The Graham Effect (Campus Diaries, #1)

Coach Jensen looks like he wants to murder everyone in the room, including his own colleagues. He approaches the microphone at the podium and gets things going in a brisk, irritated voice.

“I would like to congratulate each and every one of you for ruining my Saturday plans with my granddaughter. She’s ten years old and recently developed an affinity for tiger sharks, and she cried when I told her I couldn’t take her to the aquarium today. Everyone, give yourselves a round of applause for making a ten-year-old girl cry.”

Beside me, Cami smothers her laughter with the sleeve of her hoodie.

“In other news,” he announces. “Tim Coffey’s out for at least four weeks with a sprained wrist. He’ll miss the entire preseason and likely several games.”

Jensen punctuates this with a glare at our team doctor, as if he’s the one who sprained Coffey’s wrist. To his credit, Dr. Parminder doesn’t even flinch. Tim Coffey does, however. In the front row, the freckle-faced senior hangs his head in shame. I heard he spent half the night in the emergency room getting X-rays.

“I won’t bother telling you how stupid and irresponsible you all were last night. I get it, I was young once. I enjoyed a good party in my days. I won’t lecture you about the drinking—underage drinking for many of you.” He shoots a pointed look at the lowerclassmen. “I won’t even go too hard on the fighting. But to the bonehead who decided to film the fight and post it online?”

He does a slow clap, which triggers another wave of silent giggles from Camila.

“Congratulations, bonehead—you’ve scared the boosters.” Shaking his head in disgust, Jensen stalks away from the podium.

My own coach takes his place. Adley clears his throat and addresses the auditorium.

“What Chad is trying to say is, we’re dealing with some very concerned boosters and alumni at the moment. Donors,” he says meaningfully. “In case you need reminding, donations are what pay for this state-of-the-art facility. They’re what keep your locker rooms stocked with top-of-the-line equipment. They’re what gets you several televised games a year—you see any other D1 programs receiving that perk? This school offers the most elite program on the East Coast, but that doesn’t just happen by chance. We might attract the talent, but we need the money to develop it. And now, thanks to last night’s events, we’ve got boosters calling and emailing to ask why our program is in shambles. Why our own players are breaking each other’s wrists and how will that help us make it to the playoffs, let alone win any championships.”

My fearless, smart-ass captain thrusts her hand in the air.

Coach Adley notices and nods in her direction. “Yes, Whitney?”

“I want it on the record that the women’s team had nothing to do with yesterday’s fight, and we did not bring shame upon this house.”

A few titters echo in the cavernous room.

“Noted,” Adley says. “However, that doesn’t change the fact that we’re in damage control mode. And this requires a concentrated effort on the part of both our programs.”

Adley nods toward the white-pantsuit lady, who takes over.

“Good afternoon. My name is Christie Delmont, and I’m the executive vice president of marketing and public relations for Briar University.”

Why do job titles sound so made up these days?

For the next ten minutes, Delmont lays down the law and lists all the sins we’re no longer allowed to commit. No fighting or visible hostility in public. No filming anything if hostility does arise. We’re not to conduct any interviews or release any statements without prior approval from her or the athletic department, but she has arranged for a glowing profile of the new Briar/Eastwood team that will run in all the Boston newspapers.

“You will shower praise on your teammates,” she tells the men, her tone brooking no argument. “I expect to see the most flattering, effusive ass-kissing in your individual interviews. Not even a whiff of animosity. From this point forward, you all love and adore each other.”

She flips to the next page of the small stack she’s set on the dais. “Pacifying the boosters is our main objective right now. They’ve sent me a list of upcoming fundraising and publicity events. I’ll be enlisting many of you to participate, and in the case of the Briar alumni benefit in December, you’ll be responsible for organizing several elements, including the silent auction.”

She glances at her papers again, then lifts her head and searches the crowd.

“Gigi Graham and Luke Ryder?” she calls in question. “Can you raise your hands so I can see you?”

Uneasiness washes over me. At first I consider slouching in my seat and hiding, but Cami pokes me in the side, forcing me to raise my hand. In the row ahead of us, Ryder does the same. His reluctant body language reflects mine.

“If either of you have plans tonight, cancel them,” Christie Delmont says sternly. “There’s a charity gala in Boston organized by Leesa Wickler, whose family is one of our largest donors. You two will attend as representatives of Briar University and your respective hockey programs.”

“Date night,” I hear one of the dudes chortle.

I’m sorry, what? They can’t just force me to start attending galas against my will, can they?

And why are they sending Ryder, of all people? I can easily guess why they want me. As Ryder enjoys pointing out, my last name is Graham. That carries a lot of weight.

But why the hell are they recruiting the most antisocial asshole I know to represent Briar at an event that requires smiling and shaking hands?

I wait until we’re dismissed before pulling Coach Adley aside to get some answers. I observe Ryder doing the same with Jensen. From his unhappy expression, it looks like Jensen isn’t giving him any.

Adley admits he doesn’t know why Ryder was picked but confirms the reason for my selection.

“I know you hate this kind of stuff, but the boosters love your dad,” he says, sounding apologetic. “I’m sorry. I know you would’ve preferred to be left out of this.”

“All good,” I lie. “Happy to do my part.”

But I’m battling a mix of resentment and irritation as I leave the auditorium.

“G, you okay?”

I find Case in the hall, concern etched into his handsome face. He’s in sweatpants and a Briar hoodie, his blond hair rumpled as if he was running his hand through it while waiting for me.

“Yeah, I’m good.”

“This Ryder thing is BS. Want me to talk to Jensen and see if he’ll send me instead?”

“No. It’s fine. Really,” I add when I note his skepticism. “I don’t want to make any waves.”

We fall into step together, heading down the hall toward the lobby.

“I don’t want you hanging around that guy,” Case grumbles.

Then I probably shouldn’t mention I was planning on seeing Ryder tonight regardless. We had plans to practice, before Jordan Trager decided it was more important to break poor Tim’s wrist. Now we’ll have to reschedule, thanks to stupid Trager.

“I’ll be fine,” I assure him.

And you’re not my boyfriend anymore, I want to add. He doesn’t get a say any longer about who I spend time with.

We reach the lobby, where I bid him goodbye because my teammates are waiting for me by the doors.

“Gigi,” Case says before I can walk away. “Put me out of misery. Please.”

Unhappiness lodges in my throat. “I…can’t. We’re not together anymore, Case. I don’t want to be.”

He looks so frustrated and upset that it triggers a rush of guilt, but I force myself to ignore it and keep walking.



Later that night, I drive to Hastings to pick up Ryder for the booster gala. The email from the Briar PR lady stated the dress code as semiformal to black tie.

A.k.a. the kind of fashion extremes that give me anxiety.

Does that mean some women will be wearing dress pants and a nice blouse while others are in sequined cocktail gowns?