The Score (Off-Campus Book 3)

The next day, I have the misfortune of leaving the International Relations lecture hall at the same time as Sabrina. I tense up, waiting for the inevitable bitchy barb.

“You looked a little lost in there, Richie. Was Professor Burke not speaking slowly enough for you?”

Yep, there it is.

I roll my eyes. “Right, because I’m dumb. Good one.” I don’t bother asking her not to call me Richie. I can’t stop her from doing it any more than I can stop Summer from ditching my old childhood nickname. Sabrina decided I was a stupid, spoiled Richie-Rich type from the moment we met.

Of course, that didn’t stop her from banging me, now did it?

“So which poor freshman will be writing your paper for you?” she asks sweetly. “You have a whole slew of them on speed dial, right? I assume one of them wrote the LSATS for you, too.”

I halt at the top step of the front entrance. I tolerate her taunts because they’re not worth defending myself against, but every now and then I have to draw the line. “It just kills you that I scored two points higher than you, huh?” When her nostrils flare, I know I’ve hit my mark.

She recovers quickly. “Again, probably because you paid someone else to take the test for you.”

“Keep telling yourself that, sweetheart. Whatever helps you sleep at night, right?”

Sabrina tosses her long dark hair over her shoulder. “I sleep just fine, thank you. Knowing I’ve actually earned my grades leads to a very restful existence. You should try it sometime.”

This time she hits her mark. A frown tightens my mouth, but I don’t take the bait because that’s exactly what she wants me to do. She’s been holding this bullshit over my head since sophomore year, and I’m damn tired of it.

“Enjoy the rest of your day, Sabrina.” With a shrug of indifference, I make my way down the steps and wonder if she plans on keeping this feud going when we’re at law school next year. I fucking hope not. The hostility she dishes out is getting old, not to mention annoying.

Speaking of annoying, I’m supposed to be at Hastings Elementary in twenty minutes for my first practice with the rugrat team. Go Hurricanes.

As I make the ten-minute drive into town, I curse O’Shea for forcing this volunteer gig on me and ponder the authenticity of voodoo dolls. Eventually I decide it doesn’t matter if they’re real or not. It’d still be fun to poke needles into a teeny doll version of Frank O’Shea. Once it starts falling apart from all the holes, I can use the head as a stress ball.

At a red light, I shoot a quick text to my teammate Fitzy—Hey, do u know how 2 make a voodoo doll?

His response doesn’t come until I reach the small arena across the street from the school.

Him: I’d think u were fcking with me, but the question is stupid enuff to feel legit. No idea how to make v-doll. Can prolly use any old doll? Challenge will be finding a voodoo witch to link it to your target.

Me: That makes sense.

Him: Does it??

Me: Voodoo implies magic, hexes, etc. I don’t think any doll would work. Otherwise every doll is a v-doll, right?

Him: Right.

Me: Anyway. Thx. Thought u might know.

Him: Why the fuck would *I* know?

Me: Ur into all those fantasy role-play games. U know magic.

Him: I’m not Harry Potter, ffs.

Me: HP is a nerd. Ur a nerd. Ergo, ur a boy wizard.

He sends a middle-finger emoji, then says, Bday beers at Malone’s 2nite. U still down?

Me: Yup.

Him: C U ltr.

I tuck my phone in my jacket pocket and hop out of the car. At least I have something to look forward to after this. Celebratory beers for Fitzy’s twenty-first birthday will be my reward for spending the afternoon coaching children against my will.

The rink is empty when I stride through the double doors. The cold air greets me like an old friend and I breathe it in, shifting my duffel to my other shoulder and making my way to the home team bench, where a tall man in a red sweater and scuffed black hockey skates is peering at a clipboard. The whistle around his neck tells me he’s the coach of the Hurricanes.

“Di Laurentis?” When I nod, he extends a hand. “Doug Ellis. Nice to meet you, kid. I watched your Frozen Four game on TV in April. You played well.”

“Thanks.” I gesture to the deserted ice. I’m ten minutes early, just like O’Shea ordered me to be. “Where’re the kids?”

“Locker room. They should be out soon.” He sets the clipboard on the ledge that spans the bench. “Chad fill you in on what’s expected of you?”

“Nope.” Despite what O’Shea told me, I don’t think Coach Jensen has any idea I’ve been recruited to work with the Hurricanes.

