What Are The Odds?: A college hockey romance. (Phil-U Book 1)
What Are The Odds?: Chapter 3

Levi.

By the time I crossed campus to my class, I was five minutes late. Not the end of the world. I could use the hockey card to get out of class whenever I wanted. And I often did. Though today I actually had hockey to blame. Well, the lame media photos at least. I was glad they were done. We still had team media photos to do, but they’d be more bearable. At least Ryker Richardson wouldn’t be at those. Speak of the fucking devil. He was a few steps ahead of me, heading to the same classroom. Half my luck. At the sound of my approaching footsteps, he checked over his shoulder. His disappointed expression reflected what I expect mine looked like.

“Holloway,” he clipped.

“Richardson.”

Reluctantly, he held open the door. Rather than take it from his hands, I walked straight through, forcing him to hold it open for me.

“That’s a good boy,” I saluted as I passed him.

He shot me a look that killed. I thrived off looks like that. The professor stopped her lecture when we ambled inside. She opened her mouth to scold the late comers, but the argument quickly died off. I’d ditched my full uniform for jeans and my hockey jacket. Ryker had done the same. Though even without the jackets, all of the teachers knew who we were.

“Take a seat boys. There’s room at that table.”

She gestured to a partially empty table. Only one person was there. Probably because it was at the very front of the class. I did a double take. It was the swimmer. Her eyebrows pinched as she studied Ryker and me. I doubt we’d made a good first impression. She had though. Long blonde hair. Tanned skin. Toned arms and legs. Keeping my focus on the photographer had been hard when this girl was standing in front of me in nothing but a swimsuit. She was hot as hell. It had taken me a moment to place her. Especially given she’d gone from too many layers Saturday night to barely any this morning. The accent had been her giveaway when she told the photographer her name. Grace. The Australian. I sat on one side of her, and Ryker sat on the other. The professor cleared her throat before picking things back up. I could feel my phone vibrating in my pocket, but there was no way I was going to check it. Especially sitting at the front like this. I’ll bet the professor would love the chance to ream me out. Some teachers went easy on athletes, while others, like I expected was the case for this one, loved nothing more than to put us in our place. Grace leant forward on her elbows, tapping her pen on her open notebook before bringing it to her lips and chewing on the end. Behind her, Ryker came into focus. He was checking her out, hooded eyes following her every move.

“For your first assignment in this class you’ll be put into groups,” the professor announced. “Your group is to select a stream of numbers for analysis. They can be financial, or a metric, or based around census data. You have absolute freedom when it comes to choosing.” S~ᴇaʀᴄh the FindNʘᴠᴇl.nᴇt website on Gøøglᴇ to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.

She paced up and down, the click of her boots echoing off the hardwood floors.

“From there, present the numbers in a way that makes statistical sense. Draw conclusions from the data, or form a hypothesis or forecast based on the information.”

She looked out across the class, mentally counting the students. I craned over my shoulder. There were around thirty in total, all sitting at tables of three.

“Perfect,” she quipped. “Take a look at those at your table. They’ll be your group for this project.”

Fuck. That was not ideal. Both Grace and Ryker seemed as unimpressed by the revelation as me. There was no way in hell Ryker and I would be able to work together. I doubt we’d even be able to agree on a theme, let alone summarise the information collaboratively. My phone went off again, causing my leg to twitch. I subtly pulled it partway from my pocket. It was enough to see a message from Will with four words.

Will: Football drama. Gym. Now.

Fuck. That wasn’t ideal either. I started packing my things, shoving my laptop into my backpack.

The professor stopped midsentence. “Class has barely started, Mr Holloway.”

“I’ve been summoned. So has, ugh, Ryker Richardson.”

Ryker looked at me, eyebrows furrowed.

“A hockey-football thing,” I explained.

That was the only explanation he needed. With a heavy sigh he began packing his things too. We got nothing else from the professor but a roll of her eyes. I could handle that. After Ryker zipped up his backpack, he leant towards Grace, stealing her pen to write his number on her open notebook. I guess I ought to do the same. I took the pen from him, jotting down my digits. Grace stared at the workbook blankly, clearly not at all fazed by the fact she’d just scored both mine and Ryker’s numbers. Plenty of girls on campus would do plenty of things to have those. After tucking in my chair, I followed Ryker to the exit. For two people who did their best to avoid each other, he and I had spent way too much time together the past twenty-four hours. And that was only about to get worse now we were grouped together for this class.

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