I sit in the empty locker room, head down, shoulders hunched. Valiantly trying not to grab the nearest item—which happens to be my helmet—and hurl it at the wall. The knuckles of my right hand are cracked and bleeding thanks to the violent uppercut I unleashed at the St. Anthony’s forward, but I press my palms against my thighs and let the blood soak into my hockey pants.
I despise those fuckers from St. Anthony’s. Our teams are long-time rivals, so whenever we play each other, tension and smack talk are to be expected. But the hostility has gotten worse over the past two years. And a couple weeks ago, a bunch of St. A’s guys had messed with one of Grace’s friends, taking away her phone and refusing to let her leave their seedy motel room.
Tonight, I’m the one at fault. There was the usual trash talk in the face-offs, aggressive skating, overly physical hits on both sides. But I was already hot-tempered going into this game, and when that asshole goaded me into taking a swing, I just lost it.
They tossed me out for unsportsmanlike conduct. Yeah right. If the refs heard even half the filth Connelly was spewing about our mothers, they’d throw that fucker out too.
As is stands, I’m the only ousted player. One punch thrown in an already heated game probably won’t get me a suspension from the team, but now I’m stuck in the locker room, prohibited from leaving until I get the obligatory tongue-lashing from Coach Jensen.
Or maybe he’ll delegate again and let O’Shea deliver the lecture. Lucky me. That would mean two lectures from that bastard in the span of twenty-four hours. He’d called me into his office last night when I was driving home from the Hurricanes game. Add to that Allie’s admission that she was with her ex, and it’s no surprise I ended up getting trashed with Beau.
I swear to God, if Allie got back together with that undeserving ass, I’m going to…what? Lose it again? “Break up” with her? All I’ve done so far is avoid her, big talker that I am. Truthfully, I’m afraid of what she might say.
Footsteps echo beyond the door. I instantly tense. Wait, it’s the wrong door, I realize. Not the one leading out to the ice, but the one that opens to the main hallway.
“Dean?” Allie’s voice has my head snapping up.
How the hell did she get back here? We have security guards manning the facility during home games to prevent people from stealing into the locker rooms and messing with the equipment. That actually happened a couple years ago—a rabid fan of our opponents’ snuck in and spray-painted LOSER on our lockers. I hadn’t realized some colleges let in five-year-olds.
There’s a soft knock. “Dean, are you in there?”
I answer on a ragged breath, “Yeah.”
Allie pokes her blond head in the room. She spots me on the bench and makes a beeline toward me. She’s in jeans and a red sweater, with her hair up in a messy bun, and either I’m imagining it or her eyes are rimmed with red. Has she been crying?
“How’d you get past security?” I ask gruffly.
“I told the guard I’m your girlfriend and that I desperately needed to check on my man. There may have been some crocodile tears involved.” She grins wryly. “The ability to cry on command really comes in handy sometimes.”
“And he bought it?”
“Yep. I’m very convincing. But I did have to show him my Briar ID to prove I wasn’t a saboteur.” She sits beside me. “Why did you get kicked out of the game?”
I stare straight ahead. “I sucker punched someone. Damn foolish on my part. I deserve to be in here.”
“Maybe. But it still sucks.” She goes quiet for a moment. I can feel her blue eyes boring into the side of my face. “You’re avoiding me.”
I glance over. “Just a bit.”
“A bit? There aren’t degrees of avoidance, Dean. You’re either avoiding someone, or you aren’t.”
“Not true. Sometimes there’re extenuating circumstances. Unexpected variables.”
“Like what?”
I shrug. “Doesn’t matter.”
“It does matter,” she corrects, “but we can put a pin in that for the moment.” She presses one hand against my cheek, then slides it to my chin to twist my head toward her. Forcing eye contact. “I know you’re pissed at me for seeing Sean.”
“I’m not pissed. You can see whoever you want.” I put on an indifferent tone, when inside, I’m bristling. “But let me just point out the hypocrisy of that. Weren’t we supposed to give each other a head’s up before we hooked up with anyone else?”
“I didn’t hook up with him.”
“No?”