“Well, it’s not all that complicated. We start each practice with thirty minutes of drills, then do a thirty-minute scrimmage split up into three ten-minute periods. The boys work their asses off. Good kids, the lot of them. Talented, smart, eager to sharpen their skills and get better.”

“That’s good to hear.”

“They loved Kayla—” At my blank expression, he says, “Your predecessor.” Right, the chick who’d come down with mono. “Anyway, she worked mostly with the offense. Did a terrific job, but I’ll be honest, I’m glad to have a D-man on board. A few of the boys have trouble manning the defensive zone. I’d like for you to work closely with them.”

We chat for a few minutes about my duties, and then he delivers a few warnings about not dropping F-bombs around the kids and not manhandling them in any way.

“Got it—keep it PG and don’t touch ’em. Anything else?” I ask.

“Naah. You’ll figure out the rest as you go along.”

All in all, Ellis seems like a decent man, and when the kids thunder out of the locker room and greet him like he’s Jesus Christ brought back to life, my opinion of him climbs higher. He told me he’s the school gym teacher but that even if he lost his job, he’d never walk away from this team. Or the eighth grade girls’ volleyball team, which he apparently also coaches.

I drop onto the bench and quickly kick off my Timberlands, replacing them with the Bauers I stowed in my duffel. Then I hop the ledge and skate toward Ellis and the kids. Half of them are wearing red practice jerseys, the other half are in black. Ellis introduces me to the team, who oooh and aaah when he informs them of my multiple Frozen Four wins. By the time we set up the first skating drill, every kid on the ice is begging for one-on-one attention from me.

I’m not gonna lie—I have a blast from the word go. The boys’ passion for the game reminds me of when I was a kid, how excited I was to put on a pair of skates and tear down the ice. Their enthusiasm is downright contagious.

When Ellis blows his whistle to signal it’s time for the scrimmage, I find I’m genuinely disappointed that the drills are over. I’d been giving tips to a seventh-grader named Robbie during the last shooting drill, and the wrist shot he’d floated past the goalie had been a beauty. I want to see him do it again, but now it’s time for the boys to take the skills they just learned and apply them to the scrimmage.

Ellis and I serve as both refs and coaches, calling out penalties and offering advice when needed. The thirty-minute game ends way too fast for my liking. I could stay out there forever, but Ellis signals the end of the scrimmage and gestures for everyone to skate forward.

There’s a strange clench in my chest as he addresses each boy, one at a time, to tell them one thing they did right at practice today. Face after face lights up at his compliments, and by the time Ellis is done I think I might be in love with him.

Damn, he’s a great coach.

After that, we follow the kids to the locker room and help them put away their equipment in the proper cubbies. They’re a loud, boisterous group, laughing and joking and chirping each other as they change into their street clothes. The hallway outside the door is littered with vending machines and parents waiting for their sons. Robbie, however, stays behind. He’s changed out of his practice uniform, but I’m troubled to see him lacing up his skates again and tucking the bottoms of his jeans into them.

“Whatcha doing, kid?”

He looks surprised to find me standing there. “Oh.” He flushes. “I get an extra thirty minutes to skate.” A defensive note creeps in. “Coach knows.”

Since I know better than to take a thirteen-year-old’s word at face value, I duck out to track down Ellis, who’s in the equipment room securing sticks on the long rack against the wall.

“What’s this about Robbie staying behind to skate?”

Ellis glances toward the doorway. “Oh. Yes, it’s fine. I’m heading out there in a sec to supervise him. Tell him not to step on the ice until I get there.”

I can’t hide my frown. “Why does he get extra ice time?”

“His mother doesn’t get off work until four-thirty on Tuesdays and Thursdays, and the family lives in Munsen, so the school bus isn’t an option.” Ellis makes an annoyed sound. “Some bullshit about town boundaries and the Hastings buses being unable to ‘service’ other townships. Robbie’s mother managed to get him enrolled here because he’s an asset to our hockey program, but apparently the school district doesn’t think it’s important to provide safe transportation home to the kids who live out of the district.”

“So Robbie hangs around the arena until his mom shows up?”

Ellis nods. “I arranged it with Julia at the start of the season. I stick around after practice, watch him and his sister until she gets here.”

Did I mention how much I love this man?

“I’ll stick around too,” I offer. “I was teaching Robbie the art of wrist shots before the drill ended. Wouldn’t mind finishing up the lesson.”

