The Goal (Off-Campus Book 4)

I always thought that if I knocked someone up, I’d be able to talk to my friends about it. But I’ve known for nearly a week that my girlfriend is pregnant, and I haven’t said a single word to anyone.

Actually, no one even knows I have a girlfriend.

For that matter, neither do I.

Ever since Sabrina peed on three sticks and got three positive results, she’s been avoiding seeing me in person. We’ve texted every day, but she insists she’s too busy to meet up because she wants to get a leg up on the new semester. I’ve been trying to give her the space she clearly needs, but my patience is running thin.

We need to sit down and discuss this. I mean, we’re talking about a possible baby. A baby. Jesus. I’m freaking out here. I’m the guy who’s unshakable, the guy who can take any lickin’ and kick on tickin’, but the only thing ticking right now is my heart—at double time.

I don’t know how the hell to handle this. Sabrina said she couldn’t have a kid, and I plan to support whatever she decides, but I want her to include me, damn it. It rips me apart to think of her going through this alone.

She needs me.

“You making something to eat or just staring at the stove for funsies?”

Garrett’s voice draws me out of my misery. My roommate strolls into the kitchen with Logan on his tail. Both guys make a beeline for the fridge.

“Seriously,” Logan gripes as he peers into the refrigerator. “Feed us, Tuck. There’s nothing edible here.”

Yeah, I haven’t shopped for groceries all week. And when you live in a house full of hockey players, skipping out on the shopping is bad news.

I stare at the empty pot I’d placed on the burner. I didn’t have a menu in mind when I wandered into the kitchen, and with the sad assortment of ingredients we have on hand, there’s not much I can work with.

“I guess I’ll make some pasta,” I say glumly. Carbs at this hour isn’t the smartest idea, but beggars can’t be choosers.

“Thanks, Mom.”

I cringe at that word. Mom. He might as well have said Dad. As in, I might be a fucking dad.

I draw a calming breath and fill the pot with water.

Logan beams at me. “Don’t forget to put on your apron.”

I give him the finger on my way to the pantry. “One of you lazy asses make yourself useful and chop some onions,” I mutter.

“On it,” Garrett says.

Logan flops down at the kitchen table and watches us like a jerk as we prepare a late dinner. “Make enough for five,” he tells us. “Dean’s working one-on-one with Hunter tonight. The kid might come back here with him.”

Garrett glances at me in amusement. “Naah, I think we’ll only make enough for four—right, Tuck? If Hunter’s here, he can take Logan’s spot.”

“Awesome idea.”

Our roommate rolls his eyes. “I’ll tell Coach you’re trying to starve me.”

“You do that,” Garrett says graciously.

I set the pot on the burner. While I wait for the water to boil, I scrounge around in the crisper for anything green. I find one pepper and two carrots. Whatever. Might as well chop ’em and throw ’em in the sauce.

We chat about nothing in particular as we prepare dinner. Or rather, they chat. I’m too busy internally freaking out about Sabrina. I guess that’s a testament to my acting skills, because my roommates don’t seem to notice that anything is out of the ordinary.

I’m about to dump two packages of penne in the boiling water when Garrett’s phone rings.

“It’s Coach,” he says, sounding slightly confused.

I set the pasta on the counter instead of in the pot and watch as Garrett takes the call. I don’t know why, but there’s a nervous feeling crawling up my spine. Coach Jensen doesn’t usually phone us off-hours for no reason. Garrett’s team captain, but it’s not like he’s getting nightly calls from the man.

“Hey, Coach. What’s up?” Garrett listens for a moment. His dark eyebrows knit, and then he speaks again. Warily. “I don’t understand. Why did Pat ask you to call me?”

He listens again. For much longer, this time.

Whatever Coach Jensen is telling him, it’s turning Garrett’s complexion to paste. By the time he hangs up, he’s as white as the walls.

“What’s wrong?” Logan demands. He doesn’t miss Garrett’s change in demeanor either.

Garrett shakes his head, looking stunned. “Beau Maxwell died.”

What?

Logan freezes.

