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Like it’s a cue he was waiting for, the professor looks up, carries a stack of papers toward the front row, and drops them down in front of a girl with curly black hair. “Pass those around, please,” he says, before returning to the front of the room.
“Good morning, everyone. Welcome to Abstract Algebra. I’ve had most of you before. But for those who are new faces—”
I’m pretty sure he’s referring to mine, since everyone else seems to know each other.
“I am Professor Nelson. In addition to teaching several classes in the Mathematics department, I am also its chair. Should you have any questions about major requirements or senior theses, I am an excellent person to ask. I hope you all had wonderful winter breaks.” He pauses, meaningfully. “And I hope you’re all refreshed and ready to focus. The syllabus is going around. We’ll start by reviewing that, then reminders on set theory.”
I glance at Theo. He smiles.
And just like that, I’m a student at the school I once considered my last choice.
CHAPTER FIVE
AIDAN
Icy air burns my lungs as I inhale deeply, trying to focus on Coach as he runs through our schedule for the rest of the week. It’s hard, since my legs feel like limp noodles and I know that Hart will make sure I’m wherever I need to show up this week. The mechanic he recommended hasn’t been able to figure out what’s wrong with my truck yet, so I’m still reliant on him and Hunter chauffeuring me around like a little kid.
I went hard today to make up for Sunday’s shitty performance during practice. It paid off several times, but it also means my muscles are trembling from exertion. I’m in great shape, just not the kind where I can skate as hard as I did tonight and not feel it afterward. Usually, it’s a push I reserve for games. But our next one isn’t until Saturday, and I felt some pressure to prove to Coach I’m capable of more than I’ve showed him lately. To make him not regret his efforts to keep me on the team and ensure I walk across the stage in May. To not be the unreliable, irresponsible guy most know me to be.
Coach wraps things up.
Our huddle breaks, everyone skating toward the open door that leads off the ice.
“Gaffney’s?” Hunter suggests to my left.
“Fuck yeah,” I answer.
The best part of Tuesdays are the half price wings and pints at the most popular campus bar. My tired muscles gain new strength as I imagine taking a bite of crispy chicken and washing it down with a cold beer. Fucking delicious.
I shower and change, then chug a Gatorade while I wait for Conor to finish getting dressed. The only upside of relying on him as my means of transit is that I don’t have to stay sober. One pint is my maximum tonight, though. Sunday’s hangover is a fresh, painful memory.
Most of the guys end up in the Gaffney’s parking lot. Every team I’ve been part of at Holt has been close-knit, but this year’s is exceptional. We’re gelled, we’re focused, we’re electric. Win or lose, I’ll be sad to see this season end. It’ll be the end of my hockey career, and all I won’t miss is the bruising. My side still hurts, but at least I was fast enough to escape any checks today. Once it heals, I’ll be back in fighting shape.
I walk inside behind Hart, who suddenly takes off to the right.
I’m confused until I spot Harlow sitting at one of the high-top tables with a group of girls. Conor immediately lays one on her, and it’s not a quick peck, more like he’s trying to fuse their tongues together.
A few of the guys around me hoot and holler, drawing the attention of anyone who wasn’t already looking, which appears to be approximately no one.
I follow Hunter over to the long table we always occupy. Stacey, one of the waitresses, immediately rushes over to take our order. I get my usual—a dozen wings and an IPA—flirting backwith her until my full bladder commands me to stand and head for the restrooms.
Clayton Thomas, the star—and I usestarvery loosely—of the basketball team is washing his hands when I walk in.
“Hey, Phillips,” he greets, looking slightly nervous.
Probably because he knows who I’m best friends with and is also aware that he’s high on Conor’s least favorite people list due to some shit he pulled with Harlow. I don’t have any issue with Thomas personally, but I’m firmly on Conor’s side with whatever happened. Thankfully, working things out with Harlow seems to have mellowed Hart out when it comes to anything off the ice.
“Hey, Thomas. How’s it going?”
“Not bad.” He grabs a paper towel and dries his hands. “Last home game is next week, which is hard to believe.”
“Wow. Just one left?”
“Two, technically. We’re playing Edgewood in the first round of the playoffs, and we all know how that’ll go.”
Yeah. The basketball team is notoriously terrible. I’ve heard Thomas is semi-decent, but the rest of the team is not.
“You never know.”
