When I pull my car up outside the rental townhouse I share with a few of my friends, I can already tell I’m gonna find the place in its usual state of semi-controlled chaos when I walk through the door. Unfortunate for me, considering we lost tonight—again—and all I want to do is crawl under my covers and sulk.
Of course, a house of controlled chaos is exactly what happens when a group of very social student-athletes—not including myself in that category—decide to become roommates. It becomes a literal cluster-fuck when all the extra bodies of friends, girlfriends, and teammates come over and hang out at all hours of the day and night.
Not that I blame them, since we have a pretty sweet set up in the basement with a massive television, pool table, and insanely large sectional to make the perfect chill space. But it also drives me bonkers that the place is rarely quiet when I want it to be.
And right now, I sure as fuck want it to be.
When I open the door and faintly hear the surround sound from the basement, I know there’s some sort of…something happening down there. God only knows what, but I’m willing to bet my fucking life it has something to do with Holden—also known as roommate number one. After all, Leighton U’s star quarterback loves to have a good time.
Theo, roomie number two and the shortstop for LU’s baseball team, is in the kitchen with a couple of his teammates when I walk a little further into the house. I think Phoenix and Keegan are their names, but with the house packed full of guys who play for one of the LU athletic teams these days, it’s so hard to know who is who.
Camden, our team’s goalie, and his current flavor of the week are heading up the stairs, probably to his bedroom. I don’t even bother learning the names of the girls since they don’t last long enough to bother with it.
But the one roommate I’m actually looking for is Braxton, because we have things we need to talk about. Most important being the shit that went down at practice today with de Haas being pegged for using fucking drugs.
I don’t know what the odds are for Quinton to be using, let alone getting caught with them, but it can’t be high. No doubt around the same probability as my ability to comprehend quantum physics.
Really. Fucking. Low.
Thankfully, I find Braxton, beer in hand, on the living room sectional with a few girls I know to be jersey chasers—Kinsley, Ashton, and Mikayla. And I say jersey chasers rather than puck bunnies because these three aren’t picky on the sport. They just want to bang athletes in general. Apparently, as many as possible before the end of college.
I know for a fact that Kinsley, the blonde currently draped over Braxton’s lap, has slept with every guy in the house. This week. Apart from myself, though not for her lack of trying. My being gay and having zero sexual attraction toward women throws a little kink in her plans—and not the good kind.
And from the way she’s blatantly eye-fucking me as I cross the room to where the four of them are sitting, she’s ready to make yet another pass at me.
Fantastic.
“There he is, the man of the hour!” Braxton says the second I take a seat on the other half of the sectional beside Ashton.
Not sure why he’s calling me the man of the hour, though. We lost tonight.
“Hey, man.” I glance between him and the three girls watching with the eyes of hawks. “You think we can chat real quick? Alone?”
A crease lines his forehead. “Why? You know the girls won’t repeat the shit said between us.”
No, actually, I don’t know that. In fact, I’m sure anything secret or confidential Mikayla hears is instantly spread to all her little harpy friends via social media moments after she learns it. So I’m not looking to discuss team matters with her—or any of them—around.
“I just think we should get Cam and talk. About what happened at practice.”
“You mean about Quinton de Haas getting nailed for using PEDs?” Mikayla asks. I glance up and find her studying nails that might as well be talons like they’re the most interesting thing in the world, all in an effort to act as nonchalant as she can muster.
I move my attention back to Braxton. “You told them?”
He shrugs. “It was going to be all over the school by tomorrow anyway. You know the NCAA is cracking down on this crap. I’m sure they’re happy to make an example out of him.”
Unfortunately, I know what Braxton’s saying is the truth. Quinton’s bound to be all over hockey headlines by this time tomorrow. News like this always spreads like wildfire, especially when it’s someone with his reputation.
Worst part is, even if he fights it for an appeal—which I’m sure he plans to—and wins, the stain will already be left on his name once it’s out in the open. There’s not many people who come back from that.
Brax shifts, tossing his free arm around Kinsley. “We wanted him out, and now he’s out. Who knows how long it’ll last, but for the time being, he’s not a problem anymore. Let’s focus on racking up some wins instead.”
Again, he’s right. So maybe I should be thankful fate landed us here, and now I can lead this team to victory for the rest of the season.
It’s just all a little too…convenient.
Contrary to what I told Quinton in the Coach’s office, I don’t think he’s stupid. Sure, I was spot-on about him being reckless as hell, but if I know anything about the guy, it’s his dedication to hockey. Even if I act like I’ve never noticed, I’ve seen it for years. It’s actually one of his few qualities I like; I just don’t particularly care for some ways he proves it. Like throwing fists on the ice, even if it was in defense of his teammates or himself. So I’m supposed to believe he would go use drugs to give himself an edge in the game?
He’s reckless, but not that reckless.
“Look, I’m just glad the captainship is in the hands of someone who actually fucking deserves it now. Think about that instead of a shithead who might not even see ice time for the rest of the season,” Braxton says, finishing off the beer and setting the empty can on the table behind the couch.
I glance between him and the three girls, all of whom are nodding in agreement.
“Okay.” I blow out a long breath. “Okay, thanks.”
He waves me off. “No need to thank me. You know I got your back.”
And there it is again. The nagging feeling that I’m missing something. Though I was ready to put the subject to rest and enjoy the rest of the evening, there’s something about his words and the tone he says them with.
It doesn’t sit right. Like he knows something I don’t.
“What’re you talking about? This was all on Quinton. How did you have my back?”
A sly smile creeps onto his face, but he simply shrugs and plays with a lock of Kinsley’s hair.
But my nerves are set completely on edge; a cool prickling feeling taking over every inch of my skin as dread fills my gut. Because he definitely knows something. Or worse, maybe even played a part in this whole fucking mess.
“Brax. Spill,” I demand slowly. “Did you do something?”
His eyes lift to meet mine. “I didn’t do shit.”
The thing about being friends with Braxton as long as I have—I know when he’s being a bold-faced liar. And I’m damn near positive he’s being one right now.
“Braxton,” I hiss, this time a little more harshly. “What. Did. You. Do?”
“Look, man. You’re captain now. You need to keep your hands clean.”
Oh, Jesus Christ. Keep my hands clean?
“How is it possible the more you talk, the less you actually say?”
He keeps grinning. “God given talent, obviously.”
My teeth grit, the sinking feeling in my gut stirring and swirling unpleasantly. Because I’m pretty sure I know what happened.
Braxton somehow fucked with Quinton’s test to get him suspended. Maybe even kicked from the program. And I’m willing to bet Braxton didn’t think about that being his fate if this gets out.
It could too, depending on what de Haas’s second test results are. My bet is they’ll come back clean this time, because why would anyone who is guilty ask to prove they’re more guilty?
Which leads to a whole new problem. Him coming back after all this happened.
Shit.
I didn’t think about it when Coach told me about Quinton’s second test, but now it’s the only thing in my brain. Which means I need to see where his head is, if only to make sure when he comes back after this garbage, he’s not even more explosively violent than he is now.
That’s the last thing the team needs.
Braxton’s stare is hard as he watches me mentally work through all the loose ends of this hairbrained plan he probably set into motion. I can tell the moment he sees I’ve caught on to enough, because he removes his arm from behind Kinsley and leans toward me, clapping me on the shoulder. He holds my gaze as he does, a warning look in his eyes. The kind telling me to stop asking questions before I find something out that I can’t unlearn.
Which is all the confirmation I need.
I don’t need the words, and I sure as hell don’t need the details of how he pulled it off. All it does is make me more of an accessory than I am right now.
“I took care of you, bro. That’s all you gotta know.”
