The Graham Effect (Campus Diaries, #1)

I’M GOING TO GO OUT ON A LIMB AND SAY WE DIDN’T MAKE THE best first impression.

I could be wrong. Maybe Chad Jensen enjoys blood and gore during his practices. Maybe he’s the kind of coach who craves a Lord of the Flies ice battle to separate the men from the boys.

But the murder in his eyes tells me no, he’s not that kind of coach.

His expression grows turbulent, more impatient, while we all scramble for a seat. Jensen only gave us five minutes to change out of our practice gear, so everyone in group one looks harried and disheveled, tucking in shirts and smoothing out hair as we file into the media room.

There are twice the number of guys in this room than there were on the ice. The second practice group was already assembled here, viewing game film with one of the assistant coaches. Everyone in group two watches the newcomers with wary expressions.

Three rows of seats home in on the huge screen that serves as the room’s focal point. I won’t lie, these digs are a lot nicer than the ones at Eastwood. The padded chairs even swivel.

Coach Jensen stands in the center of the room, while three stone-faced assistants lean against the wall by the door.

“Did you get that out of your system?” he inquires coldly.

Nobody utters a word.

From the corner of my eye, I see Rand Hawley rubbing the corner of his jaw. He took a nasty hit from Colson’s lackey. Still, he should’ve known better than to let Trager push his buttons like that.

Having played against Briar these last couple of years, I’m familiar with everyone on their roster. I know most of their stats, and I know who to watch out for. Trager’s always been one to keep an eye on. He has the reputation as a blustering goon and is exceptional at drawing out penalties.

He’s not my biggest competitor, though. That would be… I sneak a peek at the blond junior in the front row.

Case Colson.

Really, he’s the only dude in this room I need to care about. A beauty of a player. He’s Briar’s MVP, which means he’ll undoubtedly be on the first line.

My line.

Well, unless Jensen fucks me over and puts me on the second line.

I don’t know what’s worse. Not playing first line…or playing on the same one as Colson. Suddenly I’m supposed to trust a Briar player to have my back? Yeah, right.

“You sure we’re good here?” Coach says, still glancing around. “Nobody else wants to pull out their dick and compare sizes? Wave them around to see who the biggest man here is?”

More silence.

Jensen crosses his arms. He’s a tall imposing figure with dark eyes and salt-and-pepper hair, still broad-shouldered and fit considering he must be in his sixties. He looks at least ten years younger.

Hands down, this man is the best coach in college hockey. That’s probably why it stings so much, the memory that he turned me down when I wanted to come to Briar.

I had been fending off recruiters since sophomore year of high school. Even ones from Briar, my first-choice school. But come graduation, when it was time to make a choice, there wasn’t a Briar scholarship on the table. I still remember the morning I swallowed my pride and asked for a phone call with Jensen. Hell, I even would’ve made the trip from Phoenix to Boston to talk to him in person. But he made it clear on the phone that after “careful consideration” he’d determined I wasn’t a good fit for his program.

Well, joke’s on him, ain’t it?

Not only am I here now, but I’m the best player in this room. A first-round draft pick, for fuck’s sake.

“Good. Now that the pissing contest is over, let me make myself clear. You ever disrespect my ice like that during practice, and you won’t be representing this school as a member of my hockey team.”

Rand, who has no filter and no idea how to read a room, decides to defend himself. “With all due respect, Coach,” he says darkly, “Eastwood didn’t start shit. That was all Briar.”

“You are Briar!” Jensen rumbles.

That shuts up my teammate.

“You don’t get that. You’re one team now. There is no Eastwood. You are all members of the Briar men’s hockey team.”

Several guys shift in their seats, visibly uneasy.

“Look, this situation is not ideal, all right? This merger happened at the last minute. It didn’t offer a lot of time for you to transfer to other colleges or find your place in other programs. You got fucked over,” he says simply.

For a brief second, his eyes land on mine before skipping away, focusing on somebody else.

“And I promise you, I will do my best to get you on another team if you don’t make this roster.”

The generous offer startles me. Jensen has the rep for being an unfeeling hard-ass, but maybe he has a softer side.

“With that said, the fact remains that I’ve got almost sixty guys, and less than half of you will be on the final roster. Those are not good numbers.” His tone is grim. “A lot of you are not going to make this team.”

The silence becomes deafening. Hearing him say that, so matter-of-factly, is not a good feeling. Even for me. I’m highly confident Jensen can’t screw me out of a roster slot, but even I feel a twinge of trepidation.

“So, this is how the week will play out. Because we all got screwed here, we received permission from the NCAA to run a one-week training camp to get our numbers down. At the end of this week, I’ll release the final roster, as well as the list of who’ll be starting in the first game. Then Coach Maran, Coach Peretti, and I will sit down and finalize the lines. Any questions so far?”

No hands go up.

“With that said, I’d like you to nominate two interim captains for the duration of training camp. Then, once the roster is set, you can either revote or stick with the two you select today.”

Two?

My head lifts in surprise. I look over at Shane Lindley, my teammate and best friend. He looks intrigued as well, dark eyes gleaming. Technically, Eastwood came into this merger captainless. Ours fled after the announcement and transferred to Quinnipiac. So much for a captain going down with his ship. Briar’s current captain is the French-Canadian, David Demaine.

“I believe for the sake of team unity, cocaptains is the best way to go. I want you guys to pick one player from the existing Briar roster and one from Eastwood.”

“Thought you said we were one and the same,” someone in the back row mutters sarcastically.

Coach’s razor-sharp hearing is on point. “You are,” he snaps at the griper. “But I’m also not naive enough to think that me saying those words makes it so. I’m not a fucking fairy godmother who waves a wand and then life is perfect, all right? I think the best way to bridge this gap is to have two captains, at least over the course of this week, working together to remind everyone we’re all one team—”

“I nominate Colson,” a swollen-lipped Trager pipes up, his tone flat.

Jensen’s jaw tightens at the interruption.

“I nominate Ryder,” my teammate Nazzy calls out.

I smother a sigh.

Okay, this is not getting off to a good start.

It’s obvious what’s happening. They picked the two best players to be captain. Not necessarily the two players who should be captain. First, we’re both juniors. Most of the seniors in this room probably deserve the nod far more than we do.

And second, I’m not goddamn captain material. Are they crazy? My personality isn’t suited for leadership. I’m not here to hold hands and love everybody.

I’m the man who wants to be left the fuck alone.

Case Colson appears equally annoyed to be included in this farce. But as I look around, a sea of determined faces greets me. My Eastwood teammates have war in their eyes, several of them nodding decisively. Briar’s players convey identical fortitude.

Coach sees the same thing I do on their faces. The battle lines have been drawn.

He blows out a breath. “So that’s it? That’s who you all want? Colson and Ryder?”