The Goal (Off-Campus Book 4)

Practice is shit. The team’s just not clicking this season, and Coach Jensen is riding us mercilessly now that we’ve got a few losses tarnishing our record. Yesterday’s loss bummed us out pretty hard—we were up against a Division II team who should not have wiped our asses all over the ice like that.

The new defensive coach, Frank O’Shea, is only making things worse. I’ve been thanking my lucky stars that I’m not a defenseman. O’Shea seems to have a vendetta against Dean, constantly calling him out and harping on his mistakes.

Dean’s cheeks go redder than apples every time O’Shea opens his mouth. According to Logan, the man used to be the head coach at Dean’s prep school. They obviously have a past, but whatever it is, Dean’s not sharing. But he’s not happy, either. Not only are the d-men constantly ordered to stay late, but apparently Dean got forced into coaching the kiddie team at the elementary school in town.

I skate to the bench after my shift and heave myself over the wall, then squirt some water in my mouth and watch Garrett’s line fly across the blue line. Today’s scrimmage is non-scoring so far. Seriously, that’s how bad we suck. We can’t even score on each other during practice, and it’s not because our goalies are in top form—none of the forwards can get their shit together, myself included.

A whistle blows. Coach starts screaming at one of our junior d-men for icing the puck.

“What the hell was that, Kelvin! You had four passing opportunities and you decide to ice the fucking thing!” Coach looks ready to pull his hair out.

I don’t blame him.

“I could’ve made that pass if I was out there,” Dean grumbles beside me.

I glance over in sympathy. One of O’Shea’s first orders of business had been to rearrange the lines. He’d paired Dean up with Brodowski, and Logan with Kelvin, when we all know that Logan and Dean are unstoppable together.

“I’m sure O’Shea will realize his mistake soon.”

“Yeah right. This is punishment. The motherfucker hates me.”

My curiosity is once again piqued. “Why’s that again?”

Dean’s expression goes cloudier. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Not sure if you know this,” I say pleasantly, “but secrets kill friendships.”

That makes him snicker. “You really want to talk to me about secrets? Where the fuck were you all weekend?”

I instantly shutter my expression. I’m cool confiding in my friends about my love life, but I don’t want to discuss Sabrina with Dean, especially when I know his opinion of her. Besides, what the fuck is there to talk about, anyway? She shot me down. I asked her out and she flat-out told me no, it was never gonna happen.

If I thought there was even the slightest chance that she wanted me to chase after her, maybe I wouldn’t have taken no for an answer. Maybe I would’ve shown up after her classes a few more times, bought her a couple more sandwiches, wooed her with my charm and worked the southern accent whenever I felt her drawing away.

But I saw the look in her eyes. She meant what she said—she doesn’t want to see me again. And although I have no problem being the pursuer, I’m not going to chase after someone who’s not interested.

Still, it fucking sucks balls. When we were sitting on that bench the other day, I wanted nothing more than to pull her onto my lap and fuck her right there, and to hell with anyone walking by. The Dean himself could’ve been standing there tapping his watch and I still wouldn’t have stopped. It had taken all my willpower to suppress the primal urges, but man, something about that girl…

It’s not just her beauty, though that doesn’t hurt at all. It’s…it’s…damn, I can’t even put it into words. She’s got this hard exterior, but inside she’s as soft as butter. I see flashes of vulnerability in her bottomless dark eyes and I just want to…take care of her.

The guys would laugh if they knew what I was thinking right now. Or hell, maybe they wouldn’t. They already rag me daily at home about my “nurturing” side. I’m our resident cook, do most of the cleaning, make sure shit around the house is in working order.

That’s how my mom raised me, though. I didn’t have a dad. He died when I was three and I barely remember him. But Mom more than made up for him not being there, and the father figure I was lacking came in the form of my hockey coaches.

Texas is a football state. I probably would’ve gone that route if it weren’t for a vacation we took to Wisconsin when I was five. Once a year, Mom and I would visit my dad’s sister in Green Bay. Or at least we tried to. Sometimes money wouldn’t allow it, but we did our best.

During that visit, Aunt Nancy bundled me up and took me skating. It’s goddamn cold in Green Bay—I imagine that’s most people’s worst nightmare, but I loved the chill on my cheeks, the frigid air hissing past my ears as I skated on that outdoor pond. A few older kids had a game of hockey going, and I got a thrill watching them whiz across the pond. It looked like so much fun. When Mom and I got back to Texas the following week, I announced that I wanted to play hockey. She’d laughed indulgently, but humored me, finding a year-round rink an hour from home.

I think she thought I would grow out of it. Instead, I grew to love it even more.

Now I’m here, at an East Coast Ivy League college, playing hockey for a team that’s won three national championships—consecutively. But I have a feeling there won’t be a fourth, not the way we’re playing lately.

“What, you’ve forgotten how to talk?”

I look over and find Dean watching me with a wary expression. What? Oh, right, he wants to know what I was up to this weekend.

“Just hanging with some friends,” I say vaguely.

“What friends? All your friends are here—” He waves a hand around the rink. “And I know for a fact you weren’t with any of them.”

I shrug. “You don’t know these friends.” Then I shift my gaze back to the ice as Dean grumbles beside me.

“Jesus fuck, you’re worse than Antoine and Marie-Thérèse.”

My head swings back. “Excuse me?”

“Forget it,” he mutters.

Who the fuck are Antoine and Marie-Thérèse? Just like Dean knows all my friends, I know all of his, and I’m pretty sure we don’t know anyone with those names. But whatever. I don’t want him pushing me for answers, so I’m not about to push him.

“Fuck yeah!” a voice yells from the other end of the bench.

