by Elle Kennedy
“Does that usually work?” she asks curiously.
“What?”
“The aw-shucks little boy grin… Does it help you get your way?”
“Always,” I answer without hesitation.
“Almost always,” she corrects. “Look, I’m sorry, but I really don’t have time. I’m already juggling school and work, and with the winter showcase coming up, I’ll have even less time.”
“Winter showcase?” I say blankly.
“Right, I forgot. If it’s not about hockey, then it’s not on your radar.”
“Now who’s being presumptuous? You don’t even know me.”
There’s a beat, and then she sighs. “I’m a music major, okay? And the arts faculty puts on two major performances every year, the winter showcase and the spring one. The winner gets a five thousand dollar scholarship. It’s kind of a huge deal, actually. Important industry people fly in from all over the country to see it. Agents, record producers, talent scouts…. So, as much as I’d love to help you—”
“You would not,” I grumble. “You look like you don’t even want to talk to me right now.”
Her little you-got-me shrug is grating as hell. “I have to get to rehearsal. I’m sorry you’re failing this course, but if it makes you feel better, so is everyone else.”
I narrow my eyes. “Not you.”
“I can’t help it. Tolbert seems to respond to my brand of bullshit. It’s a gift.”
“Well, I want your gift. Please, master, teach me how to bullshit.”
I’m two seconds from dropping to my knees and begging her, but she edges to the door. “You know there’s a study group, right? I can give you the number for—”
“I’m already in it,” I mutter.
“Oh. Well, then there’s not much else I can do for you. Good luck on the makeup test. Baby.”
She darts out the door, leaving me staring after her in frustration. Unbelievable. Every girl at this college would cut her frickin’ arm off to help me out. But this one? Runs away like I just asked her to murder a cat so we could sacrifice it to Satan.
And now I’m right back to where I was before Hannah-not-with-an-M gave me that faintest flicker of hope.
Royally screwed.
2
Garrett
My roommates are piss drunk when I walk into the living room after study group. The coffee table is overflowing with empty beer cans, along with a nearly depleted bottle of Jack that I know belongs to Logan because he subscribes to the beer is for pussies philosophy. His words, not mine.
At the moment, Logan and Tucker are battling each other in a heated game of Ice Pro, their gazes glued to the flat screen as they furiously click their controllers. Logan’s gaze shifts slightly when he notices me in the doorway, and his split second of distraction costs him.
“Hell to the yeah!” Tuck crows as his defenseman flicks a wrist shot past Logan’s goalie and the scoreboard lights up.
“Aw, for fuck’s sake!” Logan pauses the game and levels a dark glare at me. “What the hell, G? I just got deked out because of you.”
I don’t answer, because now I’m distracted—by the half naked make out session happening in the corner of the room. Dean’s at it again. Bare-chested and barefoot, he’s sprawled in the armchair while a blonde in nothing but a lacy black bra and booty shorts sits astride him and grinds against his crotch.
Dark blue eyes peer over the chick’s shoulder, and Dean smirks in my direction. “Graham! Where’ve you been, man?” he slurs.
He goes back to kissing the blonde before I can answer the drunken question.
For some reason, Dean likes to hook up everywhere but his bedroom. Seriously. Every time I turn around, he’s in the midst of some form of debauchery. On the kitchen counter, the living room couch, the dining room table—dude’s gotten it on in every inch of the off-campus house the four of us share. He’s a total slut and completely unapologetic about it.
Granted, I’m not one to talk. I’m no monk, and neither are Logan and Tuck. What can I say? Hockey players are horny motherfuckers. When we’re not on the ice, we can usually be found hooking up with a puck bunny or two. Or three, if your name is Tucker and it’s New Year’s Eve of last year.
“I’ve been texting you for the past hour, man,” Logan informs me.