“No,” she says in a firm voice. “And if your silent treatment also has to do with you thinking Sean and I got back together, I can assure you, we did not. He wanted to, but I said no.”
I can’t explain the gust of relief that slams into my chest. “Good to know,” I say lightly, but the knowing gleam in her eyes reveals she is absolutely aware of how pleased I am.
She takes my hand and twines our fingers together. “Sean and I are over. I don’t want to be with him, and that’s exactly what I told him yesterday.”
“Bet he wasn’t thrilled to hear it.”
“Nope, but it’s something he’ll need to accept.” She rubs her thumb over my tender knuckles. They’re not bleeding anymore, but the way she gasps, you’d think my hand had been amputated. “You shouldn’t be fighting,” she says sternly.
“Hockey players are hot-blooded, babe. We fight sometimes. Not the end of the world.”
“What did the jerk say to get you to punch him?”
“I don’t even remember,” I admit. “It was all a blur, and I was already in a shitty mood to begin with.”
Guilt fills her expression. “Because of me?”
“Naah.” My fingers tighten through hers. “O’Shea is on my case again because another goddamn picture showed up on Instagram.” I chuckle harshly. “I really need to start paying more attention when I’m at Malone’s.”
“O’Shea is your assistant coach? The one who forced you to volunteer at the middle school?”
“Defensive coordinator, and yes.”
“Okay, and what picture are we talking about? Wait, a picture from Malone’s? Of us?” Her face goes pale.
“No,” I assure her. “Me and Penelope, the puck bunny who was chewing on my neck. O’Shea is pissed.”
“Why? Are PDAs forbidden?” She quickly adds, “Not that I’m saying you were PDA’ing with her—I know she was the one coming on to you. But for argument’s sake, even if you were reciprocating, how is that a punishable offense?”
“He wasn’t bitching about the PDA. I’m holding a beer in the picture, and O’Shea’s got a stick up his ass about us not drinking.”
“Um. He realizes he’s coaching college players, right? A no-drinking rule is impossible to enforce.”
“I know.”
“And all you’re doing in the picture is holding a beer? What the hell? It’s not like you got caught snorting lines of coke off her tits.”
A smile tickles my lips. “Of course not. If I was going to snort lines off anyone’s tits, it would be yours.”
“Aw, thanks. That’s so romantic.” Still stroking my palm with her fingertips, she leans closer and kisses my cheek. “O’Shea is an idiot, sweetie. Don’t let him get to you, okay? Especially not to the point where you’re so angry you’re punching people and getting thrown out of games.”
She’s right—I need to do a better job of controlling my temper. But Frank O’Shea…fuck. Just the sound of his sharp, condescending voice riles me up.
Allie’s lips brush over my jaw in a fleeting kiss. Then she releases my hand, visibly reluctant. “I should probably go before someone sees me in here. The third period will be over soon.”
“Did you happen to catch the score before you came back here?”
“I think it was tied.”
Shit. Well, hopefully my boys manage to turn the tie into a lead, because I’m sick to death of losing.
And I’m sick of sneaking around, if I’m being honest.
It was exciting at first, sleeping with Allie behind our friends’ backs, but I’m not feeling it anymore. When she showed up at Malone’s the other night looking like that? I wanted to stick my tongue down her throat in front of everyone. It was damn hard pretending to be unaffected by her, and I’m damn tired of furtively texting her for quickies and lying to my friends about where I’m going.
Friends, who, by the way, now think I incorporate dildos in my jerk-off routine. When Tucker handed me a plate of bacon and eggs this morning, he innocently asked if my “little pink buddy” would be joining us for breakfast. Garrett almost broke a rib laughing. Poor Grace still can’t look at me without blushing.
I know Allie doesn’t want our friends to know we’re fooling around, but I wish there was a way we could have a little more freedom. Maybe we could book a hotel room for the weekend, just spend two whole days in bed without worrying about—
Inspiration strikes. “Hey, wait.” I reach for her hand before she can stand up. “Did you book your train ticket for Thanksgiving yet?”
Allie curses. “No, I didn’t. Argh! Why am I so bad at remembering things? I set a reminder!”
