Page 4 of Fault Line

While it hasn’t exactly been a walk in the park to get to where I am now, this school shit comes easily to me. Always has. Hockey’s where I need to concentrate all my efforts. I’m not saying that I don’t have an ounce of natural talent, but I wasn’t born into a family of athletes like some of my teammates.

They’re the lucky ones.

Instead, I was blessed with a brain that can solve differential equations in my sleep. Not that I’m complaining about that, either. It’s an ace problem to have when you’re a student athlete, especially one training at my competitive level. I don’t have to worry about my grades as much, so it gives me time to put my focus elsewhere.

Since I have a few minutes to kill until it’s my turn to present, I settle onto a bench outside Wey Hall. Stretching my legs out, I pull up today’s training schedule on my phone. As suspected, I’m slated to stay after practice again today. For some reason, our newest athletic trainer, Harper Reynolds, is riding my ass harder than the rest of the team.

And not in a good way.

She’s diagnosed me with something called costochondritis, which is basically a glorified way to describe my minor chest pains—some inflammatory shit that affects my rib joints. It’s a little painful, sure, but it’s a pain that I could easily handle on my own. Instead, Reynolds is making me skip out on the good parts of practice, then asking me to stay late for extra rehab.

She’s a Coastal U alumni and the wife of a pro linebacker, so she was a shoo-in for this position. Not to mention, Kaia’s been dating her brother-in-law for who knows how long. Now that I think about it, that’s probably why Harper’s treating me like the dirt beneath her shoes. I definitely wouldn’t put it past Kaia—nor her parasitic boyfriend, Elio—to tattle on me to Mommy.

It’s a sad thing, honestly, considering Kaia’s the one pulling all the weight in their relationship. She’s the hard worker, the responsible and studious one, and I’m pretty fucking sure she does his homework for him. Whatever. Not my issue.

I just think she could be with someone a little more her caliber, that’s all.

Speaking of which, I’m popping another piece of candy into my mouth when she strolls out of our building, head held high. She’s in her element now, confidence radiating from head to toe—from her wide smile to her self-assured posture to the notable pep in her step.

She’s a fucking vision, isn’t she?

“Beck.” She clears her throat, tipping her chin up as she steps directly into my sight line. “Good luck wowing them with your half-cocked proposal. Dr. Khatri’s eyes were practically sparkling in there.”

“I’m so sure they were.” I let out a lukewarm chuckle. “You know what’s kind of a bummer, though?”

Kaia’s been barking up Dr. Khatri’s tree since last year, brownnosing her way into her good graces. But the thing is, we both want her as our dissertation advisor. And I’m not willing to settle to make Kaia happy. This is a competition, after all. The student with the highest-scoring proposal will bid first for their mentor.

Dr. Khatri is my top choice, too. Not because she’s my idol, and not because I have some fanatical obsession with her research portfolio, but because she’s fucking nice. She gives top marks to students for doing the bare minimum. And that’s about all I have to give right now.

“What?” she asks half-heartedly, reaching for the nape of her neck. She gently tugs and twists the shiny, raven strands between her fingers, pulling at the small pieces of her shoulder-length hair.

I lean in, whispering conspiratorially, “I have something you don’t.”

“Oh, yeah?” She swallows hard, feigning disinterest. “And what’s that?”

With an attempt at a casual shrug, I say, “Connections.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, I have,what”—I pretend to do the mental math—“three community collaborators already lined up for this. Plus, a primary contact for sourcing our project equipment.”

Her jaw drops. “You’re kidding.”

“Nope.”

“Becker, Jesus Christ!” She swats me on the shoulder, practically huffing and puffing now. “That’s the point of having a fucking mentor, isn’t it? They’re supposed to assist you in bridging connections.”

“Yeah, well, when some of the up-front legwork is done, then we can all focus on bigger and better things.”

“So what did you do?” She sneers. “Call up Daddy and ask him for a favor this morning?”

I tilt my head, amused at the frustration knitting her brow. Like I said, this girl is easy as hell to rile up. And yeah, I did call up my father last week to ask him for assistance. So what? It was a quick way to find collaborators near Coastal who might be interested in my research question. It’s not like I went out of my way to scope this shit out, but I knew that it’d give me a leg up on the competition.

It’s all just a bit of friendly fire.

“You act like networking is an issue,” I say, pushing back the hair that’s flopped onto my forehead.

“Networkingisn’t the issue.” Her jaw tightens. “You’re using your parents’ connections to pull one over on me.”

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