His massive shoulders hunch forward as he swipes the whiskey bottle from the coffee table. Logan’s a bruiser of a defenseman, one of the best I’ve ever played with, and also the best friend I’ve ever had. His first name is John, but we call him Logan because it makes it easier to differentiate him from Tucker, whose first name is also John. Luckily, Dean is just Dean, so we don’t have to call him by his mouthful of a last name: Heyward-Di Laurentis.
“Seriously, where the hell have you been?” Logan grumbles.
“Study group.” I grab a Bud Light from the table and pop the tab. “What’s this surprise you kept blabbing about?”
I can always tell how plastered Logan is based on the grammar of his texts. And tonight he must be shit-faced, because I had to go full-on Sherlock to decrypt his messages. Suprz meant surprise. Gyabh had taken longer to decode, but I think it meant get your ass back here? But who knows with Logan.
From his perch on the couch, he grins so broadly it’s a wonder his jaw doesn’t snap off. He jerks his thumb at the ceiling and says, “Go upstairs and see for yourself.”
I narrow my eyes. “Why? Who’s up there?”
Logan snickers. “If I told you, then it wouldn’t be a surprise.”
“Why do I get the feeling you’re up to something?”
“Jeez,” Tucker pipes up. “You’ve got some major trust issues, G.”
“Says the asshole who left a live raccoon in my bedroom on the first day of the semester.”
Tucker grins. “Aw, come on, Bandit was fucking adorable. He was your welcome back to school gift.”
I flip up my middle finger. “Yeah, well, your gift was a bitch to get rid of.” Now I scowl at him because I still remember how it took three pest control guys to de-raccoon my room.
“For fuck’s sake,” Logan groans. “Just go upstairs. Trust me, you’ll thank us for it later.”
The knowing look they exchange eases my suspicion. Kind of. I mean, I’m not about to let down my guard completely, not around these assholes.
I steal two more cans of beer on my way out. I don’t drink much during the season, but Coach gave us the week off to study for midterms and we still have two days of freedom left. My teammates, lucky bastards, seem to have no problem downing twelve beers and playing like champs the next day. Me? Even a buzz gives me a rip-roaring headache the morning after and then I skate like a toddler with his first pair of Bauers.
Once we’re back to a six-days-a-week practice schedule, my alcohol consumption will drop to the usual one/five limit. One drink on practice nights, five after a game. No exceptions.
I plan on taking full advantage of the time I have left.
Armed with my beers, I head upstairs to my room. The master bedroom. Yup, I was not above playing the I’m-your-captain card to snag it, and trust me, it was worth the argument my teammates put up. Private bath, baby.
My door is ajar, a sight that snaps me right back into suspicion mode. I warily peer up at the frame to make sure there isn’t a bucket of blood up there, then give the door a tiny shove. It gives way and I inch through it, fully prepared for an ambush.
I get one.
Except it’s more of a visual ambush, because damn, the girl on my bed looks like she stepped out of a Victoria’s Secret catalog.
Now, I’m a guy. I don’t know the names of half the shit she’s wearing. I see white lace and pink bows and lots of skin. And I’m happy.
“Took you long enough.” Kendall shoots me a sexy smile that says you’re about to get lucky, big boy, and my cock reacts accordingly, thickening beneath my zipper. “I was giving you five more minutes before I took off.”
“I made it just in time then.�
�� My gaze sweeps over her drool-worthy outfit, and then I drawl, “Aw, babe, is that all for me?”
Her blue eyes darken seductively. “You know it, stud.”
I’m well aware that we sound like characters from a cheesy porno. But come on, when a man walks into his bedroom and finds a woman who looks like this? He’s willing to reenact any trashy scene she wants, even one that involves him pretending to be a pizza guy delivering pies to a MILF.
Kendall and I first hooked up over the summer, out of convenience more than anything else because we both happened to be in the area during the break. We hit the bar a couple times, one thing led to another, and the next thing I know I’m fooling around with a hot sorority girl. But it fizzled out before midterms started, and aside from a few dirty texts here and there, I haven’t seen Kendall until now.
