Hard Edge: A Hockey Romance (Stone Creek University Book 1)

by Lainey Davis

  I glare back at him as the path becomes nearly vertical and I have to use my hands to pull myself up the frozen rocks. About an hour after we set out, I see the summit. Exhausted, I don't notice the view at first, just the wooden bench facing campus. I collapse into it and start chugging the cold water. When I look over at Neal, he is beaming, looking around like he's seeing the world for the first time.

  "We do a lot of runs up this mountain at sunrise," he tells me. "When we get up here, all sweaty, racing to see who can be first…we somehow manage to all be here when the sun comes up and it's really special."

  He puts an arm around me and points out the arena, then points down to my apartment building. "I can see everything that matters to me right now," he says.

  The campus looks beautiful from this angle. The sun is shining through the crisp November air. He's right. It's magical up here. Swept up in the moment, I kiss Neal, closing my eyes and leaning into him on the bench. I want to preserve this moment, when he told me I was important to him. I love that he took me somewhere that's special to him, showing me another piece of his life. We kiss for a long time, but I start to shiver in the cold. "Come on," he says. "We gotta make our way back down!"

  Neal takes me to lunch then at the diner right off campus. It feels surreal to be on a real date with him, in public where people might see. Even if everyone who might see us is gone for the holiday. I let myself relax, savoring every second where we don't have to hide in our apartments. I keep my on his leg under the booth, realizing it'll be harder than ever to be professional with him in the hockey building on Monday. The past few months, I've grown hungrier and hungrier for the feel of him. I need the firm presence of his body against mine. Behind closed doors is one thing, but I get a sense of satisfaction at putting my head on his shoulder in public, smiling at the waitress who sees us as just another couple out for lunch together. I feel my mind start to drift into the frightened place, where I'm afraid of my strong feelings for Neal, when he speaks.

  "I want to teach you to skate," he tells me. I raise my eyebrows at this. "Then," he says, "you're going to give me a math quiz and smack me with a ruler when I get the answers wrong."

  I laugh, crumpling up my napkin. "Do you even have a ruler? What about my calculator case?"

  We leave the diner, continuing to joke about all the math tools I'll use to apply corporal punishment, when I realize that he was serious about skating first. He pulls into a parking spot outside the arena. "Neal!" I say. "I have never skated in my life."

  He fumbles in his pocket for his ID card and swipes us in. Most weekend mornings, the arena is open for the public to ice skate, but everything is closed up and dark for the holiday. "No worries," he says. "I help coach peewee hockey camps all the time. If I can teach a 3 year old to skate, you should be fine."

  "Yeah," I protest, "But the toddlers are a lot closer to the ground when they fall on their ass!" Ignoring me, Neal hops over the rental counter and starts to look for a pair of skates for me.

  "What size shoe are you?"His eyes are serious. There's no getting out of this.

  I sigh. "8."

  He procures a pair of brown skates and tells me to put them on. "I'll be right back. I'm just going to my locker to grab mine," he says. His steps echo down the hall as he jogs through the empty arena. It looks so different than it had when I watched him play a few weeks ago. No music, no concessions. No atmosphere of competition. Today, it's just Neal's happy place. "And the freezing cold ice, where I'll bruise my tailbone," I mutter.

  I get the skates laced and start to walk toward the ice, wobbling a bit. I hear Neal come up behind me and he kisses my neck. The ice is lit by the arena emergency lights, so it's enough to see but still dim enough that I'm not too embarrassed as I trip and flap my arms. Neal skates backwards, holding my hands and pulling me along the ice.

  "Bend your knees a bit," he says in a soft voice. "Feel how you glide along with me." I exhale and try to stop thinking about it so much. His hands are strong around mine. I focus on his legs as he moves. The skates are an extension of his body and we speed faster and faster until the wind flaps the scarf around my neck.