I drop the spatula I’m holding. It clatters to the floor, and in the silence of the kitchen, it sounds like an explosion from a war film. We all flinch at the noise.

I don’t pick up the spatula. I just stare at Garrett, stupidly asking, “What?”

“Beau Maxwell died.” He continues to shake his head, over and over again, as if he can’t make sense of the words coming out of his own mouth.

“What do you mean, he died?” Logan growls in outrage. “Is this some kind of sick joke?”

Our team captain braces both hands on the counter. He’s actually shaking. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Garrett lose his cool like this.

“Coach just got off the phone with Pat Deluca. Beau’s coach. Pat said Beau died.”

Without a word, I turn off the stove and stumble over to the kitchen table. I sink into the first chair I collide into and rub my fists over my forehead. This isn’t happening.

“How?” Logan snaps. “When?”

He sounds angry, but I can tell it’s all shock. Logan and Beau are close. Not as close as Dean and Beau, but—oh Jesus. Dean. Someone needs to tell Dean.

“Last night.” Garrett’s voice is barely above a whisper. “Car accident. He was in Wisconsin for his grandmother’s birthday. Coach said the roads were icy. Beau’s dad was driving the car and he swerved to avoid hitting a deer. The car flipped over and flew off the road and…” His words are choked now. “Beau broke his neck and died.”

Oh sweet Jesus.

Horror swirls in my gut like poison. Across from me, Logan is blinking back tears. We’re all just sitting there. Silent. Shocked. I’ve never…had a friend who died before. No relatives, either. My dad passed away when I was too young to really grieve for him. That was a car accident too. God. Why the fuck do we drive cars?

In the back of my mind, there’s a nagging thought that I should be doing something. I swipe a hand over my stinging eyes and force myself to focus.

Sabrina.

Fuck, that’s what I need to do. I need to call Sabrina and tell her the news. She used to date Beau. She cares about him.

Before I can move from my chair, the front door creaks open. The three of us tense up.

Dean’s home.

“Fuck,” Logan whispers.

“I’ll tell him,” Garrett says hoarsely.

Dean’s blond head is lowered as he wanders into the kitchen. He’s engrossed with his phone, his fingers tapping out a text message, probably to Allie. He doesn’t notice us at first, but even when he does, I don’t think he’s registering our expressions.

“What’s up?” he asks in an absentminded tone.

When none of us say a word, Dean frowns and puts the phone away. His gaze lands on Logan, and he stiffens when he sees our friend’s tears.

“What’s going on?” he demands.

Logan wipes his eyes.

I press my lips together.

“Seriously, if someone doesn’t tell me what’s going on right this fucking second—”

“Coach called,” Garrett interrupts in a low voice. “He just got off the phone with Patrick Deluca, and, uh…”

Dean looks confused.

Garrett keeps talking, though I wish he wouldn’t. I wish we didn’t have to tell Dean about Beau. I wish we didn’t even know about Beau.

I wish…lots of things. But right now, wishes mean shit.

“I guess Deluca called him because he knows we’re friends with Beau—”

“This is about Maxwell? What about him?”

Logan and I both stare at our hands.

Garrett has more courage than us, because he doesn’t shy away from Dean’s anxious gaze. “He…ah…died.”

Just like that, Dean falls into a trance. It’s painful to watch, and I have no idea how to draw him out of it. Garrett repeats what he told Logan and me, but it’s obvious our teammate isn’t listening. Dean’s green eyes are glazed, his mouth parted slightly as he sucks in uneven breaths.

It’s only when Garrett says that Beau died on impact that Dean blinks himself back to reality. “Can you tell it to me again?” he croaks. “What happened, I mean.”

“Goddamn it, why?”

“Because I need to hear it again.” Dean is adamant.

We watch as he marches to the cupboards and grabs a bottle of whiskey from the top one. He takes a deep swig right out of the bottle before staggering over to sit beside me.

Garrett starts talking again. Christ. I don’t know if I can hear this awful story again. Dean passes me the whiskey and I take a small sip before passing it to Logan. I can’t get wasted right now. I plan on driving tonight.

