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“Fine, just your face. How’s the roommate situation going?” Thanks to Matt’s popular social stream, the entire team knows I’m living with Laney Price. Word even got to Coach, who made a point of sternly warning me not to stir up World War III.
“Well, last night I slept on the smallest couch ever invented, so . . . not great, man. Not great.” I nod to him and he readies himself in the goal. I take a few shots and slip one by him, which pisses him off. Good. He called my shots shit, and I don’t think he was sincere when he took that back.
“You just going to let her have the room, then?”
I grimace at him because while that would definitely be the less stressful route to take, I’d still be left with nowhere to stay. The couch is not a permanent solution, and I doubt anyone wants to see me transforming the living room into air mattress central. The two-plus hours to drive from my mom’s house down south to campus isn’t an option either, so, no . . . I’m in this to win it.
“I was being a gentleman. Tonight, it’s her turn.” I tap the ice and line up another puck. Chuck sinks into position, and I send the puck to the back of the net through the slight space he left under his five hole.
“Damn it!” He tosses his glove on the ice and tips his mask up. “I’m done for the day. I’m frustrated.”
Too bad. I’m frustrated too, and this was helping.
Chuck and I skate in and hit the showers. I leave him to grumble on his own since I have my first photography class in twenty minutes. Apparently, every Tiff student has to complete two art credits, something I seem to have put off finishing the second part of until my senior year. It feels inconsequential in terms of a business degree, but since I would like the diploma in case I’m not as fortunate as my brothers in terms of going pro, I opted for photography. I’ve always had a good eye for composition, and my dad had a lot of camera gear. I breezed through the intro class last year, and the advanced classes are mostly project-based, so I should be able to knock out my assignments around my game schedule.
I make it to class with about two minutes to spare, and since I’m the last to arrive and barely fit into the desk-chair setups this school insists on using, I gain everyone’s full attention as I fumble my way into my seat. I blow up at the hair dangling over my brow and lift a hand from the desktop when my gaze meets the pair of wide eyes on the girl sitting across from me.
“How ya doin’?”
She flashes me a quick smile, then immediately ducks her head and stares at her phone in her lap, long blonde hair swooping around her face like curtains closing.
Okay, then.
Our instructor pulls the door closed as she enters the room and she immediately starts handing out papers. “Welcome to Advanced Portrait Photography. I’m Nadia Kaufman, and I will be your assignment editor for the semester.”
I scratch at my head as I peruse the checklist she just handed me. It’s a list of events on campus as well as names of people, and a few stand out to me—Max Syme, our best defender on the hockey team, and Laney Price.
“Everyone will need to complete portrait sessions with two different people on this list. We’re doing the administration a favor this semester. All of your work in this class will be used for the various athletic department promo pieces as well as the media guide. What you come up with and create with your subjects is not only a reflection on your ability and your grade, but it is a reflection on Tiff University as well. So . . . no pressure, folks. You have the month to complete this first assignment, and of course use of the tech room and any gear you may need to check out. ”
A tall, slender woman in a pair of black overalls that make her somehow look both artsy and like a model at the same time, our teacher stops her pacing at the front of the class and crosses her ankles as she leans into the podium.
“Any questions?” She arches a brow.
I glance around the room, not wanting to be the first person to speak. It becomes clear pretty quickly, though, that I’m the only extravert in this room.
“Can we pick from the list now?” I finally utter.
“First come, first served,” she says.
I nod and glance back down at the paper to give myself one more gut check before verbally committing. It seems too good of an opportunity to pass up. Forced time together with Laney, her image in my hands. She’s going to have to trust me to some degree.
“I’ll take Laney Price and Matt Syme.”
“They’re yours,” she says, swiping a pen across her copy of the list.
Laney is mine.
An evil laugh echoes around the inside of my head at the thought.
The rest of the class divvies up the remaining names before we spend the rest of the hour on lighting review and looking at portrait samples.
I go right from class to practice, and Coach runs us long since we have a big match-up coming this weekend. By the time I make it to my Jeep, I’ve got three missed phone calls from my mom. Missing one of her calls always slams my chest with instant panic and guilt. I call her back as soon as I pull out of the lot.
“Oh, hell. I’m sure I worried you, Cutter. I’m fine. I was trying to remember how to log in to the damn streaming service you set up on the TV,” my mom says, rather than just answering with, “Hello.”
“It’s fine. Yeah, I worried, but I’m glad you’re okay. Do you still need help getting logged in?” My mom is not very tech-savvy. She’s spent her life working as a craft instructor at thelocal art shop. She can spin her own yarn, but she can’t make a Facebook account to save her life.
“Maybe tomorrow. I gave up, and I might have broken the remote.”
