The Graham Effect (Campus Diaries, #1)

A chorus of agreement ripples through the room. This is a statement, right here. Each side wants the other to know that their player, their superstar, is in charge.

“Fucking hell,” I mutter under my breath.

Shane chuckles. On my other side, Beckett Dunne snorts. I’d like to say my best friends have the whole angel/devil thing going on, where one is a dick and the other sits on my shoulder spewing kindness and compassion. I’d like to say that.

But they’re both just assholes who take great amusement out of my misery.

“Ryder, are you good with this?” Jensen’s sharp gaze finds mine.

I’m not good with it at all.

“Yeah, sure,” I lie. “All good.”

“Colson?” Jensen prompts.

Case glances at last season’s captain. Demaine gives him a quick nod.

“If that’s what the team wants,” Colson mutters.

“Fine.” Jensen walks over to the podium to jot something in a notebook.

God fucking help me.

And yet despite this unwanted title being foisted upon me, I can’t deny I do feel relief knowing Jensen won’t try to get rid of me this time.

Coach leaves his notes and walks toward the whiteboard beneath the multimedia screen, black-felt marker in hand.

“Okay, now that that’s decided, there are a few more things we need to go over before training camp gets underway. Number one: What happened out there just now with group one? Un-fuckingacceptable. You hear me?”

Jensen stares directly at Jordan Trager and Rand Hawley. Then he frowns, because neither of them shows an iota of penitence. Only petulance.

“We don’t fight each other at this school,” he says. “Do so again at your own peril.”

He turns to scribble something on the whiteboard.





No Fighting


“Number two, and this is very important, so I hope you’re fucking listening. I will not clean up my language for you assholes. If your delicate sensibilities can’t handle a few f-bombs, then you have no business playing hockey.”

He writes something else.





Fuck You


Shane snickers quietly.

“Number three: Every year or so, some dumbass gets the cockamamie idea that the team needs a pet. A living mascot in the form of a goat or a pig or some other godforsaken farm animal. I will no longer tolerate such ideas. Don’t present them to me—your request will be denied. There was an unfortunate incident in the past, and neither I personally, nor the university itself, will place ourselves in that position again. We have been pet-free for twenty years and will remain that way for eternity. Understood?”

When nobody answers, he glares.

“Understood?”

“Yessir,” everyone says.

He turns toward the board.





No Pets. Ever.


“What do you think the unfortunate incident was?” Beckett leans closer to whisper in my ear.

I shrug. Fuck if I know.

“Maybe it was a chicken and they accidentally ate it,” Shane suggests.

Beck blanches. “That’s dark.”

“All right, that’s it.” Jensen claps his hands. “Group one, you fucking blew it, so you can go home. I’ll see you at 9:00 a.m. tomorrow. Group two, meet me on the ice in fifteen minutes.”

The room comes to life as everyone stands and shuffles along the rows toward the aisle. Jensen calls out before I reach the door. “Ryder.”

I glance over my shoulder. “Sir?”

“A minute, please.”

Swallowing my apprehension, I walk toward him. “What’s up, Coach?”

He’s quiet for moment, just studying me. It’s unnerving and I resist the urge to fidget with my hands. I’m rarely intimidated by people, but something about this man makes my palms sweat. Maybe it’s because I know he never wanted me here.

I fucking hate knowing that.

“Is this captain thing going to be a problem?” he finally asks.

I shrug. “I guess we’re going to find out.”

“That’s not the answer I want to hear, son.” He repeats himself. “Is it going to be a problem?”

“No, sir,” I answer dutifully. “It won’t be a problem.”

“Good. Because I can’t have my team at war. You need to step up and be a leader, understand?”

My self-restraint escapes me for a moment. “Are you going to give Colson the same talk?”

“No, because he doesn’t need it.”

“And I do? You don’t even know me.”

Christ, shut the hell up, I chide myself. Challenging my new coach isn’t going to get me anywhere good.

“I know team unity isn’t your strongest suit. I know leadership doesn’t come naturally to you. We both know your former teammates selected you for your skill and not your leadership—and a choice like that only ends in disaster. With that said, I don’t typically interfere with who a team picks as their captain, and I’m not going to interfere now. But I am watching you, Ryder. I’m watching carefully.”

I manage to keep my palms flat to my sides when they want to curl into fists. “Thanks for the heads-up. May I go now?”

He gives a brisk nod.

I stalk out and release a heavy breath in the hallway. This entire situation is fucked. I have no idea how it’s all going to play out, but judging by this morning’s events, it won’t be pretty.

It takes a few moments to orient myself and figure out how to leave the building. Briar’s hockey facilities are larger than Eastwood’s, and some of the corridors feel like a maze. Eventually I emerge into the lobby, a cavernous space with pennants hanging from the rafters and framed jerseys lining the walls. Through the wall of glass at the entrance, I spot several of my friends loitering outside.

“So that was a fun morning,” Shane remarks when I join them.

“A blast,” I agree.

The sun beats down on my face, so I slide my sunglasses over my eyes. When I first moved to the East Coast from Arizona after high school, I assumed Septembers in New England were chilly. I didn’t expect the summer temperatures to linger on, sometimes well into the fall.

“Hopefully group two fares better than we did,” Mason Hawley says with a wry smile. Mason is Rand’s younger brother and, most of the time, Rand’s keeper.

“Doubt it,” Shane says. “There’s no unclustering this fuck.”

As if to prove his point, a bunch of Briar guys exit the arena and all their expressions cloud over when they spot us. They halt at the top of the steps, exchanging guarded looks. Then Case Colson murmurs something to Will Larsen, and the group strides forward.

Colson and I lock gazes. Only for a moment, before he breaks eye contact and marches past us. The group descends the front steps without acknowledging us.

“Such a warm reception,” Beckett drawls at their retreating backs. His Australian accent always becomes more pronounced when he’s being sarcastic. Beck’s family moved to the States when he was ten. America basically beat the accent out of him, but it’s always there, dancing just beneath the surface of his voice.

“Seriously, I feel so wanted here,” Shane pipes up. “All these Briar rainbows and unicorns are making me fucking giddy.”

“This fucking blows,” Rand mutters, still watching the Briar guys. He straightens his shoulders and turns to me. “We need an emergency meeting. I’m sending a group text. Can we do it at your place?”

“The second group is still at practice,” Shane points out.

Rand’s already pulling out his phone. “I’ll tell them to be there at noon.”

Without waiting for approval, he sends out the SOS. And that’s how a couple hours later, the living room of our townhouse is crammed with twenty-plus bodies.

Shane, Beckett, and I moved into this place last week. Our house in Eastwood was larger, but the pickings are slim for off-campus housing in Hastings, the small town closest to the Briar campus. Whereas I had my own bathroom before, now I share one with Beckett, who uses way too many products in his hair and clutters up all the counter space. For a fuckboy, he’s actually kind of a chick.

Speaking of fuckboys, Shane is a newly anointed one, and instead of paying attention to Rand, he’s texting with some girl he met at Starbucks literally an hour ago. Shane’s been trying to screw his way out of a broken heart since June. Though if you ask him, the breakup was mutual.