“Don’t book it.”
“Why not?”
“Because I have a better idea.” I hesitate. “Why don’t I come to New York with you? We can drive up in my car.”
She looks startled. “Oh. You…uh…want to spend Thanksgiving together? Um. Well. I’m seeing my dad—”
“I’m not inviting myself to dinner or anything,” I cut in. “I figured I’d stay at my place in Manhattan while you’re with your dad, and if you’re free Thursday or Friday night, you can come over.” I wiggle my eyebrows. “We’d have the whole place to ourselves.”
“Well, that’s intriguing,” she says slowly. “When do you need to be back at Briar for the game?”
“I’d have to leave Saturday morning. When were you planning on coming back?”
“Saturday morning.” A tiny smile lifts her lips. “Timing works out…”
“Does that mean you’re down?” I ask hopefully.
“A free ride to New York and wild weekend sex? Of course.”
“Good. I have one favor to ask, though.”
She tips her head, waiting for me to continue.
My mood, which had been lower than low before, is now as bright as the grin I flash her. “Bring Winston.”
*
And that’s how I end up driving to New York with Allie in the passenger seat.
The sun has already set by the time we hit the road, because Allie had rehearsal until six, and then it takes her a whole frickin’ hour to pack. Me, I bring a backpack. Her? She brings an overstuffed suitcase that barely fits in my trunk.
I had left my hockey bag in there because it literally didn’t occur to me that she’d pack so much shit for three short days. Luckily, the parking lot behind Bristol is completely deserted, which means nobody sees us trying to jam the suitcase in the trunk. The campus is eerily silent, almost as if the Rapture sucked everyone up into the sky. Clearly we’re not the only ones who decided to head out the day before Thanksgiving.
Hannah and Garrett flew to Philly this morning, and Grace and Logan were gone a few hours later. They’re visiting Logan’s father in rehab, then hitting up his mother in Boston for the night before coming back to Hastings to spend the holiday with Grace’s dad. Tucker was still home when I left, but he’s driving to Hollis’s place in New Hampshire tomorrow morning. I’m glad, because if he didn’t have anywhere to go, the guilt would’ve suckered me into inviting him to Manhattan.
After Allie and I are finally settled in the front seat, I discover that we have completely different tastes in music. It takes about five minutes of bickering before we reach a compromise—we each get thirty-minute music blocks, during which the other person isn’t allowed to complain. The little brat even sets a timer to ensure we abide by the rules. And of course, she announces she’s going first.
“Why can’t I go first?” I object.
“Because I’m playing the vagina card.”
I smirk at her. “Fine. Then I trump it with the penis card.”
“That’s not how it works.” She sounds exasperated.
“Then how does it work? Because last I checked, genitals don’t decide who gets to listen to their music first.”
“Oh yes, they do.” Allie addresses me like I’m a kindergartner. “See, if you take away my dick privileges, I’ll be fine for months. Years, even. But if I take away your pussy privileges? You’ll be utterly lost. Like a drowning man at sea, desperately grabbing for the vagina preserver.” She beams. “Therefore, vagina trumps penis.”
My smirk fades, because she’s right.
As a result, I spend the first thirty minutes of the drive listening to cheesy 80s ballads that all feature the word love in their titles.
“I Want to Know What Love Is.”
“I Just Called To Say I Love You.”
“It Must Have Been Love.”
You’d think Allie was not so subtly trying to tell me something, except I’m fairly certain every song from the 80s is about love.
When it’s my turn, I pick the filthiest tracks I can find. Ol’ Dirty Bastard. Some non-radio-friendly Jay-Z. Cypress Hill. I even throw an Insane Clown Posse song in there.
Allie retaliates by putting on Madonna’s greatest hits.
Instead of punishing her, I decide to reward myself and switch from hip-hop to country. Yup, rich boy likes Tim McGraw. So sue me.
We’re still on the I-90 with about two hours left to go when Allie pulls out her phone and starts typing.
Keeping my eyes on the road, I ask, “Who you texting?”
“Dillon…a friend from high school. She goes to college in Florida, but I’m hoping she’s coming home for the break. Oooh, and I should check if Fletch is around.”
