The Graham Effect (Campus Diaries, #1)

by Elle Kennedy

When I was little, one of my dad’s friends asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up. I proudly replied, “Stanley Cup.” My four-year-old self thought the Cup was a person. In fact, what I gleaned from all those adult conversations going on around me is that my dad personally knew Stanley Cup (met him several times, actually), an honor bestowed to only the most elite group. Which meant Stanley, whoever this great man was, had to be some kind of legend. A phenom. A person one must aspire to be.

“Better skedaddle, Gisele, before you piss off Garrett Graham.” I skate over to Ryder, playing dumb. “Garrett who?” “Are you shitting me right now? You don’t know who Garrett Graham is?” “Is he famous or something?” Ryder stares at me. “He’s hockey royalty. This is his camp.” “Oh. Yeah. I only follow figure skaters.” Flipping my ponytail, I glide past him. I want to get one last move in, mostly to see if I still remember any of the stuff I learned during my lessons.

“Gigi! What the hell are you doing? You trying to break your ankle out there?” I turn toward the plexiglass, where my father stands about twenty feet away, frowning deeply at me.

“Sorry, Dad,” I call out, sheepish. “I was just messing around.” I hear a choked noise. Ryder sidles up to me, those blue eyes darkening. I tip my head to flash him an innocent smile. “What?” “Dad?” he growls under his breath. “You’re Garrett Graham’s kid?” I can’t help laughing at his indignation. “Not only that, but I’m helping with your shooting drills today.” His eyes narrow. “You play hockey?” I reach over to pat his arm. “Don’t worry, prom king, I’ll go easy on you.”

Jake Connelly: Speaking of unmitigated disasters, I guess this is a perfect segue to our next segment. Massive news coming out of the college hockey world: the Briar/Eastwood merger. Talking about your alma mater here, G. Garrett Graham: My kid goes there too. Keeping it in the family, you know?

Chad Jensen is the most decorated coach in college hockey. Twelve Frozen Four forays and seven wins during his tenure at Briar. He holds the record for championship wins⁠— Graham: Does your father-in-law pay you to be his hype man? Or you do it for free to score approval points? Connelly: Says the man who won three of those seven championships under Jensen.

“No, I want you to keep some gas in the tank for—” He stops, chuckling. “You know what? Nothing. I keep forgetting I’m talking to a Graham. You’re your father’s daughter.”

It’s the petty little things that make me happy.

Luke Ryder startles for a second when he notices me. Then his eyes narrow—those dark, dark blue eyes I’ve never forgotten—and one corner of his mouth tips up. “Gisele,” he mocks. “Prom king,” I mock back.

And second, I’m not goddamn captain material. Are they crazy? My personality isn’t suited for leadership. I’m not here to hold hands and love everybody.

Shane chuckles. On my other side, Beckett Dunne snorts. I’d like to say my best friends have the whole angel/devil thing going on, where one is a dick and the other sits on my shoulder spewing kindness and compassion. I’d like to say that. But they’re both just assholes who take great amusement out of my misery.

“Number three: Every year or so, some dumbass gets the cockamamie idea that the team needs a pet. A living mascot in the form of a goat or a pig or some other godforsaken farm animal. I will no longer tolerate such ideas. Don’t present them to me—your request will be denied.

We have been pet-free for twenty years and will remain that way for eternity. Understood?” When nobody answers, he glares. “Understood?” “Yessir,” everyone says. He turns toward the board. No Pets. Ever

But several months before he was slated to start, he and another recent retiree, Jake Connelly, did a guest spot on ESPN to commentate on that year’s Stanley Cup Finals. That one measly episode drew the highest ratings the network had seen in years. TSBN instantly saw dollar signs and realized Dad was better suited doing commentary than calling games. They pitched Hockey Kings to Dad and Connelly, and the rest is ratings history.

“You host a show with Jake Connelly, the most beautiful man in the world. Trust me, you’re going to get the views.”

“Nope, nope, nope,” he groans. “You know how I feel when you talk about Connelly’s stupid looks. It triggers my crippling inferiority.” I snort out a laugh. “What is it with you and your mother thinking that guy is handsome? He’s average, at best.” “Oh, he’s definitely not average.” “Agree to disagree.”

All I know is, he’s good. Incredible, actually. He inherited the musician gene from Mom. But the thing that sucks most about my brother? He also inherited Dad’s talent. Dude can play hockey too. And play it well. He just doesn’t want to.

I’m so focused on placing distance between me and Will’s questions that I don’t pay attention to my surroundings. I reach the counter at a brisk pace and slam into none other than Luke Ryder.

Saved by Garrett Graham. If he weren’t here distracting Coach, I probably would’ve been sent home.

“Fuck the laws of physics and fuck you.”

Which, of course, promptly fades the second I spot Ryder waiting for us at the front entrance. Holding a bouquet of daisies.

“Uh-huh. Really. What are we celebrating?” He pulls his phone out of his back pocket and unlocks it. He scans the screen for a moment, and from my vantage point, it looks like he’s consulting a calendar app. “It’s International Eat an Apple Day.” He lifts his gaze. “Seemed like something we should celebrate.”

“I am not quirky,” he growls. “Then why are we celebrating your love of apples?” He thrusts the

“And I’m sorry for implying that your dad is the reason you are where you are. I watched that game. You were phenomenal.” Despite the rush of warmth his compliment elicits, I can’t stop a flicker of doubt. “Are you just saying that so I don’t feel shitty again?” “I don’t just say things.” I’m starting to suspect how true that is. “Well, thanks. I guess I appreciate that.” Grudgingly, I add, “You’re a very good player too.” “I didn’t say you were very good. I said you were phenomenal.” “And I said you’re very good.”

