Saturday night’s game against Yale starts off promising.
After Garrett scores an early goal, we successfully manage to keep Yale out of our zone for most of the first period. Well, except for when Brodowski foolishly gets out of position and hands Yale’s center and right wing a breakaway.
Thanks to that bonehead move, I’m faced with an odd man rush and it’s pure blind luck that Yale doesn’t get a goal out of it—the shot smacks off the pipe. I dive toward the puck and snap off a quick pass to Hunter. Our forwards blessedly fly past the center line into Yale territory, while I do my damnedest not to strangle Brodowski as we whiz toward the bench for a line change.
I squirt water through my face guard and spit it at my feet. Sweat pours down my face from the exertion it took to singlehandedly defend our zone.
Beside me, Brodowski is properly shamefaced. “I messed up the coverage,” he mutters to me.
I grit my teeth and say, “Happens to the best of us.” Because that’s what you’re supposed to say when you’re part of a team. We don’t play the blame game here at Briar.
But if anyone is to blame for that breakaway? It’s Brodowski, sure as shit.
“What happened to your lip?” he asks, studying the thin red cut splitting my bottom lip.
“Sex,” I grunt in response.
On my other side, Tucker snickers. He’d asked me the same thing this morning, and I’d given him the same non-answer.
On the other side of Tucker, one of our freshman wingers looks highly impressed. “You’re my idol, dude,” he calls out.
The first line’s shift lasts for the rest of the period, and we hit the locker room with a lead of 1-0. For the first time in weeks, morale is high.
The second period starts off exactly like the first. Another early goal, this time courtesy of Fitzy. We’re leading 2-0 now, and Yale is feeling the pressure. As a result, they come at us hard, playing aggressively and taking shot after shot at goal. Patrick Corsen, our goaltender, is nowhere near as talented as our old goalie Simms, who graduated last year. He also has a bad habit of skating too far from the crease, so when the opposing winger connects with a centering pass from his D-man, Corsen isn’t in position to stop the puck.
But it’s all right. We’re still in the lead. For…oh, about another thirty seconds. I’m hopping out for my shift when the same winger who’d just scored does an impressive wraparound and flicks another shot past Corsen. The fucker scores again. Two goals in less than a minute, and just like that, our lead becomes a tie.
The rest of the second is scoreless.
In the third, everything falls apart for us. I can’t even count all the things that go wrong—it’s one bullshit error after the other.
Logan takes a two-minute penalty for slashing. Yale scores on the power play.
2-3.
Wilkes lands in the sin bin for hooking. Yale scores on the power play.
2-4.
Corsen is faked out by a winger, who moves as if he’s shooting low, then snaps the puck high. It flies into the net, top left corner. Yale scores, and this time we weren’t even short-handed.
2-5.
Hunter slaps in a one-timer.
3-5.
I take a brainless tripping penalty. Yale scores on the power play.
3-6.
The final buzzer sounds, and we’ve lost our third game of the season. Fun times.
*
O’Shea pulls me aside before I can board the bus. He already yelled at me and Logan in the locker room for taking foolish penalties that resulted in two goals for the other team, and I sincerely hope he’s not gearing up to do it again. I’m in a foul mood and my brain-to-mouth filters aren’t working at full capacity right now. If O’Shea pushes my buttons, I don’t know that I can control my temper.
“What is it, Coach?” I ask as politely as possible.
His dark eyes flick over me, and then he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a BlackBerry. Which momentarily distracts me, because I can’t remember the last time I saw a BlackBerry. Doesn’t pretty much everyone have an iPhone these days?
“Anything you’d like to tell me?” O’Shea says coolly.
I am literally drawing a blank. “Um…about what?”
His jaw ticks. Without a word, he hands me the phone.
There’s a slight queasiness in my gut as I glance at the screen. It’s open to an Instagram account I don’t recognize, but the photo in question features a slew of familiar faces, including my own. I’m not sure who took it, but it was obviously some chick who was at Malone’s on Thursday night, because the hashtags below the image are #HockeyHotties and #SexyBriarBoys.
I’ll be honest—I’m not really seeing the problem here. The picture shows the guys and me clinking our shot glasses together in cheers. We’d ordered the round of shots before switching to pitchers of beer. And sure, we’re drinking, but none of us are minors, and it’s not like we’d gotten caught with our pants down, hanging brain. We’re just sitting in a booth, for chrissake.
“Still have nothing to say?”
I raise my gaze to O’Shea’s. “This was taken on Thursday night. We were celebrating Fitzy’s birthday.”
“I can see that. And exactly how much celebrating did you do?”
“If you’re asking if we got sloppy drunk, the answer is no.”
That doesn’t appease him. “Do you remember what I told you in Jensen’s office the other day? I said no boozing, no drugs, and no brawling.”
“We weren’t ‘boozing’, sir. We just had a few drinks.”
“Are you aware of Briar’s policy regarding drug and alcohol restrictions for student athletes? If not, I’d be happy to provide you with a copy of it.”