“Fletch?”
“Kyle Fletcher, but I call him Fletch,” she says absently. “Ex-boyfriend.”
My head swivels toward her. “You’re making plans with your ex-boyfriend?”
“Retract those claws, missy. Fletch is still a good friend of mine.”
I can’t fight my curiosity. “How long were you together?”
“Three years.”
I whistle softly. “And then three and a half more with Sean…You’re a nester, huh?”
“No, I’m not,” she protests.
“Babe, that’s almost seven years of your life spent in a serious relationship. And you’re only twenty-two.”
“Twenty-one. I’m a Christmas baby.”
“For real? Your birthday’s the twenty-fifth?”
“The twenty-fourth. I guess that makes me a Christmas Eve baby. Sorry.”
“You better be sorry. How dare you mislead me like that?”
She rolls her eyes. “Anyway, fine. You’re right. That is a long time.” She pauses. “What’s your longest relationship?”
“A little over a year.” I answer without moving my gaze from the dark highway.
“Really?” she says in surprise. “That’s a lot longer than I expected. High school?”
I nod.
“Why’d you break up?”
It’s my turn to roll my eyes. “Because we were in high school.”
“So? What if she was your soulmate?” Allie challenges. “You don’t believe high school sweethearts can make it?”
“Nope. I don’t think you’re capable of knowing what you want or need from a relationship at that age. When you’re in high school, you have no concept of real life. You don’t realize how much growing up you still have to do. I’m definitely not the same person now that I was in my teens. Hell, I’m not the same person I was last semester.”
“Sure you are.” She smiles sweetly. “You were a manwhore last semester and you’re a manwhore this semester.”
“True,” I say with a snicker.
Allie drops her phone in the cup holder and shifts around in her seat so she can see me better. “Do you still talk to your high school girlfriend?”
Tension slices into my bones. “No.”
“You just lost touch?”
“I guess you can say that.” I exhale slowly, hoping to ease the tightness in my chest. “She’s the reason Coach O’Shea hates me, actually. Miranda’s his daughter.”
“Uh-oh. You dated your coach’s daughter?” Allie takes on a chiding tone. “Oh, sweetie, that’s like rule number one in the dating handbook—never date the kid of your authority figure.”
“Do I look like someone who follows the rules?” My answering grin fades rapidly. “I couldn’t help it,” I admit. “At the time, Miranda was pretty frickin’ awesome. Impossible to resist. She attended Greenwich Prep for free because Frank coached there, so she wasn’t a rich kid. She was completely different from the girls I’d always gone to school with. She didn’t give a shit about image or being the Queen B, didn’t shame other people to make herself feel better. She was down-to-earth. Funny. Hot.”
“Well duh. Dean Heyward-Di Laurentis only bangs hotties.”
“I didn’t bang her. At least not right away. It took a long time to get there, but I wasn’t in any hurry.” I wink. “We had fun doing other stuff.”
“So when did you do the deed?”
“A couple months before we broke up.” My shoulders stiffen again. I hate thinking about that night.
Allie senses it, because her tone becomes wary. “What happened?”
Fuck, why did I even open this door? “About nine months into the relationship, things got…intense.” And why am I even answering the question? “Miranda started talking about us staying together when we went to college, which was never part of the deal.”
“Wait—did O’Shea know at this point? That you were dating his daughter?”
“Yeah, he knew. He wasn’t thrilled, but he said as long as Miranda was happy, he was happy. Didn’t stop him from giving me grief about it, though. I’d pick her up for a date and he’d interrogate me about where we were going, who would be there, when we’d be back. And one time he threatened to shoot my balls off if I didn’t treat her with respect.”
“My father gave Fletch the same speech when we started dating. Trust me, it’s a dad thing.” Allie’s laughter dies off. “So Miranda was talking about college…?”
