The Score (Off-Campus Book 3)

The second game of the season is an unmitigated disaster. No. Scratch that. It’s a goddamn bloodbath.

Nobody says a word as we file into the locker room, the humiliation of the loss creeping behind us like a puddle of tar. We may as well have yanked our pants down, stuck our bare asses in the air and cheerfully asked the other team for a spanking. We fucking handed them the win. No, we handed them a shutout.

As I whip off my jersey, I mentally replay every second of the game. Every mistake we made out there tonight is burned into my mind like a cattle brand. Losing sucks. Losing at home sucks harder.

Damn, there are going to be a lot of disappointed fans at Malone’s tonight. I’m not looking forward to seeing them, and I know my teammates are equally upset. None more so than Hunter, who hurriedly strips out of his uniform as if it’s covered with fire ants.

“You got some nice shots on goal tonight,” I tell him, and it’s the truth. Our scoreless game wasn’t for lack of trying. We played hard. The other team just played harder.

“Would’ve been nicer if one of them went in,” he mutters.

I stifle a sigh. “Their goalie was on point tonight. Even G couldn’t get one past him.”

Garrett takes that moment to lumber up to his locker, and he’s quick to reassure the frowning freshman. “Don’t sweat it, kid. There’s plenty more hockey to be played this season. We’ll bounce back.”

“Yeah. Sure.” Hunter is unconvinced. We don’t get the chance to offer more encouragement, because Coach Jensen strides into the locker room, tailed by Frank O’Shea.

Coach wastes no time delivering one of his brief, post-game speeches. As usual, it sounds like he’s talking in point form.

“We lost. It feels shitty. Don’t let it get to you. Just means we work harder during practice and bring it harder for the next game.” He nods at everyone, then stalks out the door.

I’d think he was pissed at us, if not for the fact that his victory speeches more or less go the same way—“We won. It feels great. Don’t let it go to your head. We work just as hard during practice and we win more games.” If any of our freshman players are expecting Coach to deliver epic motivational speeches a la Kurt Russell in Miracle, they’re in for a grave disappointment.

O’Shea lingers in the room. My shoulders instinctively tense when he trudges toward me, but he surprises me by saying, “Good coverage in the defensive zone tonight. That was a solid block in the second.”

“Thanks.” I’m still suspicious of the unexpected compliment, but he’s already moved on to praise Logan for successfully killing the power play in the third period.

I toss my gear in one of the huge laundry bins, then head for the showers and wash the stench of failure off my body. I hate losing, but I don’t allow myself more than ten minutes to dwell on it. My father taught me that trick when I was eight years old, after a particularly demoralizing loss on the lacrosse field.

“You have ten minutes,” he told me. “Ten minutes to think about what you did wrong and how bad you feel right now. Are you ready?”

He’d actually clicked a button on his watch and timed me, and for those ten minutes I brooded and sulked and wallowed in humiliation. I remembered the errors I’d made on the field and corrected them in my head. I imagined punching every player on the opposing team square in the mouth. And then Dad told me my time was up.

“There. It’s over now,” he said. “Now you look forward and figure out how you’re going to get better.”

I fucking love my dad.

By the time I’m out of the shower, the bitterness of tonight’s loss has faded, tucked away in my internal filing cabinet in a folder labeled ‘Shitty Stuff.’

I think Garrett uses the same filing system, because he’s damn near chipper as we meet up with Hannah in the parking lot. He pulls her into his arms and smacks a kiss on her lips. “Hey babe.”

“Hey.” She snuggles closer to him. “It’s getting so cold! I wouldn’t be surprised if it started snowing right now.”

She’s not wrong. It’s freezing out, and every breath we take floats out in a visible white cloud.

“Bar or home?” Logan asks, joining us at our cars.

“Bar,” Garrett says. “Don’t feel like having anyone over tonight. You?”

After a game, we either hit Malone’s or invite our teammates and friends over to the house, but it’s obvious none of us feel like playing hosts tonight.

“Bar,” Logan echoes, and I nod in agreement.

“Are we waiting for Tucker?” I search the lot, but I don’t see our roommate anywhere. “And what about Grace?”

“Tuck already left with Fitzy,” Logan answers. “And Grace isn’t coming tonight. She’s at the station.”

Feigning nonchalance, I glance at Hannah. “What about your other half?”

“I’m right here,” Garrett says smugly.

“I mean her other other half.” I grin at Hannah. “The little blond drama queen you hang out with?”

“She didn’t feel like going out tonight. She’s too busy moping.”

