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But Dean Whittaker isn’t wrong about our father getting us out of sticky situations. Our dad is the Tyler Kane, legendary center for the Philadelphia Flyers, two-time Stanley Cup Champion, winner of the Hart Memorial Trophy, and now the GM for the Flyers. Whenever we get into trouble, our dad is always there to swoop in and help us out. I wish he would let us handle things on our own instead of babying us. But having a famous dad often has its perks.
No, he can’t know what we did to Professor Cox. Or Professor Martin… or shit, we have a lot of making up to do. Fuck, fuck, motherfucker. If the dean finds out about the other shit we’ve done, we are so screwed.
“You’re sitting out two games each,” Dean Whittaker says, his voice firm. He pushes his chair out from the desk and rises to his full height, staring down at us with a wicked grin. He’s taking pleasure in our pain right now, which makes me want to slap the look clean off his face.
We both groan, pissed off about the turn of events. It was supposed to be one harmless switch, no different from the many times we’ve done this in the past. Of all the times to get caught, it had to be at the start of our final season. Senior year is all about making it to the Frozen Four one last time. We need to win the NCAA Men’s Ice Hockey Championship for our team, for this city. All of us want to bring another win home, our last hurrah before we enter the NHL.
“Don’t even try to talk your way out of this,” Dean Whittaker continues, his hands shoved in the pockets of his dress slacks. “My decision is final. I’ll let Coach Bryant know you’re not allowed anywhere near the rink until you’ve served your punishment.”
Since he’s standing, Trent and I take this as a hint that we should, too. He wants us the fuck out of his office, and we’re both happy to oblige. We are at least six inches taller than the dean, so now we’re towering over him.
I push my chair in toward the desk and look over at Dean Whittaker. “Can we at least practice with the team?”
Trent remains quiet, a hopeful expression on his face. For the few seconds the dean takes to think over my question, neither of us move or breathe.
Dean Whittaker scratches his dark beard, his fingers tugging at the longer hairs that could use a trim. “I suppose that would be all right. But that’s it. Practice only. No games until your suspension is lifted. Understood?”
Trent straightens his back and smiles. “Yes, sir. You won’t regret it.”
I can’t tell if Trent is being a smart-ass or a kiss-ass, either way, the dean seems to approve of my brother’s comment.
“One more condition,” the dean says. “You can practice with your team, but I want you to attend at least one school function, and it cannot be a sporting event or anything directly related.”
“Okay,” I mutter, somewhat deflated. Neither of us cares about school events that are not sports related. “What do you have in mind?”
“The sisterhood of Kappa Delta needs help building the booth for their annual Kisses for Cancer fundraiser. You are to report to the chapter house on Sunday morning at nine o’clock sharp. No exceptions. No excuses. And don’t be late.”
Irritated, we both agree to show on time, and then Dean Whittaker nods his head. “Now, get out of my office. I don’t want to see either of you in here again this semester.”
We leave his office in silence, both of us too annoyed, still thinking over what just happened. Taking the stairs three at a time, we slip past the people coming upstairs, dodging them as we pass. Once we’re outside of Liberty Hall, Trent slaps me on the back, his touch so forceful and unexpected I step forward to maintain my balance.
“Dude, what the fuck? We weren’t supposed to get caught.”
I turn to face him and shrug. “Give me a break. How was I supposed to know your crazy stalker is in my class?”
He shakes his head, not the least bit amused. “What are we gonna do now? Two games. That’s harsh.”
I shrug. “There’s nothing we can do. Coach won’t let us play if the dean calls him. And he looked serious this time, so I doubt we’re getting out of this.”
“Dad will kill us if he finds out.”
“Then, we better make sure he doesn’t find out,” I quip.
“He’ll know if he comes to the game and we’re not there.”
“Nah, we’re good. The next two games the Flyers are playing at home. Dad won’t even notice. Not unless Coach Bryant opens his mouth.”
“You know he’ll find out from someone. It’s like he has eyes and ears all over this campus.” He groans in frustration, blowing out a puff of air. “And now we have to build shit for a bunch of sorority chicks.”