His expression is a combination of surprise and respect. “I bet he’d love that. Thanks, kid.”

When I reenter the rink, Robbie is skating lazy circles along the boards. His dirty-blond hair ruffles behind him, and I decide he might need a lesson about hair, too—as in, trim the shit out of it before it reaches mullet status, or wave goodbye to any chance of getting laid.

I’m walking down the concrete aisle when a high-pitched voice startles me to a stop.

“Who are you?”

I turn to see a tiny elfin creature sitting at the halfway point in the bleachers. Well, it’s a girl, but holy hell, she might as well be a character from a Pixar movie. Huge blue eyes take up her entire face, her hair is so fair it’s nearly white, and her mouth is a tiny pink rosebud.

“Who are you?” I call back, one eyebrow arched.

“I asked you first.”

Fighting a smile, I climb the steps until I reach her row. A glance at the rink reveals that Robbie is having fun skating aimlessly. Ellis is at the boards keeping an eye on him, so I plop down in the seat next to the cartoon elf and say, “I’m Dean. The new assistant coach of the Hurricanes.”

Those big eyes study my face, as if she’s trying to decide if I’m lying. “I’m Dakota,” she finally says. She points a skinny finger at the ice. “That’s my brother.”

“Ah. You’re Robbie’s little sister.”

“Who says I’m the little one?” she challenges. “Maybe I’m his big sister.”

“Kid, I’d be surprised if you’re not still in diapers.”

“I do not wear diapers!” Her cheeks redden. “I’m ten,” she says haughtily.

I gasp. “Holy sh—sugar. You’re practically an old lady then.”

That makes her giggle. “I am not. How old are you?”

“Twenty-two.”

Her jaw falls open. “That’s old.”

“I know, right? I should probably start planning my funeral. Who do you think I should leave my fortune to in my will—the chick from the Hunger Games or the one from Divergent?”

“They’re not real people,” she says frankly.

I feign innocence. “Are you sure? I swear I saw Katniss walking down the street the other day.”

“You’re lying.”

“Yup, you caught me.” I gesture to the pink spiral notebook in her lap. “Whatcha doing?”

Her bottom lip sticks out. “Homework. Mrs. Klein said to write a whole page about what I’m thankful for on this Thanksgiving.”

“Mrs. Klein sounds like a monster.”

Dakota giggles. “Naw, she’s okay. She ordered pizza for the whole class one time. It was after we got the highest scores on the literary test.”

“Literacy,” I correct.

She waves her hand. “Whatever.”

A grin springs free. “All right, let’s stop wasting time.” I flip her little notebook to a fresh page. “It’s time to figure out what you’re thankful for.”

Pleasure lights up her face. “You’re going to help me with my homework?”

“Sure, why not? We’ve got twenty more minutes to kill until your mom gets here. What else are we gonna do?”

*

Allie

I’m in the passenger seat of Megan’s car when Dean texts me. I’m not surprised to see his name on my phone. I’ve been expecting another “I want to fuck you” from him all day, so it was only a matter time before it happened. But tonight he throws me a curveball.

Him: A bunch of us r at Malone’s 2nite for Fitzy’s bday. Join us if u feel like it.

Megan glances over from the driver’s side. “Who’s texting you? And please don’t say Sean.”

“No, it’s not Sean. It’s one of Garrett’s friends,” I answer vaguely. “A bunch of the hockey guys are at Malone’s for someone’s birthday. He says we’re welcome to join them.”

“Is Hannah there?”

I shake my head. “She’s at rehearsal tonight.” Like me, Hannah is also busy preparing for one of her final projects. As a music major, she’s required to perform an original song for the department’s winter showcase.

I guess Megan doesn’t think it’s odd that I’m getting invited to hockey gatherings without Hannah, because she doesn’t comment on it. Instead, she says, “Let’s do it.”

“Are you serious?” After more than thirty minutes debating a dozen options for our girls’ night out, we finally decided to grab a late bite at the diner in Hastings. Malone’s is the only bar in town, so obviously that suggestion had come up early in the conversation, but Meg had been the one to veto it. “I thought you didn’t want to deal with the whole bar scene tonight.”

She pushes her red bangs out of her eyes. “Changed my mind. I think I’m in the mood to be surrounded by cute boys.”