“All the time, and it really fucking worried me because we were on the same page going into the relationship. I didn’t want to do the long-distance thing in college. I saw my brother and his ex-girlfriend go through it, same with a few buddies who graduated the year before. They spent their freshman year holding on to something they should’ve just let go. The phone calls got less frequent, the visits stopped, the jealousy and insecurity set in. Worrying about what the other person was up to, who they might be hooking up with. I didn’t want that, and neither did Miranda. She was planning on going to Duke. I was planning on Briar or Harvard. We both agreed that if we were still together by the time graduation rolled around, we would end it.”
“But she changed her mind?”
“Yup. It was subtle at first. She’d talk about something we were going to do in the future, I’d remind her it probably wouldn’t happen, and she’d laugh it off and say she forgot. But then she got…clingy. She’d call like ten times a day, and suddenly she was paranoid I was cheating on her. I wasn’t, by the way—I’ve never cheated on anyone I made a commitment to.”
“So you ended it? No, wait, first you had sex with her.”
I hear the accusation in Allie’s tone, and I can’t deny it hits its mark. “Yeah. I did.” My mouth runs dry. I try to swallow. “Miranda was with this other guy for two years before she went out with me. When we started dating, she told me she’d had sex before.”
“Oh no,” Allie murmurs. “I don’t like where this is going.”
“We were at a party, and she was acting all clingy again, not letting me talk to anyone, refusing to let go of my hand. She even followed me into the fucking bathroom. I was frustrated and angry, and I started pounding beers because it was the only way to pass the time. She didn’t want to leave, but she also wouldn’t leave my side. I was actually considering breaking up with her right then, and I guess she sensed it because next thing I know she’s dragging me upstairs.” Regret throbs inside me. “I was disgustingly wasted, not to mention seventeen and horny, so I wasn’t exactly fighting her off. We had sex. And then afterward, she admitted she was a virgin.”
“Shit.”
“If I’d known, I would have been more…I don’t know, careful? Gentler? I was sloppy drunk and she got a sloppy lay. For her first time, Allie. I felt like a total ass the next day, but Miranda wasn’t mad. She said she felt closer to me than ever, and after that, it was like DEFCON level clinginess. Suddenly she was planning college visits and saying how we should think about getting engaged, that a stronger commitment would make it easier to stay true to each other.” My stomach churns just thinking about it. I hadn’t even turned eighteen at that point.
“So like any teenage boy would, you freaked out and ended it.”
I nod.
She sighs. “I don’t blame you. I’m sure anyone would feel overwhelmed in that situation.”
“Maybe. But…Miranda didn’t handle the breakup too well,” I confess, fighting the nausea clawing at my gut. “Turns out she’d dealt with depression in the past, but she never told me about it. I never would’ve guessed either, because she was so happy and easygoing all the time. But I found out that’s because of the meds she was taking. The meds she stopped taking after I ended it.”
“Shit,” Allie says again.
“She changed completely. She was crying all the time, screaming at me in the halls, calling me in the middle of the night threatening to kill herself. I had no choice but to involve her dad, because I was terrified she might actually commit suicide. Frank pulled her out of school after that, and I haven’t seen or heard from her since.”
Allie’s jaw drops. “Are you serious?”
“Frank wouldn’t allow it.” The frustration I felt back then rises again now. “He told me Miranda was back on her meds and getting professional help. Oh, and that if I ever tried to contact her again, he would rip my throat out. That didn’t stop me from worrying about her. I mean, I still cared about her even though we were broken up, so about a month after she left school, I cornered Coach in the parking lot and demanded to see Miranda.” My jaw twitches. “And he punched me in the face.”
“Oh my God. Did anyone see him do it?”
“No. It was late, and he was coming out of a staff meeting. Nobody else was around. But yeah, he clocked me good. That’s when I found out that Miranda told him we had sex. She also told him I was drunk out of my mind when it happened.”
“Well, that’s not cool,” Allie says angrily.
“None of it was cool. I shouldn’t have let her seduce me that night, absolutely.” Bitterness clogs my throat. “But she let her father believe I was some drunk asshole who took advantage of her, and that wasn’t fair either.” I force myself to relax my grip on the steering wheel. “Anyway, that’s why O’Shea can’t stand the sight of me. He thinks I played the long game with his daughter—spent a year trying to get into her pants, and then dumped her once I got what I wanted.”
