The Dixon Rule (Campus Diaries, 2)

Senior year, boys

HOCKEY’S BACK, BABY.

This is the day I’ve been looking forward to all summer. It’s what I’ve trained hard for, and my strength and conditioning have definitely paid off. I’ve gained weight, added a lot of muscle. Hell, I’m probably more agile too, thanks to those dancing lessons. But I’ll never admit it to Dixon.NôvelDrama.Org: owner of this content.

It feels great returning to the Graham Center, Briar’s state-of-the-art hockey facilities. The women’s team uses this rink too, but they don’t officially start practice for another week.

I walk in the building, breathing in the familiar scent of the lobby as I tilt my head and let my gaze roam over the pennants and jerseys hanging from the rafters. The display case against the back wall contains our latest Frozen Four trophy and all the previous ones Coach Jensen and the coaches before him secured for Briar. Jensen’s won more championships than any other coach in the history of this university. It’s cool to see and an impressive legacy to leave behind if he ever retires.

I stride down the hall, feeling like I’m on top of the world.

I slide into the locker room and find a few of my teammates also showed up early, including Ryder. It’s weird not driving with him to practice anymore, now that we don’t live together. It’s even weirder that last week I was dancing at his stupidly extravagant wedding.

“Hello, Mr. Graham,” I say in a formal tone.

He rolls his eyes as he pulls his shirt off, revealing a bulky chest with abs that rival mine. I’m not the only one who stayed in shape this summer.

More guys stream in. Case Colson, Gigi’s ex and our co-captain. Nazzy and his wingman, Patrick. Austin and Tristan, who are now sophomores. Beckett strolls in looking tanned and well fucked. Soon he and Will are laughing about something in front of Will’s stall. All the juniors are seniors now, and it’s a bummer not seeing our old seniors in the room, like Micah, Rand, our goalie Joe.

“I am so fucking ready for this season,” I tell my friends. “Senior year, boys. All we gotta do is bring that trophy home again, then we’re off to the pros.”

“Well, you are,” Beckett says as he undoes his jeans.

I glance over. “Have you decided what you’re going to do after graduation?”

“No idea, mate.”

Beckett’s an environmental science major, but he’s never actually talked about what kind of job he’ll get when he leaves school. I know Will wants to travel. Ryder will be in Dallas. I’ll be in Chicago. Colson in Tampa. Next year is going to be interesting.

I strip out of my street clothes and shove them into my stall. Our black-and-silver practice uniforms are freshly laundered. Skates newly sharpened. I can’t wait to get out there.

The air inside the rink is brisk, carrying the scent of freshly resurfaced ice. The fluorescent lights glint off the polished surface as we gather around Coach Jensen at center ice. He’s a tall, imposing man with buzzed hair, shrewd eyes, and an aversion to words. He greets us with a curt, “Welcome back.” That’s it.

During the warm-up skate, I notice some of the guys are looking out of sorts. And it becomes more evident when Jensen gets us doing some skating drills. I don’t blame the freshmen for being a little slow on the jump—this is their first season at Briar and their nerves are buzzing. The sophomores and juniors, however, know better. They know precisely what to expect.

Clearly seeing what I am, Coach blows his whistle and skates toward us from the boards. He singles out the kid standing next to Austin Pope. Phillip Donaldson, who wasn’t a starter last year.

“What the hell are you doing?” Jensen demands. “Did you do a single push-up during the offseason?”

Donaldson mumbles something.

“What was that?”

“I said sorry, Coach.”

“And you?” Jensen points a scary finger at Nazem. “Looking a little out of breath there, Talis.”

Standing next to Nazzy, Patrick can’t stop a snort. “Yeah, that’s what happens when you spend your whole summer partying on Milford Lake.”

“I spent the summer with you and your stupid family,” Nazzy growls at him. “You were just as wasted as I was.”

Jensen snarls at them both. “Yeah, and it shows. Donaldson, Kansas Kid, Nazem. Laps for the rest of practice.”

I lift a brow. Whoa. If Jensen doesn’t deem them good enough for today’s drills, that means they’re really out of shape.

“All right,” Coach snaps. “We’re going to do a blitz breakout drill. I need to see who else decided to be lazy this summer.”

Ryder and I exchange a look. Blitzes are high-intensity and not usually the kind of drills you do on Day One. They’re supposed to teach players how to work together under extreme pressure and require precise passing, quick transitions, and rapid decisions.

Jensen brusquely sets up the drill while we all listen intently, our breath visible in the crisp air.

“Speed is key,” he finishes, that sharp gaze moving over the dozens of bodies on the ice. As if he’s trying to assess which one of us might be a little pudgy under our practice jersey. “I want that puck in the offensive zone before the defense knows what hit ’em. Let’s go.”

The anticipation is palpable as we spread out across the ice. I nod at Colson and Pope, my linemates for this drill. The familiar adrenaline rush that always precedes a challenging exercise is injected directly into my blood. When the puck drops, the rink comes alive with the scrape of skates against ice.

I burst forward in powerful strides, propelling myself toward the puck. Case snatches it first. His stickhandling skills are on full display. As the defenders advance on us to thwart the breakaway, Colson snaps the puck to Pope, who passes it to me.