  Neal coaches me to lean my weight into one foot and then the other, pushing off with my thighs and slightly bent knees. He's right--he is good at teaching people how to skate. We move a bit faster together and I'm starting to feel comfortable, despite myself. Suddenly I realize he's let me go and we are soaring around the ice next to each other. As soon as I become aware of this, I trip over something and start to fly forward. Quick as a flash, Neal is in front of me, scooping me back upright. "You move like a panther," I tell him, breathless.

  We slow to a halt against the boards, where I lean for support, panting a bit. "Maybe a fox," he says, reaching behind him. I see that we've reached the penalty box. Neal flicks open the door in the wall and, still moving backwards, tugs us in. "Or a dirty dog." There's a long bench inside and Neal backs into it, pulling me down so I'm straddling him with my knees.

  He kisses me and starts unwrapping my layers, tossing off the hat and scarf, rubbing my ass inside my jeans. His hands feel warm through the fabric, heating up my chilled skin. His unshaven cheek is rough against my face and I like the raspy feel of it. He is wild, nipping at my neck with his teeth and thrusting his hips beneath mine. I can tell he's very aroused at the idea of having me here in the arena. "I thought we were going to play hot for teacher," I tease him, biting the tip of his ear as he starts unzipping my sweatshirt.

  I squeak as he lifts me off his lap and plunks me on my knees on the foam mat. He stands up in front of me, towering impossibly high up on his skates as he starts to open his jeans. "Oh we're playing that later. Right now, though, I'm going to fuck you in the penalty box."

  Neal sits back down and leans forward. He starts to slide his hands up my shirt and his touch brings goosebumps to my skin. The contrasting sensations of his hot touch in the chilly air feels exciting and I shrug out of my sweatshirt, giving him easier access to my breasts beneath my t-shirt. His erect cock is right at my face level and, inspired, I move my hands to stroke him from root to tip. He hisses at the contact with my icy hand, pulling back from my touch. I laugh. "Maybe I should find something warmer to put on your dick," I say as I open my mouth to slide him inside.

  I hear him moan as I begin to work his shaft with my lips. He leans back against the wall and his hands are soft on the top of my head. I brace my hands against his thighs inside his jeans. I open my throat and slide Neal into my mouth as far as I can, preparing to lick and suck him dry as he groans with pleasure, when two things happen simultaneously.

  The lights in the arena suddenly buzz to life and Coach Thomas clears his throat from the tunnel to our left. "Fuck," Neal whispers, pulling out of my mouth and shoving his hands over his crotch. I'm frozen in place kneeling between Neal's legs, my hair disheveled, my world dropping out from underneath me.

  An eternity passes before Coach Thomas makes eye contact with me. His face is hard, angry, and he says, "Nice motivational technique you got there." He shakes his head and pounds a fist on the glass barrier. "Sweeney, put your dick back in your pants and get out of here. I've got recruits and parents coming for a tour."

  Coach Thomas begins to walk back down the tunnel, presumably to meet a freshman in the lobby. Neal leaps to his feet and tries to chase after his coach, still wearing his skates and trying to zip his pants. "Coach, wait--"

  "Save it, Sweeney. I'll see you on the ice tomorrow." He slams a door and is gone.

  Neal turns to face me, and I'm not able to stop the tears that are spilling down my cheeks. I close my eyes and start to rip off the skates, not caring about the rented laces as I yank them off my feet so I can run.

  "Dahlia, don't do this." Even running on skates on the foam floor, Neal is faster than me. He has his arms around me in seconds and I release a sob into his chest. "It'll be ok," he says into my hair, and I stiffen.

  I pull back and look at him, furious. "How?" I scr
eam. "How the fuck will it be ok, Neal? I'm going to have to leave school."

  "Dahlia, Coach isn't going to say anything to the math department. Seriously." Neal is reaching for me again, trying to pull me back in.

  I snort, backing away toward the exit. "No, he'll just think I'm some fucking whore. Some groupie puck bunny. God, he probably thinks I've been giving the entire team blowjobs for years." I'm ranting now, enraged. I throw the skates against the wall and am startled by the echoing boom they produce in the empty arena. I wait for Neal to do something, to reassure me it’s not like that, or to say anything at all, but he just stands with his hands in his pockets.