“Really?” I say in surprise. “What about the new boyfriend? Is there trouble in paradise already?” Megan has been so cagey about this new guy she’s dating, but I assumed they were doing okay. Normally she’s a huge chatterbox when it comes to her love life, but not this time. All I know about him is that he lives in Boston and she only sees him on the weekends.

“No, we’re fine.” She pauses. “Well, not really.” Another pause. “It’s complicated.”

“You know, if you actually told me something about him instead of being Ms. Secretive, I might be able to offer some advice…”

Her green eyes stay focused on the road. Even if she wasn’t driving, I know she’d still be avoiding my gaze.

“Okay. Spill. What’s wrong with him?”

“Nothing’s wrong with him.”

“Bullshit. There has to be, otherwise you wouldn’t be hiding him from all of us. So what is it? Does he like to set barns on fire in his spare time? Does he kill squirrels and make little hats out of their fur? Does he have a weird mole that takes up his whole face? Does he—”

“Thirty seven,” she interrupts. “He’s thirty-seven.”

My eyebrows shoot up. “Oh. Wow. That’s…”

Old, I want to say, but I’ve always believed in the age is nothin’ but a number philosophy. Or at least I want to be that open-minded. I mean, I think it’s hella creepy when a sixty-year-old man dates an eighteen-year-old girl. But thirty-seven isn’t exactly geezer status. It’s only fifteen years older than me and Meg.

“See? This is why I didn’t tell you guys.” Accusation colors her tone. “I knew you’d be all judgy.”

I hold up both hands in surrender. “I’m not judging. You surprised me, that’s all.”

Her pretty features relax.

“Tell me more about Mr. Thirty-Seven,” I urge. “I promise there’s no judgment on my end.”

She grudgingly provides a few more details. “His name’s Trevor. He’s a pediatric surgeon at Boston General.”

Okay, I’m impressed.

“He’s divorced, and he has a five-year-old daughter.”

Hmmm. Not so impressed anymore. “And you’re cool with that?” I ask carefully. “You’re only twenty-two, hon. Are you ready to be someone’s stepmother?”

“That’s the problem,” she moans. “I wasn’t even thinking that far ahead. Trevor and I met online. We were chatting all through September, but we didn’t meet in person until a month ago. He’s sweet. Smart, gorgeous, easy to talk to. But we’re still in the early stages of the relationship, you know? More casual than serious.” She taps her polished nails against the steering wheel. “When I saw him last weekend, he said he wants me to meet his daughter.”

Eek.

“Eek,” I say out loud.

“I know, right? So now I’m second-guessing the whole relationship. Meeting his kid is a huge deal. What if she hates me? Or worse, what if she loves me, and then me and her dad break up and this poor kid ends up traumatized?”

“She won’t fall in love with you after one meeting,” I assure her. “But I agree—this is a huge deal.”

Meg stops her little red Toyota at the intersection one block from Hastings’ main stretch. “I don’t know… I told him I’d let him know on Friday when I see him, but I’m super confused. I have no idea what to do.” She goes quiet for a second, then lets out a heavy breath. “If we go to Malone’s, can you DD on the way home? I might want something stronger than soda.”

“No prob.” I wasn’t planning on drinking tonight, anyway. I have rehearsal at seven a.m., and a pounding hangover will make it hard for me to cry on command. In the opening scene alone, my character wails like a newborn three times. “Should we go to another bar, though?” I ask hopefully. “Maybe the one in Munsen?”

“Why would we do that?”

I shrug. “The hockey crowd can get kinda rowdy.”

“I could use a little rowdy,” she admits. “Trevor is great, but he’s not much into partying anymore. He’s in bed by ten o’clock every night. Even on weekends.” Her bottom lip sticks out. “Maybe that’s another reason I should end it, huh?”

“Look, I’d never dream of telling you what to do,” I say gently. “And I’m not saying you should break up with someone just because their party days are behind them. But you’re in your senior year of college, hon. You shouldn’t be going to bed at ten if you don’t want to. You should enjoy this last year of freedom, in this weird place where you’re an adult but not an adult, know what I mean? Save the early bedtimes for next year when you become a card-carrying member of the real world.”

A pensive look crosses her expression. I can tell she’s absorbing the advice, and I hope she reaches a decision that makes her happy. God knows I’ve been dealing with tough decisions lately too. Breaking up with Sean. Figuring out where I want to take my acting career.

