The Graham Effect (Campus Diaries, #1)

I don’t think.

Fuck. Why am I even dwelling on this right now? That’s not why we’re here tonight.

The Zamboni has just concluded its final lap when we meet Gigi out on the ice. We’re not wearing our full game gear, but enough padding that we can knock each other around a little if we want. Beck and I also brought some mini orange pylons, which I stack on the ledge in front of the home bench along with a few bottles of water.

“Okay,” Gigi says, beaming. She skates a few circles in front of us. “I’m your willing student.”

Beckett groans softly. “Don’t say things like that. I can’t skate with a stiffie.”

Her smile only widens. “I think I’ve figured you out,” she informs him.

“Have you?”

“Yes. You’re the man who tries to disarm everyone with sex.” She jerks a thumb at me. “And he’s the grumpy man of few words.” She shrugs. “I like knowing where I stand with people.”

I do too. I suppose we have that in common. Another thing we share is the complete intensity with which we throw ourselves into our sport. The second we get down to business, Gigi’s entire focus is on the task at hand. Fully and unapologetically.

“Right, so this first drill,” I start gruffly. “It’s all about opportunities. Versatile players know how to create scoring opportunities.”

Beckett grabs the pylons and skates around to set them down. He picks a few strategic spots, one in front of the net, two at the point.

Some people gripe and complain about drills. They think nothing can ever truly prepare you for the split-second decisions and unforeseen scenarios that arise during a real game. Me, I think that’s bullshit. Yes, instinct will go a long way. But practice always makes perfect.

“Beck is gonna get all up in your personal space,” I warn her.

That’s actually why I picked him to assist. Dunne’s one of the more aggressive d-men on the team, and he knows how to make life claustrophobic for another player.

“But in this scenario, he’s not the only one suffocating you. You got two other guys, or rather, women,” I amend, as Beckett drops another pylon behind the net. “So if you turn and think you can just escape that way, nope. You can’t. Your goal isn’t to break out and score yourself. Get the puck to me, or to one of our other teammates,” I say, gesturing to the various orange markers.

“Got it.”

“Ready?” I glide to a random spot between the crease and the blue line.

She taps her stick on the ice. “Let’s do this thing.”

Grinning at her, I drop the puck and shoot it toward the boards.

Like a rocket, Gigi skates for it. Beckett is hot on her heels, practically breathing down her neck. Her stick makes contact just as he elbows her and tries to gain control of the puck.

For a moment I wonder if this is a bad idea. I’m six-five. Beck’s six-two. We outmuscle her to an alarming degree. But Gigi holds her own, throwing her shoulder into it, and I hear Beck’s answering grunt. As they fight for domination, I remain in position, waiting for her to make something happen.

Finally, she manages to snap the puck out, but nowhere near me or any of the pylons. The shiny black disk misses every potential stick and gets iced all the way down the boards.

“That would’ve been a breakaway for your opponents,” I tell her when she and Beck skate out.

Gigi’s cheeks are flushed behind her visor. “Not necessarily.”

“My left winger would’ve been right there in the corner, salivating. You just made a perfect pass to him. That’s not where you want to shoot.”

“Hey, I’m trying. That beast was on me.”

“Aw, thanks,” Beckett says, looking pleased.

I roll my eyes. “All right, go again.”

We run the same drill half a dozen times, and each time Gigi can’t wrangle the kind of control she needs back there. Outside of that cramped space, however, she’s ridiculous. The kind of elite skater that coaches drool over. Her edge work is insane. And I’ve seen her game tape—she’s able to pluck shooting or passing opportunities out of thin air.

Except, apparently, when she’s in a tight space.

“This isn’t working.” She sounds frazzled.

“C’mere.”

She skates over to me, removing her helmet to wipe sweat off her forehead. It’s inexplicably hot seeing her do that. And the sight of her braid hanging over one shoulder triggers a strange primal urge to tug on it and pull her toward me so I can slide my tongue through her frowning lips.

I snap myself out of it and try to focus.

“Beck, let’s switch,” I call. “I’ll defend.”

He skates off toward the bench, where he uncaps one of the water bottles. He chugs half of it while I brief Gigi.

“I want you to give me everything you got, all right? High pressure on me. See how I move.”

Now it’s the two of us battling it out, and the tension from the gala returns. My pulse quickens at her proximity, mouth running dry. Hearing her heavy breathing makes me think about how she’d sound while I’m fucking her.

She jams her stick between my skates, trying to pry the puck out. I pivot, successfully getting away from her as I twist my body. I skate out a couple of feet, pivot again, and shoot the puck straight to Beckett. He smashes it into the net.

“Oh, I hate you guys. You make it look so easy.” Grudging admiration flickers across her face.

I don’t switch with Beckett even though I could. I guess I enjoy having her close. I apply pressure on her, and this time she manages to get a pass off to Beckett. The speed with which the puck flies is a testament to the power of her shots. It’s too fast for him to connect with his stick, and the error is his, not hers.

“That was good!” I tell her, nodding in admiration. “Really good. Let’s do it again.”

For the next hour, we run her hard, and even when she has trouble at first, she’s quick to adapt and able to handle everything we throw at her.

“Gotta practice those deep knee bends,” Beckett advises her. “And not just because they make your ass look good.”

She snickers.

“It’ll help you change directions faster.”

She nods. After the next puck drop, she pivots so hard, it catches me by surprise, and the puck leaves her stick before I have a chance to battle for it. A perfect pass to Beckett leads to a sweet goal right in the back door.

Gigi throws her arms up in a victory post. “That’s what I’m talking about, bitches.”

A smile tugs on my lips. I don’t let it surface, though, because I’m sure it will lead to me being made fun of for it. But I can’t deny I’m proud of her progress.

“All right,” she announces. “Like Coach Adley always says, let’s end this shit on a high note.”

We skate to the bench to drink the rest of our water.

“So you’re trying to make Team USA, huh?” Beckett says.

Gigi recaps her empty bottle. “Yeah.”

“I can’t imagine why they wouldn’t select you. You’re ridiculously good. Ryder showed me some of your game tape, and you’re one of the best skaters I’ve ever seen.”

She glances at me, smirking. “You’re showing people my film? That’s so cute. I knew you were obsessed with me.”

I roll my eyes.

We head back to the locker rooms to change into our street clothes. Beck and I don’t bother showering since we’re going straight home. Then we reconvene outside and walk to our cars. The parking lot is illuminated by a couple of floodlights, so it’s easy to discern the gratitude shining in Gigi’s slate-gray eyes.

“Thank you for this,” she tells both of us, but her gaze is on me. “Let’s do it again? Maybe next week?”

“Sounds good,” I say brusquely.

“What are you up to this weekend?” Beckett asks her.

“Not sure yet. Why?”

“We’re having people over on Friday. You should come by.”

I give him a look, which he returns with a wink. I know what he’s up to. Beckett is as transparent as glass. Mostly because he never tries to hide his intentions.

Gigi’s still watching me, though. Contemplating. Then she shrugs and says, “Maybe,” before getting into her car and driving away.





CHAPTER SEVENTEEN


GIGI



Do you want me to stop?