“Moping about what?” But I already know the answer to that. The ex-boyfriend, obvs.

Hannah confirms my thoughts. “Sean. He called her this morning, and I don’t know what he said to her, but she got really quiet afterward and she’s been mopey ever since. I would’ve stayed home tonight but I didn’t want to miss the game.”

Garrett leans down to kiss her cold-reddened cheek. “I’m glad you didn’t. We appreciate your support, babe.”

“I’m so bummed you guys lost,” she says, but I’m more concerned about the idea of Allie sulking all alone in the dorm. She’s probably ovaries-deep in a carton of Ben and Jerry’s right now while Mumford & Sons plays in the background.

“Are you sure you shouldn’t go home and braid her hair or something?” I ask Hannah. “That’s what chicks do for moral support, right?”

“Yes, Dean. That’s exactly what we do. Hair braiding, followed by naked pillow fights and then kissing practice.”

“Can I come?” Logan and I blurt out in unison.

“You wish. And no, I’m not going home yet. I texted Allie during the third period and she insists she’s fine. She’s drinking margaritas and watching this awful show. Like, I’m talking really awful. Wild horses couldn’t drag me back there tonight.”

“What show?” Garrett asks curiously.

“The worst thing to ever happen to television,” is all she says, and everyone laughs.

Logan taps the hood of my Beemer. “Are we ready to go?”

I hesitate. “Actually, do you mind riding with G and Wellsy? I need to make a few stops first. I’ll meet you guys there.”

“Sure,” he says easily. He moves away from my car and toward Garrett’s Jeep.

I slide into the driver’s seat and start the engine, but I wait until the Jeep disappears from the lot before I pull out of my parking space. I have only one stop to make, and it’s not one I want any of my friends knowing about.

*

Allie

When I hear the knock, my first thought is that Sean is at the door. Then I pray he isn’t, because after the bizarre and upsetting conversation we had this morning, I’m not ready to see him.

“I forgive you.”

He’d blurted out those three words the second I answered the phone. I, in turn, had to fight from spitting out something nasty in response, because forgiveness implies that I’d done something wrong by sleeping with someone else, and that wasn’t the case. I hadn’t cheated on him. I hadn’t lied to him. Sure, having sex with Dean so soon after my breakup with Sean isn’t something I’m proud of, but I’m not the first girl to jump into rebound sex and I certainly won’t be the last.

Still, despite the resentment his “forgiveness” had triggered, a part of me was relieved to hear it. God knows I’ve been feeling guilty about my night with Dean, so maybe absolution is exactly what I was seeking when I confessed my sin to Sean the other night.

That doesn’t mean I’m ready for a face-to-face with him, though. He’d asked if we could meet up for coffee, claiming he had more he needed to say but didn’t want to do it over the phone. I told him I’d think about it. Now, as another knock pounds on the door, I really hope he didn’t decide to force the issue.

I brace myself for a confrontation and open the door. But it’s not Sean. It’s Dean.

“Hey there, baby doll.” He flashes a grin and barrels his way inside. “Wellsy said you were sulking, so I stopped by to turn your frown upside down.”

“I’m not sulking,” I grumble.

“Even better. Saves me from having to do any work.” He unzips his jacket and tosses it on the arm of the couch. Then he strips off his sweater, leaving him in nothing but faded blue jeans.

I stare at him in disbelief. “Did you really just take off your shirt?”

“Yeah. I don’t like shirts.”

He doesn’t like shirts.

This guy…goddamn it, I don’t even know what I think of him.

He turns toward the sofa, and the way his tight butt moves beneath the snug denim reminds me of how firm it felt when I squeezed it. Then he lowers his long body on the sofa cushions, which causes the denim to stretch over his package, and now I’m reminded of the way my mouth had watered when Dean’s cock was filling it.

“Oh yeah, suck it, baby. Suck it like you own it.”

The raspy command echoes in my mind. My lips start to tingle, because damn it, I had sucked it. I’d sucked it like it was a lollipop and an ice cream cone and every other delicious treat imaginable, all rolled up in one hard cock.

Crap, I think I might be blushing, which is confirmed when Dean winks at me. Does he know I’m thinking about blowing him?

What am I even saying? Of course he does. A guy like Dean probably assumes that everyone, at all times, is thinking about blowing him.

He stretches one arm along the back of the couch and beckons me with the other. “You sitting or what?”

“I’ll stand, thanks.”

“Aw, come on. I don’t bite.”

“Yes, you do.”

Those green eyes twinkle. “You’re right. I do.”

