Keeping Kane (Face-Off Legacy/Campus Kings 2)

One

Tucker

This dude might explode. Dean Whittaker’s face is so flushed, his cheeks puffed out like a chipmunk, his skin turning an odd shade a red. He leans forward, hands folded on his desk, the life draining from his knuckles.

“Behavior like this will not be tolerated at Strickland University,” he growls, his bottom lip twitching from anger.

I try not to smile. But damn, it’s hard. Trent stares at him with a straight face. I do the same.

“We won’t do it again,” I promise, even though it’s a complete lie.

“Never,” Trent chimes, a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. “That was the last time.”

We started switching places when we were kids. If one of us needed help passing a class, and the other was decent at the subject, we would swap for the day. Almost no one can tell us apart. I’m older than Trent by two minutes, identical in every way that counts. We’re both six feet four inches of solid muscle and have the same white-blond hair, except I keep mine spiky in the front.

Only our close friends and teammates know I’m Tucker. It’s frustrating to constantly have people stare at us, wondering which one is which. Like we don’t have our own identity. Everyone on campus calls us the Kane twins—the guys on our hockey team included. I guess so they don’t have to remember our names.

Dean Whittaker sinks into his executive leather chair and fixes his tie, loosening it around his neck. “Professor Cox was very upset about the two of you switching places on him.”

Trent coughs at the mention of Professor Cox, covering up his laughter. I turn my head to the side, so the dean doesn’t notice my stupid smirk. It’s impossible not to laugh when a man who has a head that looks like a bulging cock is named Cox. It’s unfortunate for him, but also slightly entertaining for us.

“It won’t happen again,” Trent says, the lie present on his lips. “You have our word.”

We will do this again. Even when we say we’re going to stop, it’s like an addiction we can’t kick. It’s too easy to fill in for the other when we’re in a bind.

“You’ve said that before.” Dean Whittaker sucks in a deep breath and blows it out, causing a few papers in front of him to fall on the floor behind his desk. “I’ve given both of you a lot more leeway than other students because of who your father is.”

The mention of our dad makes my stomach knot. He will kick our asses up and down this campus if he finds out we did this again. Swapping places is normal for us. We do it so often we don’t even bother to care about the morality of it all, not when most people can’t even get our names right. It’s like our way of saying, ‘Shame on you for not being able to tell us apart.’

“We appreciate all of your help,” Trent says. He’s always the suck up, the one who usually talks our way out of trouble. “But please don’t involve our dad. We will do anything to make it right.”

Dean Whittaker cocks his head in Trent’s direction. “You two are not getting away with this. Not this time. You will be punished for your actions.” He takes a sip from the coffee cup in front of him that reads ‘Like a Boss,’ and glares at each of us, his eyes cold and serious. “The only thing that either of you seems to care about is hockey…” he pauses, “… so maybe you need to have it taken away from you to understand your actions have consequences.”

I gasp at his comment.

Trent slides forward in his chair and holds out his palm. “Please don’t. This is our last year. We need all the playing time we can get if we’re going to make it pro.”

Since birth, my brother and I have been groomed by our father to become hockey players. We never wanted to play another sport. Hockey was it for us, and the game loved us back. Like fucking hell we’re going to have it taken away, all because of Professor Cox being a dick about a little switch-a-roo.

“I’m sure missing a few games won’t hurt either of you, not when your father is the general manager of the Flyers.” Dean Whittaker’s tone is serious, his voice level. “I bet he can pull a few strings, just like he does every time you mess up.”

His words cut through my chest like a machete, slicing deep. He has no idea how condescending and insulting one comment can be to either of us. Trent and I have worked hard to get where we are in our careers. Nothing was served to us on a silver platter when it comes to hockey. We earned for our spots on the Strickland Senators. Coach Bryant didn’t hand us a jersey, or our places on the first line, because our dad made a phone call.