“Oh, come on, Coach, you can’t expect us not to drink. We’re in college, for fu—Pete’s sake. And we’re all over twenty-one.”
“Watch your tone, Di Laurentis,” he snaps. “And yes, the other coaches and I do expect that of you. As long as you play hockey for this school, you’re to follow the rules set out by your coaches and the NCAA, and conduct yourself accordingly.”
“Sir…” I take a calming breath. But I don’t feel calm. I’m pissed about tonight’s loss and not in the mood to get chewed out for having a couple goddamn drinks. “My teammates and I conducted ourselves superbly the night in question. So rest assured, you have nothing to worry about.”
“Don’t get smart with me, son. We have a serious problem here—”
“No, we don’t,” I cut in. “I think you’re overreacting. We went to a bar and had a few beers. It’s what we do, okay? But hey, if this is something you’re truly concerned about, maybe you should run it by Coach Jensen and see what he says.” My mouth twists in a sneer. “He’s the head coach of this team, right? Shouldn’t he be the one to handle this ‘serious problem’?”
I regret the words the moment they exit my mouth, but goddamn it, I’ve had it up to here with this man.
Predictably, O’Shea doesn’t take kindly to having his authority challenged. “Chad has given me free rein over the defensemen, and it would serve you well to remember that,” he spits out. “When it comes to the defense, I handle any issues that arise. And this, Mr. Di Laurentis, is an issue. You will not indulge in alcohol or drugs of any kind while you’re a member of this team, you hear me?”
For chrissake. I’m done with this shit.
“You got it, Coach. Can I get on the bus now?”
Anger reddens his face. “You want to join your teammates on the bus? Then you’d better take some fucking responsibility for your actions. Acknowledge that you did something wrong.”
I’m seconds away from losing it. My hands ball into fists, but by some miracle, I manage to stop myself from hitting him. “Out of curiosity, are you planning on delivering this same lecture to everyone else in that picture? Or am I just special?”
“I plan on talking to all of them, don’t you worry. I chose to speak to you first because I was already aware of your history with alcohol abuse.” He lifts one eyebrow, and holy fucking shit, I almost let my fist fly.
My history with alcohol abuse?
Fuck that. And fuck him.
He knows damn well I don’t have a problem with alcohol. He’s just being a spiteful ass and trying to find new ways to punish me for what happened with Miranda. But this? Referencing the one time I drank too much—when I was a goddamn teenager—and using it to imply I’m a drunk?
I’m. So. Done. With. This. Shit.
“Thank you for your concern,” I say pleasantly. “It’s much appreciated. Really.” Then I leave him standing on the pavement and stalk toward the bus.
Fortunately, he doesn’t stop me.
I’m still fighting to gather the scattered pieces of my composure as I slide into my usual seat next to Tucker, who shoots me a quizzical look. “What was that about?”
“Absolutely nothing.” I fish my earbuds out of my pocket and pop them in. If Tuck considers that rude, he doesn’t say anything—he just lowers his gaze to his phone, and a few minutes later, we’re on the road.
The rock track that comes up on my iPod shuffle only riles me up more, so I pull up the playlist Wellsy made for me this summer and try to calm down to the sounds of smooth jazz and easy crooning. Nope. Not working, either. I switch off the iPod and listen to the low chatter of my teammates instead.
Logan and Fitzy are babbling about a first-shooter video game that Fitzy is reviewing for the college blog. Hollis is trying to convince someone to meet him at his dorm—“I’ll make it worth your while, baby”—which means he’s either on the phone, or he and his seatmate just came out to the entire bus. Corsen and his seatmate are arguing about who the hottest actress on Game of Thrones is: the chick who plays Daenerys or the broad who plays Cersei.
“You’re both wrong,” Garrett calls out. “Melisandre is the hottest. Hands down.”
“The red witch? No way. She gave birth to a gross shadow creature. That pussy’s tainted, dude.”
“Spoiler alert!” Wilkes says irritably. “I was planning on starting season one this weekend!”
“Don’t bother,” Fitzy advises. “The show sucks. Read the books instead.”
“I swear to God, if you tell us to ‘read the books’ one more time, I’m going to strangle you,” Corsen announces. “I mean it. I’ll straight up strangle you, Colin.”
Our resident nerd shrugs. “Can’t help it if the books are better.”
I don’t join in, but secretly I agree with Fitz. The books are better. Though I doubt anyone will believe me if I said I read ’em. With the exception of my roommates, most of my teammates don’t take me seriously. I’m pretty sure they think I’m only attending Harvard Law because my rich parents bought my way in. Doesn’t bother me, if I’m being honest. I get a kick out of it when people underestimate my intelligence. Half the time I willingly play into the dumb blond stereotype, just for funsies.
As the chatter continues, I tune everyone out and reach for my phone. I don’t know what compels me to open the Facebook app and search her name. I’m on autopilot, barely aware of what I’m doing until the search results pop up.
There are dozens of Miranda O’Sheas on Facebook, but none of them are the one I’m looking for.
