The Graham Effect (Campus Diaries, #1)

“What are you doing?” Garrett comes up beside me.

I scan the interior of the store until I see it—the small line formed beside another easel holding the same poster. At the front of the line is a table with stacks of CDs sitting on one side and a pile of headshots on the other. Behind the table sits an elderly man in a red plaid shirt and corn husk–yellow suspenders. Rounding out his outfit are an old-timey cap and black-rimmed frames.

“Dude, that’s Dan Grebbs,” I tell Gigi’s dad.

“Who?”

“The nature sounds guy your daughter is obsessed with. Come on, we need to get in line.”

He’s dumbfounded. “Why?”

“Because Gigi loves him, and I want to get her a signed photo. I’d get the CD too, but she probably already has this track downloaded.”

Ignoring his bemused face, I get in line, which is surprisingly long considering this is an eighty-year-old man who records nature sounds with his own equipment. Dude doesn’t even add instrumental to it, but I guess that’s part of his charm.

Garrett sighs and says, “I’ll go grab the coffee.”

The line moves slowly, so I’m still standing there when he returns with two Styrofoam cups. He hands me one.

“Black okay?”

“Great, thanks.”

He’s staring at me again.

“What?” I mutter.

“Nothing,” he says, but he keeps staring.

The line edges closer. Now I can hear what Grebbs is saying to the woman in front of him. She’s in her fifties, which seems like the appropriate age to be waiting for an autograph from this man.

“…for a lad in his late twenties still craving excitement, the Yukon was desolate. Suffocating even, despite the vast openness all around me. But once I let my mind clear, once I embraced the rush of the Klondike and the brisk kiss of the air drifting toward me from Tombstone Mountain, I was changed.”

“That is…incredible. Thank you for the work you do, Mr. Grebbs. I truly mean that.”

“It’s an honor to bring you these experiences, my dear.” He hands her a CD and headshot.

The couple after her doesn’t linger, just gets their shit signed and leaves, and soon I’m in front of Gigi’s aural idol, feeling out of place and, frankly, stupid.

But Garrett nudges me, and I step forward.

“Uh. Hi. Mr. Grebbs. Huge fan.”

From the corner of my eye, I see Garrett pressing his lips together to stop a laugh.

“Well, really, it’s my wife who’s the fan. She has all your… soundscapes.”

Garrett coughs into his hand.

“Seriously, she listens to you religiously. In the car, on her runs, when she’s meditating.”

“How wonderful.” Dan Grebbs has kind eyes. There’s something as soothing about him as his sounds.

And I will never, ever tell Gigi I just thought of his sounds as soothing. She will use that against me forever.

“What is your wife’s name, young man?”

“Gigi.” I spell it for him.

He picks up a black felt-tipped marker and bends over, studiously inscribing what looks like an essay down the entire side of his headshot. He’s wearing the plaid-and-suspenders combo in the photo. I’m pretty sure it’s the same one.

He hands it to me. “So thoughtful of you to do this for your wife.”

“Thank you.”

We step away to make room for the next fan. I roll up the headshot because I don’t want to fold it. Garrett continues to watch me.

“Quit looking at me like that,” I grumble. “I know it’s stupid.”

He just sighs, shaking his head to himself. “You really love her.”

“Till the day I die,” I say simply.

His fingers curl tight around his coffee cup. “Is she going to avoid me forever?” he asks miserably.

“I hope not. But you know her—she’s stubborn.” I shrug at him. “And she’s spent her whole life trying to please you.”

Guilt flashes in his eyes.

I’m quick to reassure him. “You didn’t put the pressure on her, I get that. She puts it on herself and she’s aware of that. But that doesn’t change the fact that all she’s ever wanted to do is make you proud.”

“I am proud. And not just because she’s good at hockey. Look, I said things in anger. But it wasn’t actually anger. It was fear.” He closes his eyes briefly. “Because I knew in that moment that I lost her. She doesn’t belong to me anymore.”

My head jerks in surprise.

“I don’t mean belonging like property,” he says gruffly.

“No, I know what you mean.”

“She’s my little girl. You’ll understand what that means one day, if you two ever have kids. If you have a daughter.”

He keeps talking as we make our way down the block toward the hotel.

“I wish she’d just let me explain things.”

“She will. Eventually.”

He gives a wry laugh. “That’s not very encouraging.”

“If you want your own personal cheerleader, I ain’t your man.”

“I figured.”

“I will talk to her again on your behalf, though. I don’t think anything good comes out of you two not talking—”

“Luke Ryder?”

A man wearing glasses and a sports coat appears in our path. Instantly, my guard shoots up ten feet.

“Yes?” I say warily.

A hungry gleam lights his eyes and suddenly he reaches into his pocket for a mini recorder that he shoves in my face.

“Do you have any comment about your father’s upcoming parole hearing?”





CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE


RYDER



Media storm


A COLD, FLUTTERY SENSATION WHISPERS THROUGH MY CHEST. IT travels south, becoming a queasy churning that makes my gut clench.

I’m stunned speechless. Not that I’m a huge talker to begin with, but in other circumstances I’d at least be able to muster a fuck you or get lost.

But I’ve got nothing.

“My sources tell me you’re refusing to speak against him at the hearing,” the reporter pushes when I don’t respond. “Are you in support of your father being released?”

He’s not the only reporter circling. Several others lurk in the hotel lobby, sharks who’ve smelled my blood. A man holding a notebook and a woman with a cameraman in tow hurry over.

“Luke Ryder?” the woman says eagerly. “Do you have any comment regarding—”

Garrett notes my expression, and his own promptly hardens to stone. He barks, “No comment,” and then lays a hand on my arm to usher me away.

In the elevator, he gives me a grave look. “What floor?”

“Nine,” I say weakly.

A few minutes later, Garrett and I walk into my room. Word of the sharks downstairs has already spread through the Briar grapevine, because several of my friends are already in the room. They alternate between eyeing me uneasily and trying not to gawk at Garrett Graham.

“Dude, there’s a bunch of reporters downstairs asking questions,” Shane says grimly.

“Yeah, just saw them.”

I take a breath and go to the mini fridge. I grab a bottle of water, but I don’t uncap it. I just press it to my forehead. I’m feeling hot. Tight with discomfort.

“What the fuck is going on?” I mutter to the guys.

Beckett speaks up from the small love seat across the room. “Your old buddy Michael Klein gave an interview last night. Clips of it went viral.”

My jaw clenches. “What did he say?”

Shane meets my eyes. “Wasn’t great.”

“What did he say?” I repeat.

My friends give me the rundown. A sports blog ran video profiles on some of the Arizona players, including Klein. When asked about his previous relationship with me, he basically painted me as a goon with a temper who went after him for no reason in the locker. Oh, but don’t worry, Mr. Martyr went on to say, “It’s all water under the bridge,” and “He’s moved past it.”

But that’s not the part that went viral. When asked whether my actions after the World Juniors shocked him, Klein said he wasn’t surprised at all, seeing as how violence runs in my family.

“Fucking hell,” Garrett mutters in disapproval.

The reporter then took that statement and eagerly ran with it. Did some digging, found out about my past, and wrote a follow-up article. A source in the Maricopa Attorney’s Office apparently told them I was refusing to attend the hearing, and now it’s being posited that I’m not speaking against my father because I want him to be released.