“I figured you might want to have some fun before practice starts up again,” she says, her manicured fingers toying with the tiny pink bow in the center of her bra.
“You figured right.”
A smile curves her lips as she rises to her knees. Damn, her tits are practically pouring out of that lacy thing she’s wearing. She crooks a finger at me. “C’mere.”
I waste no time striding toward her. Because…again…I’m a guy.
“I think you’re a tad overdressed,” she remarks, then grasps the waistband of my jeans and teases the button open. She tugs on the zipper and a second later my dick springs into her waiting hand. I haven’t done laundry in weeks so I’ve been going commando until I get my shit together, and from the way her eyes flare with heat, I can tell she approves of the whole no-boxers thing.
When she wraps her fingers around me, a groan slips out of my throat. Oh yeah. There’s nothing better than the feel of a woman’s hand on your cock.
Nope, I’m wrong. Kendall’s tongue comes into play, and holy shit, it’s so much better than her hand.
An hour later, Kendall snuggles up beside me and rests her head on my chest. Her lingerie and my clothes are strewn on the bedroom floor, along with two empty condom packages and the bottle of lube we hadn’t needed to crack open.
The cuddling makes me apprehensive, but I can’t exactly shove her away and demand she hit the road, not when she clearly put a lot of effort into this seduction.
But that worries me too.
Women don’t get all decked out in expensive lingerie for a hookup, do they? I’m thinking no, and Kendall’s next words validate my uneasy thoughts.
“I missed you, baby.”
My first though is shit.
My second thought is why?
Because in all the time we’ve been hooking up, Kendall hasn’t made a single effort to get to know me. If we’re not having sex, she just talks non-stop about herself. Seriously, I don’t think she’s asked me a personal question about myself since we met.
“Uh…” I struggle for words, any sequence of them that doesn’t consist of I, miss, you, and too. “I’ve been busy. You know, midterms.”
“Obviously. We go to the same college. I was studying, too.” There’s an edge to her tone now. “Did you miss me?”
Fuck me sideways. What am I supposed to say to that? I’m not going to lie, because that’ll only lead her on. But I can’t be a dick about it and admit she hasn’t even crossed my mind since the last time we hooked up.
Kendall sits up and narrows her eyes. “It’s a yes or no question, Garrett. Did. You. Miss. Me.”
My gaze darts to the window. Yup, I’m on the second floor and actually contemplating jumping out the frickin’ window. That’s how badly I want to avoid this convo.
But my silence speaks volumes, and suddenly Kendall flies off the bed, her blond hair whipping in all directions as she scrambles for her clothes. “Oh my God. You are such an ass! You don’t care about me at all, do you, Garrett?”
I get up and make a beeline for my discarded jeans. “I do care about you,” I protest. “But…”
She angrily shoves her panties on. “But what?”
“But I thought we were clear about what this was. I don’t want anything serious.” I shoot her a pointed look. “I told you that from the start.”
Her expression softens as she bites her lip. “I know, but…I just thought…”
I know exactly what she thought—that I’d fall madly in love with her, and our casual hookup would transform into the fucking Notebook.
Honestly, I don’t know why I bother laying down ground rules anymore. In my experience, no woman enters into a fling believing it’s going to stay a fling. She might say otherwise, maybe even convince herself she’s cool with a no-strings sex-fest, but deep down, she hopes and prays it’ll lead to something deeper.
And then I, the villain in her personal rom-com, swoops in and bursts that bubble of hope, despite the fact that I never lied about my intentions or misled her, not even for a second.
“Hockey is my entire life,” I say gruffly. “I practice six days a week, play twenty games a year—more if we make it to the post-season. I don’t have time for a girlfriend, Kendall. And you deserve a helluva lot more than I can give you.”
Unhappiness clouds her eyes. “I don’t want a casual fling anymore. I want to be your girlfriend.”