I feel like my phone should probably reflect that, so I pull up her contact info and change the name, chuckling to myself because I know how much this would annoy her if she knew.

GISELE: Delightful chatting with you as always!

I don’t love change, personally. I prefer stability. Once I feel comfortable with something—a place, a person, a routine—I want it to last forever. I hate that it never does.

“And that’s my cue,” he says cheerfully. He winks at me. “Nice seeing you, Gisele.” “Look what you’ve started,” I accuse Ryder. “I refuse to believe your name isn’t short for something,” is his response.

“That thing’s a fucking hazard,” he remarks, eyeing the pit. “One gust of wind and that fence goes up in flames.” “You sound like my mom. She’s been watching this firefighter show on TV, and now all she talks about is fire safety. Dad thinks it’s ‘cute.’” I use air quotes.

Ryder stares at me. “What?” “Your dogs are named Dumpy and Bergeron?” “Yes. Got a problem with that?” “Sort of.” I roll my eyes. “Take it up with my father. We’ve already established he’s a bad namer.”

“So how is this ever going to work, co-captain?” I can’t help but taunt. “Because it seems like you’ve got a serious stalemate happening. No one’s budging.” “You’re budging,” he points out. “I’m not part of this.” “Sure, you are. You’re Briar hockey.” “Sweetie. You’re Briar hockey.” He cringes.

Abandoning Case, I grab Ryder’s arm instead. He’s so tall I have to tip my head back to meet his eyes. Dark blue and deadly. “Stop this?” I say softly. Case realizes who I’m talking to and his expression flashes with disapproval. But he had his chance to put an end to this. He said no. Ryder looks at me for a moment. Then he lets out a breath and takes a step forward. Completely unfazed when a fist flies past his cheekbone. “Enough.” One word. Deep. Commanding.

Any player who doesn’t show up better have a doctor’s note or be dead. I assume Chad Jensen added that last part himself because it’s very Jensen-esque.

Coach Jensen looks like he wants to murder everyone in the room, including his own colleagues. He approaches the microphone at the podium and gets things going in a brisk, irritated voice. “I would like to congratulate each and every one of you for ruining my Saturday plans with my granddaughter. She’s ten years old and recently developed an affinity for tiger sharks, and she cried when I told her I couldn’t take her to the aquarium today. Everyone, give yourselves a round of applause for making a ten-year-old girl cry.”

“Tell me something, Gigi.” He slants his head. “Are you an organ harvester? Because you’ve stolen my heart.” Dead silence crashes over the room. Then I keel over with laughter.

We’re about ten minutes in before Ryder speaks. “What the fuck is this?” “Horizons with Dan Grebbs,” I tell him. He stares at me. “You say that as if I’m supposed to know what or who that is.”

“Do you ever stop talking?” Ryder asks me. “Do you ever start talking?” I ask him.

“Kill me,” he begs. “How do you feel about murder-suicide? I could easily kill you, but I don’t think I can kill myself, so you’ll need to murder me and then take care of yourself. Is that something you’re comfortable doing?” He looks at me. “Forget I said anything.”

ME: Thanks again for doing this. RYDER: Sure. ME: It must kill you that there isn’t a decent shrugging emoji. The current one has too much emotion in it for you. It’s the hand motions. Far too dramatic to accurately depict your shrugs. RYDER: Is it too late to cancel?

ME: I love your quirky sense of humor! Kills me every time.

I grew up with a lot of uncles. Luckily not the creepy kind who say inappropriate things at weddings and hit on all the teenage girls. “I hear you’re single again.” Or maybe they do say inappropriate things. “That’s old news,” I inform Dean Di Laurentis. “Did it arrive to you by carrier pigeon?” “No, smart-ass. I’ve known for a while. We just haven’t had any alone time since it happened.”

Uncle Logan stepped outside to take a phone call from my aunt Grace, one of my three godmothers. I’ve also got three godfathers, because my parents didn’t want to choose between all their best friends but still had to make a decision.

“Well, right, because that’s all it takes to be soulmates. A shared sport and somewhat equal level of attractiveness.” “Got that sarcasm gene from your mother, I see.” “I’ll take that as a compliment.

“Oh, trust me, I’m never speaking about this again.” “Also,” he continues, cutting off a piece of the pecan pie with his fork, “before you get involved with any dude, make sure he’s not the slut of the group. And if he is, get him tested. Because there’s always one slutty boy in every crew.”

“The way he describes it, it was love at first sight with Aunt Sabrina.” “Tucker says a lot of things. Especially regarding me and my supposed ladies’ man reputation.” Dean winks. “Don’t believe a word of it.”

“Yeah, I’m telling her father.” “Like hell you are.”

The bill arrives then, and the two begin bickering about who’s going to pay it. I’m pretty sure it’s only like twenty bucks, and finally, I grab it myself. “Please, let me treat my dear uncles.” I offer a beaming smile. “Young people should always be kind to the elderly.”

“I’m telling your father,” Logan adds. “He knows he’s old. You don’t need to remind him.”

“Texting with our co-captain’s ex-girlfriend. Look at you, living on the edge over here.”

At the entrance, there’s a small gold plaque screwed onto the outer wall that reads: IN RECOGNITION OF JOHN LOGAN FOR HIS GENEROUS DONATION TO BETTER THE TOWN OF MUNSEN, MASSACHUSETTS