by Elle Kennedy
He’s a player in more ways than one…
College junior John Logan can get any girl he wants. For this hockey star, life is a parade of parties and hook-ups, but behind his killer grins and easygoing charm, he hides growing despair about the dead-end road he’ll be forced to walk after graduation. A sexy encounter with freshman Grace Ivers is just the distraction he needs, but when a thoughtless mistake pushes her away, Logan plans to spend his final year proving to her that he’s worth a second chance.
Now he’s going to need to up his game…
After a less than stellar freshman year, Grace is back at Briar University, older, wiser, and so over the arrogant hockey player she nearly handed her V-card to. She’s not a charity case, and she’s not the quiet butterfly she was when they first hooked up. If Logan expects her to roll over and beg like all his other puck bunnies, he can think again. He wants her back? He’ll have to work for it. This time around, she’ll be the one in the driver’s seat…and she plans on driving him wild.
The Mistake
An Off-Campus Novel
Elle Kennedy
Table of Contents
About the Book
Title Page
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Epilogue
Other Titles by Elle Kennedy
Author’s Note
About the Author
Copyright
1
Logan
April
Lusting over your best friend’s girlfriend sucks.
First off, there’s the awkward factor. As in, it’s really fucking awkward. I can’t speak for all men, but I’m pretty sure that no guy wants to leave his bedroom and bump into the girl of his dreams after she’s just spent the whole night in his best friend’s arms.
Then there’s the self-loathing element. This one’s a given, because it’s kind of hard not to hate yourself when you’re fantasizing about the love of your best friend’s life.
At the moment, the awkwardness is definitely winning out. See, I live in a house with very thin walls, which means I can hear every breathy moan that leaves Hannah’s mouth. Every gasp and sigh. Every thump of the headboard smacking the wall as someone else screws the girl I can’t stop thinking about.
Fun times.
I’m on my bed, flat on my back and staring up at the ceiling. I’m not even pretending to scroll through my iPod library anymore. I popped the ear buds in with the intention of drowning out the sounds of Garrett and Hannah in the other room, but I still haven’t pressed play. I guess I’m in the mood to torture myself tonight.
Look, I’m not an idiot. I know she’s in love with Garrett. I see the way she looks at him, and I see how they are together. They’ve been a couple for six months now, and not even I, the worst friend on the planet, can deny they’re perfect for each other.
And hell, Garrett deserves to be happy. He plays it off like he’s a cocky sonofabitch, but truth is, he’s a goddamn saint. The best center I’ve ever skated with and the best person I’ve ever known, and I’m comfortable enough with my hetero status to say that if I did play for the other team? I wouldn’t just fuck Garrett Graham, I’d marry him.
That’s what makes this a trillion times harder. I can’t even hate the dude who’s tapping the chick I want. No revenge fantasies to be had, because I don’t hate Garrett, not in the slightest.
A door creaks open and footsteps echo in the hallway, and I pray to God that Garrett or Hannah doesn’t knock on my door. Or open their mouths, for that matter, because hearing either of their voices right now will only bum me out even more.
Luckily, the loud knock that rattles my doorframe comes from my other roommate, Dean, who waltzes inside without waiting for an invitation. “Party at Omega Phi tonight. You down?”
I dive off my bed faster than you can say pathetic, because a party sounds like a fan-fucking-tastic idea right about now. Getting wasted is a surefire way to stop myself from thinking about Hannah. Actually, no—I want to get wasted and screw someone’s brains out. That way if one of those activities doesn’t help me with my don’t-think-about-Hannah goal, the other can serve as backup.
“Hell yeah,” I answer, already fumbling around for a shirt.
I slip a clean T-shirt over my head and ignore the twinge of pain in my left arm, which is still sore as shit from the bone-jarring body check I took at the championship game last week. But the hit was totally worth it—for the third consecutive year, Briar’s hockey team secured another Frozen Four victory. I guess you can call it the ultimate hat trick, and all the players, myself included, are still reaping the rewards of being three-time national champions.
Dean, one of my fellow defensemen, calls it the Three P’s of Victory: parties, praise and pussy.
It’s a pretty fair assessment of the situation, because I’ve been on the receiving end of all three since our big win.
“You gonna be the DD?” I ask as I throw a black hoodie over my T-shirt and zip it up.
My buddy snorts. “Did you really just ask me that?”
I roll my eyes. “Right. What ever was I thinking?”
The last time Dean Heyward-Di Laurentis was sober at a party was never. Dude drinks like a fish or gets higher than a kite every time he leaves the house, and if you think that affects his performance on the ice in any way, then think again. He’s one of those rare creatures who can party like past-day Robert Downey Jr. and somehow be as successful and revered as present-day Robert Downey Jr.
“Don’t worry, Tuck’s the DD,” Dean tells me, referring to our other roommate, Tucker. “The pussy’s still hung-over from last night. Said he needs a break.”
Yeah, I don’t exactly blame him. Off-season training doesn’t start for another couple weeks, and we’ve all been enjoying the time off a little too much. But that’s what happens when you’re riding a Frozen Four high. Last year after we won, I was drunk for two weeks straight.
