The Graham Effect (Campus Diaries, #1)

by Elle Kennedy

“God, that’s hot,” Whitney breathes. “Breaking up a fight?” I ask, amused. “No, he managed to shut Trager up. Goddamn miracle right there.” “Sexiest thing anyone could ever do,” agrees Cami, and we all laugh.

Why can’t Trager be the one transferring?” “Because we can’t have nice things.”

She stares at me. “I forgot how magical your personality is.”

Well, it’s not quite a rager yet—Trager still has his shirt on. Once that comes off (which is often accompanied by him bellowing and

beating his chest like Tarzan), it usually means it’s time to go.

In two terse lines, it states that my presence, along with every single member of the hockey program, is required at the Graham Center at 1 p.m. sharp. Any player who doesn’t show up better have a doctor’s note or be dead.

“You will shower praise on your teammates,” she tells the men, her tone brooking no argument. “I expect to see the most flattering, effusive ass-kissing in your individual interviews. Not even a whiff of animosity. From this point forward, you all love and adore each other.”

“Okay, you’re at the club, right? There’s, like, a sick R&B song playing or whatever. You’re vibing.” I start bopping my head to nonexistent music. He stares at me in dismay. “Oh no. I’m not approaching you if that’s how you’re dancing.”

“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. Due to my hysterics, I nearly drop the beer bottle on the carpet. Beckett plucks it from my hand before it tips over.

He hands me the bottle back. “Do the weird head-bopping thing again.” I oblige.

“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.” “Oh, Dan Grebbs is amazing. He’s a nature photographer from South Dakota who ran away from home at sixteen. He rode the railroads for a while, traveling the country and playing the guitar, taking pictures. Then one day he impulsively traded in his guitar for a field recorder and bought passage on a ship heading for South America. He caught the travel bug and has been all over the world ever since, working on

his soundscapes. He’s recorded so many different albums. This is his wilderness series.” “Jesus Christ.” “What do you have against the wilderness? Is it too good for you?” “Yes, the wilderness is too good for me. That’s exactly what I was thinking.”

Dad hates golf and tennis, so he played squash and discovered he hated that more than those other two combined. He stole the racket and took it home and burned it in our fireplace.

“Public relations is a scourge on society,” Shane mumbles beside me. “Now, there is nothing I hate more in this world than team-building activities,” Jensen continues.

“With that said, I have great news—I was informed that I personally don’t have to participate, so…” For once in his life, Jensen is positively beaming.

I half expect him to put some flowers in his hair and skip off the stage like a giddy schoolgirl. He chuckles all the way to the exit.

“All right, Woody,” Nance chirps. “Bean that bag.” She should be arrested for that phrase.

Sheldon nods in fervent agreement. “Our next exercise is called…” “Somebody kill me now,” Trager finishes, and that gets a few laughs.

“Maybe I’ll get a FaceTime in too before the weekend. Rave all about my good pal Ryder. Tell Dad how we listen to Dan Grebbs together…” “Don’t ruin my reputation like that.” “My dad likes Horizons,” I say enticingly. Ryder hesitates.

I hoot. “Holy shit, you would actually pretend to like my meditation music to suck up to him! You’re a fraud. I will not endorse a fraud.” He lets out another bark of laughter. “Oh my God, two laughs in less than five minutes.”

“Damn,” I marvel. Women have truly mastered the art of social media warfare.

So, if any of you young men are married and need guidance…”

“I’d rather get divorced,” someone says.

“Just setting up my playlist,” she tells me. Dread rises inside me. “No,” I say instantly. “Yes,” she confirms with a broad smile. “Horizons. Trust me, it’s the best thing to listen to when you’re shivering your ass off in that tub.” “I don’t trust you and I believe that to be a lie.”

“One of my foster families in Phoenix decided it would be fun to rent a minivan, pile all the kids into it, and go on a road trip to Myrtle Beach. The mom had a sister there. We’d just crossed over the state line into North Carolina when we had to stop for gas, and—I think they made a movie about this, where they forget the kid at home? Well, they forgot me at the gas station.” “How old were you?” “Ten.” “Poor little buddy.”

“The butterflies need the warmth to fly. Do you not want them to fly, Ryder? When did this vendetta against butterflies begin?” “At a very young age,” he says solemnly.

Shane starts to laugh. “Dude. You’re so bad at human interaction that people get suspicious when you inquire about their well-being.”

“Not what? Not true?” Gigi snaps. “Can you look me in the eye and tell me it’s not true?” I see the wheels turning in Case’s head as he calculates what his play is here. Whether he should fess up and admit he lied (because, hell, of course he lied) or try to maintain his moral high ground. If he picks the former, he sinks right back down to all our levels, and he knows it. In the end, he proves to be a smart man.

“Will your father be there?” “He lives there, so yes.”

Seeing her cry makes me want to find the person who did this to her and slam his head through a wall.

I’m frantically peering at the ice, my heart still not beating because she’s still not moving. There’s a ref bent over her, as well as Coach Adley and some of her teammates. Finally, I’ve had enough of the man at the door. I step forward and attempt to shove him to the side. I think it’s one of the Briar assistant coaches, but I don’t give a shit about being polite. “You can’t go out there,” he insists, getting in my face again. A fucking stampede wouldn’t be able to stop me from getting to Gigi. “Like hell I can’t,” I growl. And then I give him another firm shove, forcibly moving him out of my way. “That’s my wife out there.”

Wow. Apparently you can’t have philosophical conversations with butterflies in front of children anymore. People are so close-minded.