The Graham Effect (Campus Diaries, #1)

“Yessir.”

Two long tables are set up at the head of the spacious room with a podium between them. I settle in a chair between Colson and Demaine. Coach sits at the far end of the table, a slim binder in front of him. Talking points courtesy of Briar’s PR gurus, I assume.

At the Arizona table is their head coach, team captain, and two assistant captains, one of whom is Michael Klein. I don’t even spare the curly-haired guy a look. I sense him watching me, but he doesn’t deserve acknowledgment.

To my relief, the first question, posed by a college sports blog, is about Briar’s season and how we turned it around to reach this point. Colson fields that one. He’s good with the crowd. Easygoing and articulate. The next question is directed at the Arizona captain. I’m starting to think I’ll get out of this unscathed when a female journalist addresses me.

“Some very shocking details were revealed about your family yesterday. Do you believe this will affect your mental state today?”

Jensen looks ready to intervene, but I lean toward the microphone to answer. “You say ‘shocking’ and ‘were revealed’ as if my background was a secret, something I was trying to keep hidden. It wasn’t. Anyone with a computer or phone could have known about my family history prior to yesterday. The fact that a bunch of people are talking about it now makes no difference to me. My head is always in the game.”

Shockingly, she drops it and nobody else asks about my parents.

One annoying reporter, however, does decide to bring up the other elephant in the room.

“Michael, the last time you and Luke were on the ice together, you were teammates in the World Juniors. That particular encounter ended poorly, is that fair to say?”

“Poorly?” he echoes derisively. “I ended up in the hospital.”

“It’s evident there’s still plenty of residual tension here,” the intrepid reporter hedges, looking between us. “Have you two spoken since Worlds, and have or are you willing to bury the hatchet?”

Klein just laughs into the mic.

The sound is grating and raises my hackles. Asshole.

I’m not the only one irritated by him. From the corner of my eye, I see Case lean into his microphone.

“I have a question,” Colson says. With a raised eyebrow, he looks toward the Arizona table. “For you, Klein.”

My former teammate narrows his eyes. His coach tries to intercede, but Colson speaks before he can.

“What’d you say to Ryder in the locker room to get your jaw broken? Because I’ve played with this guy all season, and he’s got the patience of a saint and the composure of a brick wall.”

There’s a beat of silence. Klein notices the room watching him intently and realizes he needs to provide some sort of answer.

Finally, he speaks through gritted teeth. “I don’t recall what was said that day.”

A curious woman in the front row addresses me. “Do you recall what was said, Luke?”

I flick my gaze toward Klein. Normally I would keep my mouth shut. Avoid the petty temptation. But his mocking laughter still rings in my ears. And this stain on my record that’s followed me for years has finally become too much to bear.

Being with Gigi has taught me that sometimes you simply need to let things out, so I shrug, moving close to the mic again.

“He said my mom deserved to die and that my father should’ve shot me in the head too.”

My response brings a whole lot of silence.

A few of the journalists look startled; others appear disgusted. In his seat, Klein’s face is bright red. His hand fumbles for the base of the mic, but his coach shakes his head in warning as if to say, Not a fucking word. Because nothing good will come out of Michael Klein trying to defend those statements.

I remember it vividly, though. Still hear it knocking around in my head sometimes.

Michael and I were always butting heads. Our personalities just never meshed from the get-go, mostly because Klein has a hair-trigger temper and an insecurity-fueled need to be the big banana. He wanted to be recognized as the best player on the team and was furious that I was better than him. We won the World Juniors because of the goal I scored. That ate him up inside.

I don’t even remember what started the argument in the locker room. Just normal trash talk at first. I ignored him, which only pissed him off further. He grabbed my arm when I wouldn’t pay him any attention. I shoved him off me. Told him he was a loud, whiny prick. Then he spit out that line about my mother and I snapped.

I don’t regret it. Even now, having to endure a bunch of strangers asking me about it in a press conference, I don’t regret wiring that asshole’s jaw shut.

And I’m going to enjoy every second of beating him tonight.





FIRED UP WITH JOSH TURNER


EXCERPT FROM OWEN MCKAY INTERVIEW TRANSCRIPT



ORIGINAL AIR DATE: 4/22

? THE SPORTS BROADCAST CORPORATION


OWEN MCKAY: YOU KNOW, JOSH, I SORT OF RESENT THAT QUESTION. Briar University just won the National Championship. Shouldn’t that be what we’re focusing on right now? What we’re celebrating? Why don’t you ask me how it feels knowing my little brother scored the winning goal in the Frozen Four? Because I’ll tell you—it felt damn good.

JOSH TURNER: I get where you’re coming from, and I certainly don’t begrudge their achievement. It’s a great feat. I’m simply reading questions from the live chat, Owen. The audience is asking this, not me.

MCKAY: Understood, but neither me nor my brother owe your audience, or anyone else for that matter, a comment regarding our father. We were both young when he went to prison. We haven’t had contact with him since, and we don’t ever plan to. We also have no interest in rehashing our past with the world. And yes, I feel comfortable speaking for my brother right now.

TURNER: I see… Hmm… Hank Horace from Tennessee wants to know if you can comment on the current state of the justice system in America, specifically the parole process— MCKAY: No. Next question.

TURNER: All right… Oh, here’s a fun one. What is your go-to beauty routine, Sandy Elfman from California is asking. Are there any men’s products you would recommend?





CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO


GIGI



Your husband


“I THINK IT’S WEIRD THAT YOU’RE MARRIED, AND I’M NEVER GOING to understand it,” Mya declares as she watches me wander around our common room in search of my keys.

“It’s weird, yes, but eventually it will stop being weird and you’ll realize it makes perfect sense.”

She stubbornly shakes her head. “You’re twenty-one. Who gets married when they’re twenty-one? This isn’t the Middle Ages!”

“I’m pretty sure the chicks in the Middle Ages got married when they were, like, twelve. I’m a spinster compared to them. My mother would be fainting with relief, and Dad would be getting the smelling salts if they managed to marry off their old maid daughter.”

But I get it. We’re young. And it’ll definitely take a while for all my friends to get on board. The only one who seems totally unruffled by my elopement is Diana, but nothing ever ruffles her. She’s already talking about double dates with her and Sir Percival. Somehow those two are still together, though he’s sounding more and more controlling the more details she gives about him. I don’t love that.

“Oh my God, where are my keys!” I groan in frustration.

“Oh, is that what you were looking for? They’re right there.”

I glare at her in outrage and walk over to snatch them up. “You could have saved me so much time right now.”

“Where are you going? Plans with the hubby?” she mocks.