I’m not looking forward to the off-season. Strength and conditioning and all the hard work it takes to stay in shape are exhausting, but it’s even more exhausting when you’re working ten-hour shifts at the same time. It’s not like I have a choice, though. The workouts are necessary prep for the upcoming season, and the work, well, I made a promise to my brother, and no matter how sick to my stomach it makes me, I can’t renege on it. Jeff will skin me alive if I don’t fulfill my end of the deal.
Our designated driver waits at the front door when Dean and I come downstairs. A reddish-brown beard devours Tucker’s entire face, giving him a werewolf vibe, but he’s been determined to try out this new look ever since a chick he met at a party last week told him he had a baby face.
“You know that Yeti-beard doesn’t make you look more manly, right?” Dean says cheerfully as we walk out the door.
Tuck shrugs. “I was going for rugged, actually.”
I snicker. “Well, it’s not that
, either, Babyface. You look like a mad scientist.”
He flips up his middle finger as he heads for the driver’s side of my truck. I settle in the passenger seat while Dean climbs into the pickup bed, saying he wants some fresh air. I think he just wants the wind to mess up his hair in that tousled, sexed-up way girls drop their panties for. FYI—Dean is nauseatingly vain. But he also looks like a male model, so maybe he’s allowed to be vain.
Tucker starts the engine, and I drum my fingers against my thighs, itching to get going. A lot of students in the Greek system piss me off with their elitist attitudes, but I’m willing to overlook that because…well, hell, because if party-throwing was an Olympic sport? Every frat and sorority house at Briar would be a gold medalist.
As Tuck reverses out of the driveway, my gaze rests on Garrett’s black Jeep, all shiny in its parking space while its owner spends the night with the coolest girl on the planet and—
And enough. This obsession with Hannah Wells is really starting to mess with my head.
I need to get laid. ASAP.
Tucker is noticeably quiet during the drive to Omega Phi. He might also be frowning, but it’s hard to tell considering someone shaved off all of Hugh Jackman’s body hair and pasted it on Tuck’s face.
“What’s with the silent treatment?” I ask lightly.
His gaze shifts toward me to offer a sour look, then shifts right back to the road.
“Oh, come on. Is this about all the shit we’re giving you about the beard?” Exasperation shoots through me. “Because that’s like the first chapter of Beards for Dummies, bro—if you grow a mountain man beard, your friends will make fun of you. End of chapter.”
“It’s not about the beard,” he mutters.
I wrinkle my forehead. “Okay. But you are pissed about something.” When he doesn’t respond, I push a little harder. “What’s going on with you?”
His annoyed eyes meet mine. “With me? Nothing. With you? So much I don’t even know where to start.” He curses softly. “You need to stop this shit, man.”
Now I’m genuinely confused, because as far as I can tell, all I’ve done in the past ten minutes is look forward to a party.
Tucker notices the confusion on my face and clarifies in a grim tone. “This thing with Hannah.”
Although my shoulders stiffen, I try to keep my expression vague. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Yup, I’ve chosen to lie. Which is nothing new for me, actually. It seems like all I’ve done since I came to Briar is lie.
I’m totally destined for the NHL. Going pro all the way!
I love spending my summer as a grease monkey in my dad’s shop. It’s great pocket money!
I’m not lusting over Hannah. She’s dating my best friend!
Lies, lies and more lies, because in every one of those instances, the truth is a total bummer, and the last thing I want is for my friends and teammates to feel sorry for me.
“Save that bullshit for G,” Tucker retorts. “And by the way? You’re lucky he’s distracted with all this lovey-dovey stuff, because if he wasn’t? He’d definitely notice the way you’re acting.”
“Yeah, and what way is that?” I can’t stop the edge in my voice or the defensive set of my jaw. I hate that Tuck knows I have feelings for Hannah. I hate even more that he finally decided to bring up the subject after all these months. Why can’t he leave it alone? The situation is already shitty enough without having someone call me on it.
“Seriously? Do you want me to list it off for you? Fine.” A dark cloud floats through his eyes as he begins to recite every fucking thing I’ve felt so guilty about. “You leave the room whenever the two of them enter it. You hide in your bedroom when she stays over. If you guys are in the same room, you stare at her when you think nobody is looking. You—”
“Okay,” I interrupt. “I get it.”
“And don’t get me started on your manwhoring,” Tucker grumbles. “You’ve always been a player, but dude, you’ve hooked up with five chicks this week.”
“So?”
“So it’s Thursday. Five girls in four days. Do the fucking math, John.”
Oh shit. He first-named me. Tucker only calls me John when I’ve really pissed him off.
Except now he’s pissed me off, so I first-name him right back. “What’s wrong with that, John?”
Yup, we’re both John. I guess we should take a blood oath and form a club or something.
“I’m twenty-one years old,” I continue irritably. “I’m allowed to hook up. No, I should be hooking up, because that’s what college is all about. Having fun and getting laid and enjoying the fuck out of yourself before you go out in the real world and your life turns to shit.”