He looks way too comfortable sitting there on my couch. A blond Adonis with his golden chest and sculpted muscles and perfectly chiseled face. If the hockey thing doesn’t work out for him, he ought to consider going into modeling. Dean Di Laurentis oozes sexuality. He could slap his face on a laxative label and every woman in the world would be praying for constipation just to have an excuse to buy it.

“Seriously, Allie-Cat, sit down. You’re starting to make me feel unwelcome.”

“You aren’t welcome,” I sputter. “I was having a perfectly nice evening until you showed up.”

He looks hurt, but I don’t know if it’s genuine or if he’s putting it on. I suspect it’s the latter. “You really don’t like me, huh?”

Guilt pricks at me. Crap. Maybe it is genuine. “It’s not that. I do like you. But I wasn’t kidding when I said I’m not into casual sex, okay? Every time I think about what we did this weekend, I feel—”

“Horny?” he supplies.

Yes. “Slutty.”

I don’t expect the flare of irritation I glimpse in his eyes. “You want some advice, babe? Erase that word from your vocabulary.”

I suddenly feel guilty again, but I’m not sure why. Very reluctantly, I join him on the couch, making sure to keep some distance between us.

“I mean it,” he continues. “Stop slut-shaming yourself. And fuck the word slut. People should be able to have sex whenever they want, however many times they want, with however many partners they choose, and not get some shitty label slapped on them.”

He’s right, but… “The label is there whether we like it or not,” I point out.

“Yeah, and it was created by prudes and judgmental assholes and jealous pricks who wish they were getting laid on the regular but aren’t.” Dean shakes his head. “You need to stop thinking there’s something wrong with what we did. We had fun. We were safe. We didn’t hurt anyone. It’s nobody’s business what you or anyone else does in the privacy of their bedrooms, all right?”

Oddly enough, his words succeed in easing some of the shame that’s been trapped inside me since Friday night. But not all of it. “I told Sean,” I confess.

Dean frowns.

“Not about you,” I add hastily. “I just told him I had sex with someone else.”

“Why the hell would you do that?”

“I don’t know.” I moan. “I felt like I owed him the truth, but that’s crazy, right? I mean, we’re broken up.” Another moan slips out, this one more anguished than the first. “But we were together for so long. I’m so used to telling him everything.”

Dean absently rubs the cushion behind my head. The movement directs my gaze to his biceps, the delicious flex of muscle honed from years of physical activity. “Be honest,” he finally says. “Do you want to get back together with the guy?”

I slowly shake my head.

“You sure about that?”

“I’m sure.” I think about the nonstop arguments Sean and I had since the summer, and I feel even more confident in my decision to end it. All those spiteful comments he’d hurled my way…mocking me about my dreams…giving me ultimatums for the future…

Sean might have forgiven me for what I did after our breakup, but suddenly I’m not sure I’ve forgiven him for what he did before it.

“We weren’t right for each other anymore.” I swallow the pain in my throat. “If it was possible to stay in college forever, then yes, Sean and I would probably be together. But it’s time to grow up, and we want completely different things for the future. Or at least I think we do. This breakup is screwing with my head. I don’t even know what to think anymore.”

“That’s your problem. You think too much.”

I can’t help but laugh. “Gee, is that your advice? Stop thinking?”

“Stop obsessing.” Dean shrugs. “You broke up with the guy for a reason—a damn good reason, if you ask me—and now you’ve gotta follow through on it. Quit talking to him and quit second-guessing yourself.”

“You’re right,” I say grudgingly.

“Of course I am. I’m always right.” With an arrogant smile, he moves closer and rests one big hand on my knee. “Okay, so here’s our plan for tonight. First we’ll bone down to take the edge off. Then we’ll order a pizza and replenish our energy, and after that, round two. Sound good?”

Exasperation rises inside me. Every time I think there’s more to Dean than simply being a sex-obsessed horndog, he goes and proves me wrong. Or actually, he proves me right.

“Have you considered seeing a psychiatrist about your delusions?” I ask politely. “Because, sweetie, there’s no chance in hell of us boning tonight.”

“Fine. How about we go down on each other instead?”

“How about you leave?”

“Counter offer—I stay and we dry hump.”

God, this guy is incorrigible. “Counter offer—you can stay, but you’re not allowed to talk.”

He counters with, “I stay, I’m allowed to talk, but I won’t hit on you.”

I think it over. “You stay, you can’t hit on me, and you have to watch my show without a single complaint.”

A broad grin stretches across his face. “I accept your terms, madam.”