caveats that come with all the compliments I’ve received over the years.

She played really well…for a girl.

Her stat lines are impressive…for a woman.