Walking into a bar to willingly spend time with the guy I had a one-night stand with…

Shit, what am I doing coming to the bar? Nothing good can be gained from seeing Dean tonight. Worse case, he’ll accidentally let something slip, and everyone will know that we hooked up. Best case, he’ll flirt shamelessly with me and just be plain annoying.

Since Malone’s is the only alcohol game in town, it’s the go-to place for both locals and Briar students every day of the week. If you show up after nine, you’re looking at standing room only. Meg and I waltz in at ten-thirty, and it’s like stepping into a sauna crammed with hundreds of sweaty bodies. The main room is jam-packed. I can barely see the counter because too many bodies are swarming in front of it, and the row of booths in the raised sections on either side of the main area are all occupied.

“I want to order a drink!” Megan shouts over the music. Some rock song I don’t recognize is blasting from the speakers. If Garrett Graham were here, he could probably tell me the name of the song, who’s singing it, and what year it was released. Hannah’s boyfriend has a hard-on for classic rock. I wouldn’t be surprised to find out he makes Hannah play Lynyrd Skynyrd role-playing games in bed.

We’re about to head for the bar when a familiar voice rises above the music. “Allie-Cat! Over here!”

I shift my head to see Dean waving at me from a large booth to my right. I don’t know how he spotted me in the throng of people. I hadn’t even texted him to say I was coming, so he’s either got exceptional Spidey senses or he’s been monitoring the door like a creeper.

Megan and I link arms to avoid getting separated and make our way through the sea of bodies. I inhale a gust of perfume from a platinum blonde in a short skirt. I manage to survive the perfume assault only to breathe in a cloud of something more potent from the guy beside her. My eyes start to water, and I almost turn around to tell him to go easy on the Axe body spray before he kills someone.

“Look, Fitzy, girls!” Dean announces when Megan and I reach the booth. He rapidly addresses the other guys. “Quick, make room for them before they disappear.”

Laughter breaks out, and I notice most of the players are grinning at one guy in particular, who I’ve seen before at some of the hockey parties Hannah dragged me to. I think his name is Colin, but I usually hear him being referred to as either Fitz or Fitzy. He’s a big guy with messy brown hair, dark scruff on his face, and what looks like a tattoo peeking from the collar of his shirt. I suspect he’s definitely rocking a chest tat, because I’ve seen him in a T-shirt, and I remember him having full sleeves on both arms.

The boys shuffle around to accommodate us. Megan slides in next to a guy with a buzz cut. He introduces himself as Hollis. I squeeze in between Tucker, who’s engrossed on his phone, and Pierre, one of the French-Canadians on the team. He greets me with a smile, and a pair of adorable dimples pop out. Rounding out the group are two players I’ve never met. In his heavy accent, Pierre introduces them as Wilkes and Ekberg.

Dean, who is across from me on the other side of Hollis, winks when our eyes lock. “You made it. Didn’t think you would.”

“We were in the neighborhood,” I say lightly.

“Glad you were, because this was becoming a total sausage fest. Seriously, the birthday boy didn’t invite a single chick tonight.”

“Fitzy is allergic to women,” Hollis says helpfully.

The birthday boy—or man, rather, because there’s nothing boyish about this guy—rolls his eyes. “I didn’t realize that wanting to celebrate my birthday with the guys was such a crime.”

“Did you even stop to consider the implications?” Dean shoots back. “What about the time-honored birthday blowjob? Did ya think of that? Or do you expect one of us to do it?”

“I’m sure Pierre’s down,” Hollis pipes up. When the French-Canadian gives him the finger, he smiles sweetly. “What? I thought that’s what you guys did up in Quebec, no? Blow your buddies while whispering sweet French nothings to them?”

Pierre snorts. “You’re from San Francisco. I’m pretty sure that’s the blow-your-buddies capital of the world.”

A round of smack talk ensues, which is cut short when a frazzled waitress appears to serve Megan and me. Meg orders a vodka cranberry. I ask for a glass of water.

“Water?” Dean mocks after the waitress dashes off. “You sure you don’t want anything else, baby doll? Maybe…hmmm…how about tequila? I always pegged you for a tequila girl.”

I narrow my eyes at him. Fortunately, nobody else puts much stock in the comment. Why would they? It’s not like any of them know that tequila is the reason I wound up in bed with Dean. The only person who knows is Dean, who promised to keep his mouth shut about it.

But…the teeny smirk on his face is making me antsy.

Why do I get the feeling he’s about to spill the beans?