I refocus on the ice in time to see Garrett slap a bullet past Patrick, our senior goalie. It’s the first and only goal of the scrimmage, and all the guys on the bench thump their gloves against the wall in celebration.

Coach blows his whistle and dismisses us, so we end the practice on a good note. Sort of. The d-men are asked to stay behind as usual, and I don’t miss the frustration in Dean’s and Logan’s eyes. O’Shea’s gonna need to lighten up if he wants to win the respect of this team.

In the locker room, I strip out of my sweaty jersey and pads and drop my hockey pants on the gleaming floor. We’ve got a state-of-the-art facility here. The room is huge, the lockers are padded leather, and the ventilation system is top-notch. It only slightly smells like old socks in here.

Garrett comes up beside me and whips off his helmet. His dark hair is damp with sweat and sticking to his forehead. As he reaches up to smooth his hair away, I glance at the badass flames tattooed on his biceps. It always makes me think I want to get inked myself, but then I remember the travesty on Hollis’ leg that he got after our first Frozen Four win. Three years later, and he still wears long socks to cover it up most of the time.

“Think we’ll ever remember how to play hockey again?” he says wryly.

I snort. “Season’s just started. We’ll be fine.”

He doesn’t seem convinced. Neither does Hunter Davenport, who lumbers over with a sour look.

“We keep getting worse,” the freshman growls, and then, in eighteen-year-old fashion, hurls one glove against the wall.

I quickly glance around and sigh in relief when I don’t spot Coach. The man would shit a brick if he saw one of us throwing a temper tantrum in the locker room.

“Chillax, kid,” Mike Hollis, a junior, tells Hunter. He’s bare-chested and in the process of undoing his pants. “Who cares if we lose a scrimmage in practice?”

“It’s not about the scrimmage,” Hunter snaps. “It’s that we suck.”

Hollis tips his head. “You got laid last night, didn’t ya?”

The dark-haired freshman furrows his brow. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“Everything. We embarrassed ourselves in that game, got our asses kicked, and you still had chicks lining up to suck on your knob. Doesn’t matter if we win or lose—we’re still hockey players. We rule this school, dude.”

“Spoken like a man without ambition,” Garrett says, his lips twitching.

Hollis shrugs. “Hey, not all of us have a hard-on for the pros like you do. Some of us are happy doing this for the pussy.”

A heavy sigh sounds from the end of the long bench spanning our lockers. Colin “Fitzy” Fitzgerald, an enormous junior with scruffy hair and more tats than a biker, saunters over and smacks Hollis on the ass.

“Do you ever not talk about pussy?” Fitzy asks.

“Why would I talk about anything else? Pussy’s great.”

He’s right about that. Unfortunately, I won’t get to experience any great pussy for at least…oh, a month? Two? I’m not sure how long it’ll take my cock to forget about Sabrina James. If I hooked up with anyone else right now, I’d only be comparing her to Sabrina, and that’s not fair to anyone involved.

“Oh hey,” Hollis says suddenly. “Speaking of pussy…”

Garrett rolls his eyes. Hard.

“I’m hitting up Boston this weekend,” Hollis continues. “Crashing at my brother’s place. You guys want to come with? Barhopping, a few clubs, hot girls. It’ll be a good time.”

Our team captain frowns. “We’ve got a game on Saturday.”

Hollis waves a hand. “We’ll be back in time.”

“You’d better be.” Garrett shrugs. “But I can’t go anyway. Got plans with my girl this weekend.” His face takes on a faraway expression, a mixture of wonder and pure bliss, before he saunters off toward the shower area.

I tamp down the envy that rises in my throat. Garrett’s been with Hannah for a year now, and it doesn’t seem like that new love glow is ever going to wear off. He’s so in love with his girlfriend that it’s almost disgusting. Ditto for Logan, who recently got back together with his girlfriend Grace and professed his love for her on the radio.

It feels a bit…wrong, I guess, that the two biggest players I know have settled down. Out of all of us, I’m the guy who’s into all that commitment stuff. When I first came to Briar, I figured I’d meet the woman of my dreams—the one—during freshman orientation, date her for the next four years, and propose after graduation. But it didn’t turn out that way at all. I’ve dated lots of girls, slept with a lot of them too, but none of them were the one.

Meanwhile, Garrett and Logan found their ones when they weren’t even looking for them, those lucky bastards.

“Tuck?” Hollis encourages. “Boston? Dude weekend? You in?”

My first inclination is to say no, but my mind trips over the word Boston. I know Sabrina said she didn’t want to see me again, but…would she really tell me to get lost if we happened to run into each other in the city? I mean, she lives there, and I happen to know her address, so…who knows, right? Maybe a stellar Yelp review will take the guys and me to some amazing bar in her neighborhood. Maybe we’ll bump into each other. Maybe—

Maybe you’re turning into a stalker?

I stifle a sigh. Fine, my mind’s definitely treading into Stranger Danger! territory. But even knowing that, I can’t stop myself from saying, “Sure, I’m in. Wouldn’t mind catching a Bruins game at a sports bar or something.”

“Me too,” Fitzy decides. “I want to pop into this gaming store downtown. They’ve got a role-playing game there that I can’t find anywhere online. I’ll have to suck it up and spend some actual money.”

Hollis’ horrified gaze travels from me to Fitz. “A Bruins game? A gaming store? How am I friends with you two?”

I arch a brow. “You’d rather we bail?”

“No.” He heaves a sigh. “But at least try to pretend you’re in it for the pussy.”

I snicker and pat him on the shoulder. “If that makes you feel better, then sure. Fitzy and I are—”

I look at Fitz, prompting him with my hand.

“—in it for the pussy,” we finish in unison.