MY PLANNER IS IN TOTAL, irreparable chaos and I’m irritated as hell.

This is the opposite of the Friday feeling people so famously love. Today was going to be a problem-free day; I woke up under a beautiful man, and the rest of my day was planned to perfection. Gym, college, training with Aaron, dinner, and finally, dancing until my feet hurt at whichever party sounded the most fun.

I even had the option to see Ryan again and concentrate on scratching those mutual itches while he’s still got time.

But according to the very passive-aggressive email I received, David Skinner, Maple Hills Director of Sport, doesn’t give a flying fuck about my planner or my training schedule, and he certainly doesn’t give a fuck about my sex life.

Why else would he universally cancel training and drag every student athlete to the worst corner of campus?

This building is where all the coaches lurk and plot how to make us all miserable. When I posted a picture this morning that said just enjoy where you are now, I didn’t realize where I was going to be was a huge line of students trying to get into the awards room.

I’m lost in angry, borderline murderous thoughts when two muscular arms wrap around my waist from behind, and I feel lips press gently against the crown of my head. Instantly knowing it’s Ryan, I settle into his embrace and tilt my head back to look at him. He moves to peck a kiss to my forehead, and sure, I might feel a little better. “Hey, beautiful girl.”

“I’m stressed,” I grumble, looking ahead to watch the line shuffle along. “And you’re cutting in line. You’re going to get into trouble.”

Gripping my shoulders, he spins me around to face him. His long finger nudging under my chin, tilting my head up to meet his gigantic height. When I think he can’t be any freaking cuter, he brushes my hair from my face and smiles at me. “You control the planner, Stas. The planner doesn’t control you.”

“You’re still cutting in line.”

He chuckles, shrugging. “You were holding my spot for me. That’s what I told everyone I pushed past. Come on, what sickeningly motivational quote did you post today? Do we need to revisit it?”

Ryan and I started hooking up last year when we met at a party and were beer pong partners. Naturally, we won because we’re the most stubborn and competitive people within a hundred-mile radius of Maple Hills. The next day he slid into my DMs, joking he wasn’t expecting to find someone who plays drinking games so aggressively preaching about positive vibes only on their social media pages.

Since then, whenever I’m grumpy or fed up, he reminds me I’m supposed to be a ray of sunshine.

Dick.

“Well?” he asks, guiding me along as we get closer to the entrance. “It was about stopping to enjoy the moment you’re in.”

His smile widens when he realizes he’s got me. “Okay, yeah, I can work with that. It sucks practice was canceled, but, if you enjoy the moment, you’re hanging out with me and I’m great.”

Folding my arms across my chest, I try my hardest to stop the smile trying to break through, continuing to pretend he’s not having a blind bit of impact on my mood. “Hmm.”

“Tough crowd, jeez. As soon as we get out of here, I’ll take you for food, and later, there’s a hockey party we can hit to let you blow off all your stress-y energy.”

“What else?” I let him spin me back around now we’re only a few people away from finally getting into the room, and his hands stay on my shoulders.

“I’ll take you home and let you take out any remaining stress on my body?”

“With a bat?”

His fingers sink into my tense muscles, rhythmically working out every knot as I roll my head side to side. “Kinky. Will you dress up as Harley

Quinn too?”

He grunts loudly as my elbow sinks into his ribs, which is ridiculously dramatic, because my elbow is definitely hurting more.

After what feels like a lifetime of waiting, we finally make it through the entrance to the awards room. Instead of normal round tables, the room has row upon row of chairs all facing the stage.

What the hell is going on?

Ignoring my immediate concern, Ryan insists I enjoy the moment, which roughly translates to me being forced to sit with the basketball team. So now I’m wedged between Ryan and Mason Wright, his teammate, who make my respectable five-foot-four-inch body look like one of an overgrown toddler.

“Chip?”

I struggle to look at the bag of Lays being shoved under my nose, but they smell like barbeque flavor, which Ryan knows is my favorite. “I’m good, thanks.”

He leans forward to dig in the bag at his feet, rustling loudly, not caring people are staring at us. Throwing himself back into his seat with a huff, he holds out a packet. “Cookie?”

“No, thank you. I’m not hungry.” I’m trying not to draw attention to us again, but it’s hard to ignore the look of disappointment on his face. “Don’t look at me like that. Regionals are right around the corner; I can’t gain weight.”

Ryan slouches in his seat so our heads are level, and he leans in to give us more privacy. His breath dances across my skin as his lips hover beneath my ear, sending a wave of goose bumps across my entire body.

