The Graham Effect (Campus Diaries, #1)

ON A WEEKEND IN MID-NOVEMBER, THE MEN AND WOMEN’S TEAM schedules line up where we’re both playing the University of Maine. There are only a few dozen Division I schools in women’s hockey, which means we’re constantly playing the same teams throughout the season, often on back-to-back nights. So it’s always refreshing to face a new opponent like Maine. The men play Saturday, while the women play both nights. Either way, it’s a long enough drive from Briar that it means…

“Road trip, baby,” Camila says happily as she flops onto the twin bed next to mine. Our team manager is the one who comes up with the room assignments, and this season I’ve been paired with Cami. I don’t mind it, except that sometimes she talks in her sleep and doesn’t believe me when I tell her.

It’s game day, so I just finished a low-protein, heavy-carb meal, and now I’m nursing a sports drink until we need to go down to the bus. The hotel is about twenty minutes from the rink. It’s an early game, starting at four thirty, so we’ll have the rest of the night to ourselves, which Camila is all about.

“Should we hit up a club?” she suggests, rolling onto her stomach and scissoring her legs as she scrolls through her phone. “Does Portland have any good clubs? I’ve never actually bothered to check.”

“I say we go to the club after tomorrow night’s game. We should do dinner or something low-key tonight.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

She answers a phone call, so I head downstairs without her. Coach Adley and his staff are probably already in the lobby waiting to herd everyone onto the bus. When I step out of the elevator and start walking, a stocky man with glasses and a beard intercepts my path.

“Gigi Graham.”

I look over. “Hi.” He looks vaguely familiar.

“Al Dustin.” He extends his hand. “Assistant coach for Team USA.”

My heart speeds up. Oh my God.

I try to hide my eagerness. “Right. Yes, sorry. Good to see you again. I think you were at our exhibition game back in September. With Coach Fairlee.”

“Yes, we were.”

“Are you just visiting Portland, or here to watch our games this weekend?”

“Here for the games. But don’t worry, Brad’s not with me.” He winks. “So you can relax, let your guard down.”

I laugh sheepishly. “Yeah, he makes me nervous. Is it that obvious?”

“Nothing to be nervous about, kid. I caught some tape of your last game,” Dustin tells me, nodding in approval. “Excellent puck protection behind the net.”

I feel myself blushing with pleasure. Yes. Someone’s noticing. I make a mental note to thank Ryder.

“And while I’m not the one with the final say on our roster…” He smiles again. “I don’t think you have anything to worry about. Just throwing that out there.”

I force myself not to break out in a happy dance, but it’s difficult. Because if he’s implying what I think he’s implying, then I’m going to be receiving a call from Brad Fairlee one of these days.

“Anyway, looking forward to seeing you play live this weekend. Good luck out there.”

“Thanks.”

I’m still riding the high of that conversation during the game, which ends up being far less competitive than expected. Meaning, we kick their butts. I don’t know if it’s the cloud of exhilaration I’m on, or if Whitney and I are just in perfect sync, but we’re making the kind of plays you see on a professional level. By third period, Coach Adley benches the first and second lines. He gives the third and fourth lines the extra ice time, because there’s no way Maine is going to make up a five-goal deficit in the time remaining.

There’s loud celebration in the locker room afterward. When I check my phone, I find a text of congratulations from my dad. Our games might not be televised, but they’re all taped, and Dad always manages to call in favors so he can watch them live from home.

When the bus returns to the hotel, I get a message from Ryder.

RYDER:

Hey. Are you able to get away from the girls? I’ve got something to show you.

ME:

Is it your dick?

RYDER:

Of course, but we’ll do that later. I’m in Portland.

ME:

I thought you weren’t arriving till tomorrow!

RYDER:

I came up early.

Next thing I know, he calls me. I step away from my teammates, who are all filing into the hotel lobby.

His husky voice fills my ear. “Sorry. Easier to call. I told Jensen I had an appointment in Portland, so the school sprung for an extra night at the hotel for me.”

“Wait, you’re in the hotel?” My heart skips a beat. “Right now?”

“Yeah. Did you pack a dress by any chance?”

“Yes…” I say suspiciously.

“Go put it on. And be quick. We don’t want to miss it.”

“Miss what?”

“Meet you in the lobby in fifteen,” he says without answering.

I’m intrigued.

Ryder is not Mr. Spontaneous, so I definitely want to see where this is going.

I tell the girls I’m bailing on dinner, and fifteen minutes later I stride into the lobby in a little black dress, very little makeup, and with my hair down. His eyes flare with appreciation when I approach. He’s wearing black pants and a dark gray sweater, his dark hair artfully tousled as usual.

“Come on, we gotta get out of here quick,” I urge, already heading across the lobby. “My teammates are coming down for dinner soon. Someone might see us.”

He trails after me, hands in his pockets. “God forbid.”

“Oh, are you ready for Case to hate you five seconds after you two called a truce?”

Ryder flinches. “Good point.”

As we quickly exit the hotel, I’m sure to keep three feet between us in the event that we are spotted.

“I can’t believe you actually brought a dress with you,” he says with a grin.

“I always have one on hand these days. My aunt Summer is a fashion designer, and she has this strict rule that any time you travel, you should bring an LBD with you. Little black dress,” I clarify at his raised brow. “I used to think it was a silly rule, but a couple years ago I was in New York for the weekend, and my cousin Alex and I were invited to a runway show at the last minute. The only outfit I had with me was jeans and a shirt that said…wait for it…Hockey players like it rough.”

He throws his head back and laughs. “You’re lying.”

“Nope. Google it. It’s actually on all those official stock photo sites. Me sitting in the front row with my aunt and cousin, and I’m wearing that ridiculous shirt. They’ve never let me live it down.”

He’s still chuckling as we slide into the back seat of an Uber. I still have no idea where we’re going, and I don’t know Portland well enough to recognize any of the streets we drive on.

“Where is this mystery ride taking us?” I ask him.

“Nowhere, really.” He’s the epitome of innocence, his large warm palm against my bare knee.

And he’s freshly shaved, when normally he’d be rocking a five o’clock shadow. I check him out from the corner of my eye, resisting the urge to run my fingers over his smooth jaw. It’s so chiseled. I think I like him clean shaven. Although I also wonder what he looks like with full facial hair. Like a scruffy, glorious god, I bet.

When the car comes to a stop and I notice where we are, my jaw drops. The bright, shining marquee in front of the theater advertises we’re here for a production of Samson and Delilah.

My mouth drops open. “Oh my God. You’re taking me to the opera?”

Ryder shrugs. “You said it’s the only date you’re interested in going on.”

“I was lying.”

“Yeah, I know.” His eyes gleam. “And now you’re being punished for it.”

“You are such an asshole,” I say, but I’m laughing.

I’m also downright astounded. I can’t believe he brought me here.

“It already started, though. Curtain was at seven thirty. We missed a lot already.”