  I shake my head, blind with rage and tears, turn away, and run from the arena. I don't stop until I'm in my bed, where I stay for the next two days.

  Chapter Eleven

  When Linda comes home Sunday afternoon, she throws on the lights in the bedroom and pulls the curtains open. "Dahlia, what the hell? I've been calling you all day."

  "Go away, Linda." I try to keep my voice neutral, thinking maybe I should feign an illness so she'll leave the room. I can't even bear talking about what happened. I feel filthy and exposed. Caught in an act that was so personal, something I'd only ever done with Neal.

  "Is this about grad school stuff?" She sits on the bed and starts rubbing my shoulder through the blankets. "Tim told me Jeremy didn't do so great on his GRE."

  Eager to talk about anything other than my screwed up life, I pull down the blanket. "Really? On the math part?"

  "Nah. The verbal. But I guess he didn't score high enough for any of the schools he wanted. He decided to work for a year and try again."

  "That stinks." I can't think of anything to say beyond that.

  Linda dips her head to meet my eye. "But you didn't bomb the test, did you?" I shake my head. "I thought so."

  I bite my lip and whisper to her. "I got a 330." And then I can't help but smile, because I know that my scores were well above the average for MIT and Penn. But that reminds me that the scores are meaningless if I don't actually have a college diploma and I start to cry again.

  "Hey," she says. "What happened?" She pulls me into a hug and I start to sob. I weep into her shoulders for awhile and then tell her everything. About my magical morning with Neal and the horrifying events of the afternoon in the arena.

  She lets out a long breath when I've finished talking. "Well, did you hear from Dr. Meyer or anything?"

  I look at her blankly. I have checked neither my phone nor my email the entire weekend. She brings me my phone, where I see I've missed a number of calls from her and Neal. I have about 100 text messages. Nothing from the university. "It's because it's the weekend," I mutter. "I bet Coach Thomas called Dr. Meyer after the game Saturday."

  Linda laughs. "I doubt that very highly," she says, pulling up something on the screen of her phone. She shows me the headline from the SCU student website. I see Neal and his roommates embracing on the ice, helmets off, faces joyful. "They won 7-0," Linda says. "They're going to nationals."

  I start to cry again, sad that I missed Neal's big game. He probably could have used support in the stands before such an important match and I would have loved to watch him. I think about how it would feel to sit there with the other players' loved ones, wearing his jersey. How would it feel if everyone saw that I was Neal Sweeney's girlfriend?

  Then I remember that he didn't speak up after his coach caught us. That he said nothing about us being together. I feel like I'm being ripped in half and all I want to do is go to him for a hug. Which I can't do.

  "Oh god, Linda. I think I love him." I dive back into the covers and start to cry again. "And it's going to ruin my life."

  She continues trying to soothe me, telling me it will all work out. She doesn't know, though. She hasn't spent Christmas and summer break working in the factory where my dad got me a job. That's what's waiting for me if I go back home with no degree. That or working as a flag girl for the road construction crew. I moan, thinking about how close I came to getting away, finding a different path.

  Linda pats the blankets for awhile and then makes us some dinner. In the morning, we walk to class and she takes my phone so I stop obsessively checking my email.

  I'm a basketcase during class, totally distracted. I hear about a third of what the professor is saying as I sweat over the possibilities. Will I be asked to leave school immediately? Can they maybe send me some sort of bill to cover just the last third of the semester?

  After class, Linda turns on my phone and summarizes what I've missed. "Some texts from Neal--'where are you? We need to talk. What the hell, Dahlia? Answer my calls'…sounds like he wants to talk to you."

  I shake my head. She continues. "Here's one from Jeremy, actually. 'Congrats on GRE. Tim told me you aced it'--I bragged about you to Tim, by the way. They're both happy for you. Jeremy also says 'drinks at the Tap Room later to celebrate?'"