“As someone who throws you around quite a lot, I feel like I’m qualified to say this: if that jackass isn’t able to cope if your weight fluctuates a few pounds, which is perfectly normal by the way, he shouldn’t be your partner.”

“We’re not having this conversation again, Ryan.”

“Sta—” he starts, cutting himself off when Director Skinner finally strolls onto the stage, squinting under the spotlights. Ryan sits back up straight and rests his hand on my thigh, squeezing softly. “Maybe we will need a bat later.”

The high-pitched squeal of the microphone turning on echoes around the room, causing everyone to wince. Skinner has taken his place behind

the podium but hasn’t managed to force a smile yet.

He’s aged a lot in the time I’ve studied at UCMH. He previously looked approachable and eager, but now, with the disdain he’s sporting deepening the lines on his forehead, he looks anything but.

“Good afternoon, everyone. Thank you for taking the time to come here on such short notice. I’m sure you’re all wondering why you’re here.”

I don’t know why he’s pretending like the email didn’t have the word

compulsory in bold, capital letters.

Skinner shrugs off his suit jacket, hanging it over the chair behind him, sighing as he turns to face us all again. He drags a hand over his thinning, gray hair, which I swear was thick and black when I was a freshman.

“There’s a certain expectation when dealing with college students. It’s a given there will be some level of chaos as you begin your lives as adults away from home.” He sighs again, his exhaustion clear. “When you add competitive sport into the mix, the balance changes as you try to manage your skill against the authentic college experience.”

Well, this is patronizing. It feels like he made his secretary write this little speech, and he practiced it in the mirror a few times. If Brin were here, she’d be highly critical of his performance.

“Some of you have been enjoying the college experience a little too much.”

Here. We. Go.

“In the five years I’ve been Director of Sport, I have dealt with countless avoidable situations. Out of control parties, medical expenses due to students behaving recklessly on campus, more pranks than I can count, unplanned pregnancy, an—”

The noise of Michael Fletcher’s chair scraping across the floor rings out as he springs to his feet.

“Mr. Fletcher, please take a seat.”

Fletch ignores him, bending to grab his bag from the floor instead. He stomps toward the exit, pushing both doors open forcefully and leaving the room.

I don’t know a lot about football, but everyone says Fletch is the best linebacker this college has ever seen and is practically guaranteed a spot in the NFL when he graduates.

More importantly, he’s an incredibly proud father to his little girl Diya, who he had with his girlfriend, Prishi, last year.

Prishi was on the skate team with me before she accidentally fell pregnant at the start of her junior year. When I asked her if she’d be returning, she said her bladder isn’t what it used to be after pushing out a nine-pound baby, and she didn’t fancy peeing on the ice in front of an audience.

They live together with their friends, and everyone takes turns looking after the baby to allow Fletch and Prishi to go to class. The fact Skinner is using them as an example in his delinquent student–bashing exercise is shitty of him.

Twenty minutes pass and he’s still going. I rest my head against Ryan’s shoulder and close my eyes, accepting the cookie he sneaks into the palm of my hand.

“…To summarize.”

Finally.

“Going forward, there will be a zero-tolerance approach to misappropriation of your status on this campus.”

I feel like I’m missing a huge part of the puzzle here because—despite his long-ass, still-not-over speech—I have zero idea what prompted this rude interruption to my schedule.

“For the seniors hoping to join professional teams at the end of this school year, it would be prevalent for you to take note of this message.”

Beside me Ryan snorts, shoving another cookie in his mouth. When I open my mouth to ask what’s so funny, he shoves one into mine, grinning like a fool because I have no choice but to eat it.

Skinner finally runs out of energy. He leans against the podium and his shoulders sag. “I don’t care what your potential is. If you don’t fall in line, you will be benched. I’d like the skating and hockey team to stay behind, but the rest of you are dismissed.”

Ryan grabs his bag from the floor and stands, stretching and letting out an overexaggerated yawn. “I’ll wait for you outside. Food?”

I give him a nod, creeping onto my tiptoes to wipe the cookie crumbs from the corner of his mouth with my thumb. “Hopefully I won’t be long.”

Everyone, bar the fifty-ish of us, filter out of the room. Ironically, about five times quicker than they filtered in.

Brady and Faulkner, the ice hockey team coach, join Director Skinner on the stage. “Come closer everyone, I’m tired of this microphone.”

As we all head to the front of the room as requested, I spot an annoyed-looking Aaron in the crowd and move to his side.

“You okay?” I ask quietly as we take a seat in the front row. “Yep.”

