Across the table, there are a series of snickers. When I flick a glance at Chase and Elliot, they both immediately grab their drinks, taking sips like nothing is going on.
I whip my head back toward Cooper.
He takes off his hat. Runs a hand through the damp brunette strands. Flips the hat in his hand around, pushes it back on. Backwards. His number stitched in silver above the adjustable strap.
“How was your run?” he asks.
Dawson shoots up. “Did you reach three miles? I was tracking your Strava account over break and saw that you were up to two and a half.”
I nod with pride. I dive into telling him about what my PT is saying about my progress and how taking Elliot’s cycling classes have helped build back muscle in my legs.
Cooper runs his tongue over his teeth, silent during all of this.
An hour later, the large wooden table is littered with empty plates. I’m finishing my second Diet Coke of the night, watching my tipsy roommate flirt with a local. The Tipsy Bear is on the outskirts of campus, right before the road that takes you into downtown Bensen. Most people who live in Bensen avoid this place, but there are always a few brave souls.
“Sutton,” Jaxon sing-songs loudly to get my attention. “Come play pool with us.”
I debate going over there. Dr. Manning still hasn’t called or emailed me, and it’s not like a game of pool is going to stop her. I refresh my student email one more time before slipping my phone into the back pocket of my black denim overalls.
I grab a water and head over to the guys. There’s a small ledge that Beck is leaning on. I set my drink next to his, and when I ask how he’s doing, all I get in response is a noncommittal shoulder shrug. But that’s Beck for fine.
Elliot finally peels herself away to rejoin our group. I trade the water in my hand for her vodka soda.
“Nofriendtonight?” I comment.
“Only you snuggle bug.”
She rests her head on my shoulder and lets out a yawn that mine chases after. I’m about to ask her if she wants to get out of here when my phone buzzes. Elliot groans when I pull it out, trying to swat it away. I put my arm in the air, phone out of reach. My fingers frantically swipe and type in my passcode.
I slip around her, scurrying away from the pool table to the bathroom hallway.
An email from Dr. Manning is staring back at me.
Maybe I shouldn’t have checked my email. Ignorance is bliss, right?
They accepted my independent study with one stipulation: I have to do a case study with a student-athlete. And just my luck, they’ve already chosen one.
THREE
COOPER
“Carmichael!”Coach Mathieson yells from across the ice. He pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose before planting his hands on his hips.
Staring at him, even from the other side of the rink, I get why the girls on campus fawn over him. Coach is in his early forties and—I have no shame admitting it—hot. Light brown skin, a tight jawline that’s always sporting a well-taken care of beard, broad muscular shoulders, and I quote ‘biceps for days.’ Plus, a smile that is as ruthless as it is bright.
There’s a big question mark around why he never played professionally. Coach was drafted to play for Toronto, but never made it to training camp. A year later, he was hired by Lakeland as a GA, then assistant, before taking over as head coach seven years ago.
I’ve always wanted to play for him. I’ve always wanted to be a Lakeland Bear.
When I was being recruited, it was blatantly obvious when a coach wanted me for the name stitched into the back of my jersey. The attention and money they thought would come to their program if a Carmichael played for them was at the center of the way they interacted with me.
It took Dad one visit centering on him to suggest that Mom take me on the rest. He deflected questions the best he could without coming off as an asshole—he has a reputation to hold up too. It never change his involvement at home though. He sifted through my film, putting together highlight reels or offering to make calls.
But I didn’t wantthathelp. Didn’t need him to do anything on my behalf.
I love my dad. He’s my idol, but I didn’t want, or asked, to be compared to him. I didn’t want to be tied to him as a player. Much to my chagrin, I am.
All I wanted was a school to want me for me. Wantmehow I wantthisfor myself—or at least how I thought I wanted this.