I do another search, this time with her name and the words “Duke University.” I have no idea if she even goes there, but it seems like a good place to start. When we were dating, all Miranda ever talked about was how much she wanted to get into Duke.
This time her profile appears on the screen.
I study the small thumbnail pic. She hasn’t changed in four years. She still has the same round face, the same unruly dark curls, the same brown eyes.
To my dismay, her profile is private. I can’t see anything except her profile pic and cover photo, which is a generic beach landscape. I stare at the little green button at the top of the page.
Add friend.
I don’t know what possesses me to click it. But I do.
With the friend request sent, I turn off the app and put my phone away. Tucker isn’t on his anymore either. He’s leaning back against the headrest with his eyes closed, and I decide to follow his lead. We’ve got two more hours until we reach Boston, then another hour to Hastings. Might as well get some sleep and try to forget tonight’s disastrous game.
The nap does the trick. I wake up feeling centered and relaxed, and when I peer out the window and wait for the next road sign to appear, I discover we’re only a half hour from campus.
In the seat beside me, Tucker is also awake, typing on his phone again.
“Dude, are you dating someone?” I can’t stop myself from asking. I’ve barely seen Tucker lately, and we live in the same house.
“No,” he says dismissively.
“You sure about that?”
“I think I would know if I was dating someone.” But there’s an odd note in his voice, which I can’t for the life of me decipher.
“Where’ve you been, then? You’re never home anymore.”
Tucker shrugs. “I go to class. Study at the library. Chill in my room.” He pauses. “I crashed at a friend’s place in Boston a few times.”
“What friend?”
Before he can answer, my phone rings, and I swear he looks relieved. I make a note to cross-examine him again later. It’ll be good practice for law school.
I pick up when I see Beau’s name and give him the usual greeting. “Maxwell. What’s shaking?”
“Hey. How was the game?” Loud music blasts in the background, but I can hear him loud and clear.
“Shitty.”
“Yeah. I read the recap on the college sports blog. You got your asses kicked.”
“Why’d you even ask how it went if you already knew the answer?”
“I was being polite.”
I have to snicker.
“Anyway, party at my place tonight. I know it’s late, but I’m still extending an invite. Figured you might need something to help take your mind off the beating you got from Yale.”
I consider it, but only briefly. “Naah. Thanks, but I’m not in the mood.” A tired breath slips out. “It’s been a crap night.”
“All the more reason for you to come out. It’s a hot girl smorgasbord in here. And you know women—they can’t resist a mopey, brooding man. Tell them how sad you are about losing your game, and they’ll be begging you to let them make you feel better.” He pauses. “Wait. Unless you’re still dealing with…ah, equipment malfunctions?”
“Nope. We’re all better now.”
“Nice! Does that mean Bella finally threw you another bone?”
“Bella?” I say blankly.
“Yeah, you know, the chick you imprinted on.”
I chuckle. “Right. Yeah, she did.” I keep my response vague, because Tucker is right there and he’s not allowed to know about Allie and me. And…shit. I guess that means I’m not allowed to harass him for being so secretive lately, what with this pot/kettle situation we’re in.
“Good, then you’re all fixed. Now come over and put that newly functioning dong to good use.”
“Naah,” I say again. “I’m really not feeling it.” But I am feeling something else, because as usual, the mere thought of Allie gets me hard. “We’ll connect sometime this week. Go out for beers or something.”
“Sounds good. Later, bro.”
The second we hang up, I open a new text box. It’ll be nearly one a.m. by the time I get home. That’s absolutely booty call territory, but it’s Saturday night and Allie doesn’t have classes tomorrow, so I figure I’m safe.
Me: u + me = wild animal sex 2nite?
She responds right away. Good, she’s still up.
Her: u = tempting – me = already in bed ÷ sleep.
Me: Why the division sign??
Her: I don’t know. I was trying to answer in math. Bottom line: I’m in bed.
Me: Perfect. That’s right where I want u to be. I’ll be there in 45.
Her: U can’t. Hannah’s home.
Me: We’ll be very, very quiet. She won’t even know I’m there.
There’s a short delay, and even before her answer appears, I know it’s going to be a no.
Her: Don’t want 2 risk it. Let’s wait for a nite we can be alone.
Me: U have no sense of adventure.
Her: U have no patience.
Me: Not when it comes to u.
Her: We had sex 3 times last nite! I’m sure that’ll tide u over til we see each other again.
Me: And when will that be?
Her: Tomorrow nite maybe? I’ll let u know.
Me: Fine.
Me: Btw—totally gonna think of u when I’m jerking off 2nite.
Her: That’s cool. I just fingered myself and pretended it was u.
I groan out loud.
Tucker swivels his head toward me. He looks at my face, then my phone, then rolls his eyes. “Seriously, man? You’re sexting right beside me? Get a room.”
I wish I could get a room. Allie’s room, to be exact. But clearly that’s not in the cards tonight. And now, thanks to that little cocktease, I get to spend the rest of the bus ride with a stiffy.