It doesn’t take a genius to know he isn’t in a great mood, but this feels directed at me, not at Skinner. “You sure?”

His lips are pulled in a tight line, and he hasn’t looked at me yet. “Yep.”

Skinner steps out from behind his podium and pushes his hands into his suit pants pockets, his tired, sunken eyes scanning those of us left. “I’ll make this quick. Following what can only be labeled as a colossal shit show, Arena Two is out of action for the foreseeable future.”

Oh God.

“An investigation is underway into how the extensive damage was caused, but I’m told there will be significant delays when it comes to repairs, due to a shortage of parts for our particular equipment.”

The realization doesn’t wash over me, it fucking drowns me. The hockey team is known for causing trouble with rival teams, and each other usually. The spoiled, rich boy to hockey team pipeline thrives at this school, and I’d put money on someone causing trouble.

“What this means for you,” Skinner continues, “is you will need to share a rink for the foreseeable future, and I expect you all to work together to make this situation work.”

Clearly knowing the number of questions about to come his way, Skinner proves he doesn’t actually care about us, and immediately dips. He’s not even off the stage before I’m storming over to Coach Brady.

“We have regionals in five weeks!”

“I’m well aware of your competition schedule, Anastasia,” Coach Brady drawls, waving off some of the underclassmen when they attempt to crowd around when I’m very close to having a meltdown. “We have no other option, so it isn’t worth getting upset over.”

Is she for real? “How are we going to qualify if we can’t practice?”

Ten feet away, Coach Faulkner is flanked by his own team, I would imagine fending off the same concerns. Not like I care, they obviously caused this mess, and now we’re the ones who are going to suffer.

I’m trying to not catastrophize, to not blow this out of proportion in my head. I’m concentrating on breathing in and out, and not bawling uncontrollably in front of strangers, while I listen to my teammates voice

the same concerns. When I let my eyes drift back over to the hockey team, most of them have gone. There’s one guy talking to Faulkner, and he must feel me watching him, because his eyes meet mine. He’s looking at me with a weird expression on his face, a forced pity grimace, I think.

Frankly, he can take his fake sympathy and shove it up his ass.

“We’ll talk about this at practice, Stassie,” Brady says, offering a rare— almost borderline friendly—smile. “Enjoy a Friday evening off for once. I’ll see you both on Monday.”

After another small protest, I finally listen to Brady’s pleas for me to leave her alone, and head toward the exit. I’m trailing behind Aaron, dragging my feet, and feeling sorry for myself, when I hear a “Hey” and feel a hand land on my bicep.

It’s Mr. Sympathy, still sporting—you guessed it—a pity pout. “Listen, I’m sorry. I know this sucks for all of us. I’m going to do what I can to make this as easy as possible.”

He lets go of my arm and takes a step back, giving me the chance to look at him up close for the first time. He towers over me by at least a foot, broad shoulders, thick muscles straining against the sleeves of his Henley. Even beneath a dusting of stubble, you can see the sharpness of his jawline. I’m trying to work out if I’ve ever met him before when he starts talking again.

“I know you’re probably feeling stressed, but we’re having a party tonight if you want to come.”

“And you are?” I ask, forcing my voice to sound calm. I can’t ignore the twinge of satisfaction I get when his eyebrows shoot up for a split second.

He gains his composure just as quickly, amusement lighting up his deep brown eyes. “Nate Hawkins. I’m captain of the hockey team.” He holds out a hand for me to shake, but I look at it, then back up at his face, folding my arms across my chest.

“Were you not listening? Party time is over according to Skinner.”

He shrugs and reaches round to rub the back of his neck awkwardly. “People will show up regardless, even if I tried to stop it. Look, come over, bring friends or whatever. It’d be good if we could all get on, and I swear, we have good tequila. Do you have a name?”

I refuse to be charmed by a pretty face. Not even one with little dimples and nice cheekbones. This is still a disaster. “Do you meet a lot of people who don’t have names?”

To my surprise, he starts laughing. A heavy, rich noise that makes my cheeks flush. “Okay, you’ve got me there.”

His eyes flick behind me as an arm lands across my shoulders. I look up, expecting to find Ryan, but instead find Aaron. I shrug off his embrace, since stuff like this is what makes people assume we’re dating, when I’d honestly rather eat my skates. “Are you coming?” he snaps.

Nodding, I take one last look at my new rink friend. He doesn’t bother introducing himself to Aaron, instead he mouths, Remember the party to me.

God, Sabrina is going to love all this drama.