Power Plays & Straight A's (CU Hockey 1)

“Yes. Thank you.” Thank you? What in sweet hell am I thanking him for? My cheeks are basically blazing at this point, and I remind myself emotion is transient. Emotion is controllable.

But chemistry isn’t.

And the explosion of it that short-circuits my nerve endings when Foster’s around is completely out of my control.

“Having a rough start?” Foster asks, clearly trying to backtrack on his original statement.

“Your attempt at relating is useless when I’m still the one wearing bird shit.” I hurry to pick up my coffee, which is thankfully unsoiled, and start back in what I hope is the direction of Albany Hall.

Positives, Zach. Positives …

To hell with positives. Why is this happening to me?

Foster easily matches my quick strides. “I’d say you’re shit out of luck this morning.”

“And I’d say you’re hilarious. Except. Oh yes. Still covered.”

“I can see that.”

I risk a quick look in his direction to find him staring at my face. Well, the mess on my face. He gives me a wide grin. The kind of smile he’s always teased me with, that makes my knees turn the consistency of Jell-O. “Is there any reason you’re continuing to torment me? I’m attempting to make a getaway.”

“Yeah. My day just got a whole lot more interesting.”

“I’m glad I could be of service to you.” Now where on earth is my dorm?

“You look lost.”

“I’m not.”

He smirks but stays silent.

“I’m not.”

“Well it’s a good thing you’re not heading for Albany Hall, then.”

I pull out my phone. Yup. Wrong way. Again. “I’m taking the scenic route.”

Foster laughs, and I have to swallow around the lump building in my throat.

Wait.

I stop suddenly. “How did you know which dorm is mine?”

“Lucky guess?” His deep brown eyes flick left.

Oh no. No, no, no. “You were looking for me.”

“No offense, Zach, but why would I be looking for you?”

“Seth told you I was coming here, didn’t he?”

“Ah …” He scratches his neck. “It might have come up.”

It “came up”? I’d bet it came up when Seth asked Foster to keep an eye on me. I press my lips tight to keep the frustration inside. “Well you can report back that you checked in, and I’m fine—”

“Minus the bird shit.”

“Yes, minus the hilarious bird shit. I’d appreciate it if you left that part out.”

Something crosses Foster’s face that I don’t want to delve into right now. If it’s sympathy or pity, I don’t want to know. I also can’t stand here looking at him much longer anyway because I’m mentally tallying all the ways he’s grown up since spring break when I saw him last. I’d stayed in Vermont with Seth’s family instead of flying home to Wisconsin. How can Foster have gotten that much more attractive?

“Well …” He kicks the path as his attention catches on a group of guys heading in our direction wearing navy and silver windbreakers. Ugh. Hockey players. “I’m here if you need me.”

“I appreciate the sentiment.” Even if it is an empty one. “And I know Seth thinks I need babysitting, but contrary to that, I can look after myself. There should be no reason why we’d need to cross paths.”

Foster frowns. “If that’s how you want it.”

“It is.” I flee before his friends have the chance to catch up to us.

I’d like to get through today with the tiniest bit of dignity I have left.

“What was on that kid’s face?” I hear one of the guys ask.

So much for dignity.

3

Foster

Ah. Classes. Oh, how I’ve not missed them.

I love this campus. Staying here over summer break when all I had to do was play hockey was amazing. Now it’s back to lecture halls and essays.

Fun times.

Though, thanks to Seth and his organizational wizardry, he showed me how to plan my four-year degree so I could defer all the easy subjects and take the senior classes earlier, giving me more time this year to focus on hockey and the NHL contract I’m chasing instead of academics.

I enter the lecture hall for a junior sports psychology class, and my teammate Jacobs waves me over to where he’s sitting in the middle row.

Someone bumps into me from behind. “Sorr—”

I turn and stare down into the green eyes of the guy who apparently wants nothing to do with me. “Zach?”

He adjusts his thick-framed glasses. “F-foster. What are you …” He glances around the class that’s rapidly filling with mostly jocks, then slumps. “Sports psychology. Should’ve figured.”

“What are you—”

“Everyone take your seats.” The loud, booming voice of Professor Lawrence fills the space.

I expect Zach to leave, but instead, he follows the professor down to the floor and sits at the desk in front.

“Mr. Grant, unless you intend to stand for the next ninety-minutes, would you mind finding a spot?” Professor Lawrence asks.

He had me freshman year for a class I dropped after only a week. Clearly, I’m memorable.