  "Linda, just open my email." I start chewing on my nails frantically. If there isn't anything form Dr. Meyer I'm going to have to go see him anyway, just because I can't bear the stress of not knowing my fate.

  She sighs. "There is one. I mean, you have like 30, but there's one from Dr. Meyer. Hang on." She scrolls around. "'Dahlia, can you stop by my office this afternoon? I wanted to have a chat about next year. I have drop-in hours 3-4. See you then.' Hey, that's not so bad," she says.

  I feel my heart beating inside my ears, but don't say anything. Linda says, "I think if he was going to fire you he'd either call or else be more assertive. Like, if he was going to fire you he'd have said 'next semester' instead of 'next year.'"

  "Maybe. What is it now? Noon? God, I have to survive three more hours." She takes me to the cafeteria and buys me a sandwich. I try to skip my next class, but Linda drags me in and promises it will help distract me until my doomsday meeting.

  ~~~

  At 2:55, I begin pacing the hallway outside Dr. Meyer's office. My skin is clammy with cold sweat and my hair has half escaped my braid. I can't remember if I showered this morning, but a quick sniff tells me I certainly didn't remember deodorant. I feel like a slob and am about to run home to shower and change, when I see Dr. Meyer come around the corner holding a stack of folders.

  I hold my breath, but he smiles when he sees me. "Dahlia! Come on in."

  When I hesitate in the doorway, he offers me the dish of chocolate on the edge of his desk. "Please," he said, "take some! My wife sent these to help my students with end-of-term nerves." I perch on the edge of one of the chairs and start unwrapping the candy as he rifles through his folder. "Ah! Yes! Here we go."

  I wish I'd thought to take a few shots before coming in here, to calm my nerves. Dr. Meyer continues. "I hope you don't mind, but I took the liberty of reaching out to my friend in the math department at MIT." I freeze mid-bite and look at him, both eyebrows raised in confusion.

  "When you asked me for a recommendation, I started reviewing my notes and looking over your own notes from guiding study sessions in past years. I told my esteemed colleague he would be remiss if he didn't offer you a teaching fellowship in their graduate program." At this, he smiles and unwraps one of the chocolates.

  I'm still sitting frozen in place, not quite understanding what he's said. Dr. Meyer laughs a bit and says, "He agreed." Dr. Meyer slides a folder across the desk for me to see. He printed out an email from Professor Carey, head of the mathematics department at MIT. It reads, "Just received her transcripts and GRE scores. Please tell Ms. Wardzinksi we'd love to have her up. Official offer letter in the post!"

  Dr. Meyer is babbling now. "I just get such a thrill when my students do well. You know, I don't even get to teach much anymore since department head is mostly an administrative position. I've loved talking to you about teaching strategies this term, Dahlia. You have a sharp mind and an instinct for translating the material for your students--whatever is the matter, dear?"

  I'm crying in relief. Totally unable to hold back the tears, they flow do
wn my grubby face. My sweat shoulders shake and my nose runs as Dr. Meyer hands me a tissue box. I cry for a few minutes while he peers at me in concern. I finally take a deep breath and say, "I thought you were calling me here to fire me."

  "Fire you? For what?"

  "Well, sir, I…I haven't been fully professional with Neal Sweeney." I start crying again more forcefully, knowing that now he will likely rescind the MIT offer. I'm sure Penn is absolutely out of the question. I start to wonder if I might throw up, when Dr. Meyer starts waving his hand in the air.

  "The dating bit?"

  My mouth hangs open as I try to form a response, create some sort of apology that doesn't sound like an excuse. He keeps talking. "Yes, I got an email from Mr. Sweeney this weekend, actually. It was rather romantic. He wrote to explain that he'd developed feelings for you, but didn't want you to get in trouble or lose your position. Then he said something about how he felt sure he'd do better on his final if I gave permission for you to give him a good luck kiss." Dr. Meyer begins spinning his wedding band around his finger, smiling.