“You really want to pretend all these hook-ups are just some rite of passage in the college experience?” Tucker shakes his head, then lets out a breath and softens his tone. “You can’t screw her out of your system, man. You could sleep with a hundred women tonight and it still wouldn’t make a difference. You need to accept that it’s not going to happen with Hannah, and move on.”
He’s absolutely right. I’m well aware that I’ve been wallowing in my own bullshit and bagging chicks left and right as a distraction.
And I’m equally aware that I need to stop partying myself into oblivion. That I need to let go of the tiny little sliver of hope that something might happen, and simply accept that it won’t.
Maybe I’ll get started on that tomorrow, though.
Tonight? I’m sticking to my original plan. Get wasted. Get laid. And to hell with everything else.
*
Grace
I started my freshman year of college as a virgin.
I’m beginning to think I’ll be ending it as one, too.
Not that there’s anything wrong with being a card-carrying member of the V-Club. So what if I’m about to turn nineteen? I’m hardly an old maid, and I’m certainly not going to be tarred and feathered on the street for still having an intact hymen.
Besides, it’s not like I haven’t had opportunities to lose my virginity this year. Since I came to Briar University, my best friend has dragged me to more parties than I can count. Guys have flirted with me, sure. A few of them straight up tried to seduce me. One even sent me a picture of his penis with the caption “It’s all yours, baby.” Which was…fine, it was super gross, but I’m sure if I’d truly liked him, I might have been, um, flattered by the gesture? Maybe?
But I wasn’t attracted to any of those guys. And unfortunately, all the ones who do catch my eye never even look my way.
Until tonight.
When Ramona announced we were going to a frat party, I didn’t have high hopes for meeting anyone. It seems like every time we go to Greek Row, the frat boys just try to sweet-talk me and Ramona into making out. But tonight I’ve actually met a guy I kinda sorta like.
His name is Matt, he’s cute, and he’s not giving off any douchebag vibes. Not only is he somewhat sober, but he also speaks in full sentences and hasn’t said the word “broski” even once since we started talking. Or rather, since he started talking. I haven’t said much, but I’m perfectly content to stand there and listen, because it gives me time to admire his chiseled jawline and the adorable way his blond hair curls under his ears.
To be honest, it’s probably better if I don’t talk. Cute guys make me nervous. Like tongued-tied total-brain-malfunction nervous. All my filters shut off and suddenly I’m telling them about the time I peed my pants in the third grade during a field trip to the maple syrup factory, or how I’m scared of puppets and have mild OCD that could possibly drive me to tidy up your room the moment you turn your head.
So yeah, it’s better if I simply smile and nod and toss out the occasional “oh really?” so they know I’m not a mute. Except sometimes that’s not possible, especially when the cute guy in question says something that requires an actual answer.
“Wanna go outside and smoke this?” Matt pulls a joint from the p
ocket of his button-down and holds it in front of me. “I’d light it up here but Mr. President will kick me out of the frat if I do.”
I shift awkwardly. “Ah…no, thanks.”
“You don’t smoke weed?”
“No. I mean, I have, but I don’t do it often. It makes me feel all…loopy.”
He smiles, and two gorgeous dimples appear. “That’s kinda the point of weed.”
“Yeah, I guess. But it makes me really tired, too. Oh, and every time I smoke it I end up thinking about this Power Point presentation my dad forced me to watch when I was thirteen. It had all these statistics about the effects of weed on your brain cells, and how, contrary to popular belief, marijuana actually is highly addictive. And after every slide he’d glare at me and say, do you want to lose your brains cells, Grace? Do you?”
Matt stares at me, and in my head there’s a voice shouting Abort! But it’s too late. My internal filter has failed me once again and words keep popping out of my mouth.
“But I guess that’s not as bad as what my mom did. She tries to be the cool parent, so when I was fifteen, she drove me to this dark parking lot and pulled out a joint and announced that we were going to smoke it together. It was like a scene out of The Wire—wait, I’ve never actually seen The Wire. It’s about drugs, right? Anyway, I sat there panicking the whole time because I was convinced we were going to get arrested, and meanwhile my mom kept asking me how I was feeling and whether or not I was ‘enjoying the pot’.”
Miraculously, my lips finally stop moving.
But Matt’s eyes have already glazed over.
“Uh, yeah, well.” He clumsily waves the joint around. “I’m gonna go smoke this. I’ll see you later.”
I manage to hold in my sigh until he’s gone, then release the heavy breath and give myself a mental slap on the wrist. Damn it. I don’t know why I bother trying to talk to guys. I go into every conversation nervous I’m going to embarrass myself, and then I end up embarrassing myself because I’m nervous. Doomed from the start.
With another sigh, I head downstairs and search the main floor for Ramona. The kitchen is full of kegs and frat boys. Ditto for the dining room. The living room is packed with very loud, very drunk guys, and a sea of scantily clad girls. I applaud them for their bravery, because the weather outside is frigid and the front door has been opening and closing all night, causing cold air to circulate through the house. Me, I’m nice and toasty in my skinny jeans and tight sweater.