We absolutely crush this drill. Our lightning-fast passes keep the defenders at bay, the puck zipping between us in a blur of black on the white canvas of the ice. I’m on fire as I weave through the defenders with a combination of finesse and brute force, leaving them scrambling to catch up to me.

As we cross the blue line, Colson executes a perfectly timed crisscross, disorienting Beckett and the other d-men, while our new starting goalie, Todd Nelson, braces for the impending assault. I unleash a slapshot that evades Nelson’s grasp and smashes into the back of the net with a satisfying thud.

The guys on the bench erupt in cheers and hollers.

“Holy shit, Lindley,” Jordan Trager crows as he skates out to take my place. “What was that!”

I grin at him, riding the exhilaration of my total domination. I’ve never felt more on top of my game, and it doesn’t go unnoticed.

After practice, Jensen whistles to call me over. “Lindley! The fuck did you put in your cereal this summer?”

I shrug modestly. “Nothing. Just stuck to a high-intensity exercise regimen. I added swimming to my workouts too. It makes a real difference.”

He raises a dark brow. “Is that all?”

A groove digs into my forehead. “What, you think I’m shooting HGH or some shit? I’m not an idiot.”

“Didn’t think you were, but shit, you’re looking sharp. And if I notice how sharp you’re looking, the officials are going to notice too. So keep your nose clean this year. We might have a lot of random drug tests coming our way thanks to you.”

Damn. I look so good, he’s worried people might suspect I’m using performance enhancers? I think that’s simultaneously a compliment and an insult.

In the locker room, some of the guys are organizing drinks at Malone’s. Nazzy is one of them, showing he didn’t learn shit from Jensen’s lecture during practice.

“You in?” he asks me.

“Can’t. I’ve got a thing tonight.”

Will grins from his locker. “Why don’t you tell them about your thing?”

“Why don’t you kindly fuck off?”

“Wait, what’s going on?” Patrick stumbles over in excitement. He and Nazzy like nothing better than to find new ammo to rag people about. They’re the two most competitive guys on the team and the two biggest jokers. Competitive with each other, jokers with everyone else.

“Lindley entered a dance competition,” Will tells the room.

I glare at him. “Traitor.”

“What? They were going to find out anyway.”

“You’re in a dance competition?” Patrick doubles over laughing.

Nazzy, though, appears oddly impressed. “No shit.”

“Yeah, I’m doing it with—” I stop abruptly.

“Go ahead, finish that sentence,” Ryder says dryly.

“My girlfriend,” I mutter.

Nazzy gawks at me like I’m a rare zoo animal “You have a girlfriend now? What the hell. We don’t see you for one summer and you go from Raging Fuckboy to Mr. Salsa-dancing Monogamy?”

“First of all, we’re not entered in a salsa category,” I say coldly.

Patrick howls.

“We’re doing the tango and the waltz.”

He howls louder.

“Think you might be missing one,” Ryder drawls. Asshole’s being unusually talkative today. “Isn’t there a third dance?”

“You know, I preferred you when you didn’t say a word. Go back to being the brooding asshole who doesn’t speak, please and thank you.”

“What’s the third dance?” Beckett’s chuckling as he laces up his shoes. Locks of blond hair fall onto his forehead.

“The cha cha,” I grind out. Then I flip up both middle fingers. “And go fuck yourselves. All of you.”

Their laughter tickles my back as I stomp out of the locker room. Along with it being our first practice, it’s also the first day of classes. I’ve got Media Ethics starting in thirty minutes on the west end of campus, so I have to hike over to the cluster of buildings that houses most of the social science lecture halls.

Five minutes into my speed walk, I bump into Lynsey.

I experience a burst of genuine shock. Even though she confirmed she’d be attending Briar, I honestly didn’t think I’d ever see her on campus. She hasn’t contacted me at all, either, since the day she called at the end of July.

We both halt in our tracks.

Her dark eyes crinkle at the sight of me, lips curving. “Hi.”

“Hi.” That familiar smile softens something in my chest.

Neither of us seems to know if we should embrace, so we stand there for a moment before she finally steps forward to give me an awkward hug.

“How’ve you been?” she asks after we break apart.

“I’m good. How about you? How are you settling in? All moved into the dorm?”

Lynsey nods. “I have a single in Halston House near the performance center. Tyreek helped me move my stuff in this weekend.”

I nod back. “How’s he doing?”

“He’s great. Excited for the basketball season.” She pauses. “How’s Diana?”

“Also great.”

“So you’re still together.” Her expression is hard to decipher.

“Yep,” I confirm.

There’s another beat of awkwardness. A couple months ago, I was desperate to hear her voice. Now I’m unsure of what to say to her. I can’t flirt—she has a boyfriend. And even if I wanted to flirt, it feels disrespectful toward Diana to do that. She and I might not be together, but we still have sex almost every night.

Lynsey finally puts an end to the discomfort. “Should we get together now that we’re on the same campus? Maybe have coffee sometime next week?” she suggests.

Despite myself, my heart flips, and it pisses me off that she still has this effect on me. I don’t want her to.

“Sure,” I say, nodding slowly. “Sounds good.”