“And you really have no idea how she’s doing now? You haven’t tried to contact her?”
“I sent her a Facebook friend request a while ago,” I admit. “She hasn’t accepted it. I think she’s doing well, though. Her profile said she goes to Duke.”
“I guess it makes sense that O’Shea was so overprotective of her,” Allie muses. “It must have been really hard for him, watching his daughter struggle with depression. Watching her get better, and then fall into that dark place again.”
Maybe, but I refuse to empathize with that bastard, not when he’s trying to make my last year at Briar so damn miserable.
“You make more sense to me too now,” she adds.
“How so?” I don’t like her thoughtful, probing gaze.
“This is why you’re always so upfront about sex, right? You’re making sure your hook-ups are on the same page as you?”
“I’m not misleading anyone ever again, that’s for sure. Or taking their agreement at face value. I don’t care if it makes me an ass, but I never, ever lie about my intentions. And I never date virgins,” I say as an afterthought. “Or freshmen, because they tend to be clingier.”
“The Life of Dean sure has a lot of rules.”
“Without those rules, there is no Life of Dean.”
“I suppose.” She pauses. “The virgin thing is tough, though. It’s easy for a girl to lie about that. I mean, horseback riding alone has probably broken fifty percent of hymens.”
I bark out a laugh. “Trust me, my virgin radar is infallible these days.”
“Oh yeah? How did you know I wasn’t a virgin?”
“Because Garrett stays at your dorm every other weekend and he heard you and Sean in the bone zone tons of times. He told me you were a screamer.”
She gasps. “He did not say that.”
“He totally did. Face it, babe, you’re a loud lay.” I chuckle at her stricken expression. “That’s not a bad thing. Vocal is good.” I think of her throaty moans and breathy Oh my Gods, and I’m semi-hard in a nanosecond. “Vocal is very good.”
“No, it’s embarrassing,” she mutters. Her cheeks are bright red.
“Hey, I’d way rather be in bed with a loud woman than a quiet one. Silent comers are the worst. I slept with this one chick who didn’t make a sound the entire time. Seriously, I had no idea if she was even enjoying herself, and then when it was over she turned to me and thanked me for the multiple orgasms.”
Allie lets out a hoot. “You’re lying.”
“I don’t lie.”
“You…really don’t, huh? I’m starting to think you might be the most honest person I’ve ever met.”
“Another requirement in the Life of Dean. Say what you mean, mean what you say.”
“And do what you want.”
“And do what you want,” I echo.
“I think I really like the Life of Dean.”
I think I really like you, I almost blurt out.
Fortunately, I manage to tamp down the sentiment, because…what the hell? I like banging her. Allie is easy to talk to and fun to fuck—that’s all there is to it. And considering how adamant she is about this being nothing more than a fling, I know she agrees wholeheartedly with me on that.
But a few hours later, when I pull up in front of a three-story brownstone in Brooklyn Heights, Allie throws me a curveball.
“Do you want to come for dinner tomorrow?”
The invitation is alarming and unexpected.
And alarming.
Did I mention alarming?
My unease must be written all over my face, because Allie hurries on. “I won’t be insulted if you say no. Honestly, you can say no. I was just imagining you all alone in Manhattan for Thanksgiving while your family is scarfing down a tropical turkey in St. Bart’s, and it was such a lonely, depressing picture that I figured I’d extend the invite.”
“What…” I clear my throat. “What will you tell your dad?”
She shrugs. “I’ll say you’re a friend from school who didn’t have anywhere else to go. It won’t be a big deal, I promise. You guys will talk hockey, I’ll cook dinner, we’ll watch some football, and there’s a forty percent chance we all get food poisoning. Just a regular old Hayes family Thanksgiving.”
A laugh flies out. “Sounds like a blast.” I consider it. “Okay, I’m in. What time do you want me to show up?”
“Four should be good, but we probably won’t eat until five.”
I nod.
“Okay. Awesome.” She smiles ruefully. “Now help me get my suitcase out of the trunk, will you? I’m pretty sure I’ll break my back if I try to lift that thing myself.”