Once Garrett is finished, Dean pushes his chair back and stands up. He clutches the Jack Daniel’s bottle in both hands like it’s a security blanket. “Going upstairs,” he mumbles.

“Dean—” I start, but our teammate is already gone.

We hear footsteps climbing the stairs. A thump. A door clicking shut.

Silence falls over the kitchen.

“I have to leave,” I mutter to Garrett and Logan, unsteadily rising to my feet.

Neither of them ask me where I’m going.

*

Sabrina

I stare at Tucker, unable to comprehend what he’s saying. When he texted to say he was coming to Boston to see me tonight, I expected a serious discussion about our unplanned pregnancy. I panicked, told him I was studying, and he all but said tough shit. I think his exact message was: I’m coming. We’re talking.

The entire hour I was waiting for him, I gave myself pep talk after pep talk. I ordered myself to put on my big-girl pants and deal with this pregnancy the way I deal with everything else in my life—head on. I reminded myself that Tuck had said I’ve got you, that he’d support whatever I chose to do.

But none of that had succeeded in ridding me of the fear clinging to my throat.

Now the fear is even worse, for a whole other reason.

“Beau is dead?” My heart pounds dangerously fast. I’m scared it’s going to give out on me.

I’m scared of the grief I see in Tucker’s eyes.

“Yes. He’s gone, darlin’.”

I can’t understand it. I can’t. Beau is Briar’s starting quarterback. Beau is my friend. Beau’s dimples always pop out when he’s flashing you a particularly naughty grin. Beau is…

Dead.

A car accident, apparently. His father survived but Beau died.

The tears I’ve been fighting spill over and stream down my cheeks in salty rivulets. I try to breathe between sobs, but it’s hard, and eventually I’m hyperventilating. That’s when Tucker wraps me up in a warm, tight embrace.

“Breathe,” he whispers into my hair.

I try, I really do, but the oxygen isn’t getting in.

“Breathe.” Firmer this time, and his hands are moving up and down my back in comforting sweeps.

I manage to take a breath, and then another, and another, until I’m not feeling quite so dizzy. The tears are still falling, though. And my chest feels like someone sliced it open and is poking it with a hot blade.

“He’s…” I gulp. “…was. He was such a good guy, Tuck.”

“I know.”

“He was good and young and he shouldn’t be dead,” I say fiercely.

“I know.”

“It’s not fair.”

“I know.”

Tucker holds me tighter. I burrow against him until there’s nowhere left to go. His strong, solid body is the anchor I need right now. It allows me to cry and curse and rail at the world, because I know Tuck is here, listening to me and steadying me and reminding me to breathe.

A loud knock causes both of us to jump.

“Keep it down in there,” comes Ray’s horrible voice. “‘The hell am I s’posed to watch the game if I can hear you bawling all the way from the living room? You on the rag or somethin’?”

A strangled sob flies out of my mouth. Oh God. Nothing like an interruption from Ray to highlight what an emotional mess I am—an emotional mess who isn’t having her period. Because she’s goddamn pregnant.

My breathing grows shallow again.

Tucker keeps stroking my back as he answers my stepfather. “If you can’t hear the TV, turn up the volume,” he calls tightly.

There’s a beat, then, “Is that you, jock boy? Didn’t realize Rina had company.”

“We walked right past him when you let me in,” Tucker mutters to me.

Yeah, we had. But Ray’s drunker than usual tonight. He spent the whole day at a sports bar with his buddies, getting loaded while they watched the afternoon football games.

“He could barely walk in a straight line when he got home this evening,” I mutter back.

Ray pipes up again, slurring like crazy. “Mus’ not be too good in the sack if you’re making the bitch cry!”

I grab Tucker’s arm before he can stand up. “Ignore him,” I whisper. Then I raise my voice and address Ray. “Go watch your game. We’ll keep it down.”

After another beat, his footsteps thump away.

Tears stain my face as I nestle against Tucker again. “W-will you…” I clear my aching throat. “Will you stay with me tonight?”

“Not even a question,” he murmurs before dropping a soft kiss on my forehead. “I’m here for as long as you need me, baby.”