Another why almost flies out of my mouth, but I bite my tongue. If she’d shown any interest in me outside the carnal sense, I might believe her, but the fact that she hasn’t makes me wonder if the only reason she wants a relationship with me is because I’m some kind of status symbol to her.
I swallow my frustration and offer another awkward apology. “I’m sorry. But that’s where I’m at right now.”
As I zip up my jeans, she refocuses her attention on getting her clothes on. Though clothes is a bit of a stretch—all she’s sporting is lingerie and a trench coat. Which explains why Logan and Tucker were grinning like idiots when I got home. Because when a girl shows up at your door in a trench coat, you know damn well there’s not much else underneath it.
“I can’t see you anymore,” she finally says, her gaze finding mine. “If we keep doing…this…I’ll only get more attached.”
I can’t argue with that, so I don’t. “We had fun, though, right?”
After a beat, she smiles. “Yeah, we had fun.”
She bridges the distance between us and leans up on her tiptoes to kiss me. I kiss her back, but not with the same degree of passion as before. I keep it light. Polite. The fling has run its course, and I’m not about to lead her on again.
“With that said…” Her eyes twinkle mischievously. “Let me know if you change your mind about the girlfriend thing.”
“You’ll be the first person I call,” I promise.
“Good.”
She smacks a kiss on my cheek and walks out the door, leaving me to marvel over how easy that went. I’d been steeling myself for a fight, but aside from that initial burst of anger, Kendall had accepted the situation like a pro.
If only all women were as agreeable as her.
Yup, totally a jab at Hannah there.
Sex always stirs up my appetite, so I head downstairs in search of nourishment, and I’m happy to find there’s still leftover rice and fried chicken courtesy of Tuck, who is our resident chef because the rest of us can’t boil water without burning it. Tuck, on the other hand, grew up in Texas with a single mom who taught him to cook when he was still in diapers.
I settle at the eat-in counter, shoving a piece of chicken in my mouth just as Logan strolls in wearing nothing but plaid boxers.
He raises a brow when he spots me. “Hey. I didn’t think I’d see you again tonight. Figured you’d be VBF.”
“VBF?” I ask between mouthfuls. Logan likes to make up acronyms in the hopes that we’ll start to use them as slang, but half the time I have no idea what he’s babbling about.
He grins. “Very busy fucking.”
I roll my eyes and eat a forkful of wild rice.
“Seriously, Blondie’s gone already?”
“Yup.�
� I chew before continuing. “She knows the score.” The score being, no girlfriends and definitely no sleepovers.
Logan rests his forearms on the counter, his blue eyes gleaming as he changes the subject. “I can’t fucking wait for the St. Anthony’s game this weekend. Did you hear? Braxton’s suspension is over.”
That gets my attention. “No shit. He’s playing on Saturday?”
“Sure is.” Logan’s expression turns downright gleeful. “I’m gonna enjoy smashing that asshole’s face into the boards.”
Greg Braxton is St. Anthony’s star left wing and a complete piece of shit human being. The guy’s got a sadistic streak that he’s not afraid to unleash on the ice, and when our teams faced off in the pre-season, he sent one of our sophomore D-men to the emergency room with a broken arm. Hence his three game suspension, though if it were up to me, the psycho would’ve been slapped with a lifetime ban from college hockey.
“You need to throw down, I’ll be right there with you,” I promise.
“I’m holding you to that. Oh, and next week we’ve got Eastwood heading our way.”
I really should pay more attention to our schedule. Eastwood College is number two in our conference (second to us, of course) and our matchups are always nail-biters.
And shit, it suddenly dawns on me that if I don’t ace the Ethics redo, I won’t be on the ice for the Eastwood game.
“Fuck,” I mumble.
Logan swipes a piece of chicken off my plate and pops it in his mouth. “What?”
I haven’t told my teammates about my grade situation yet because I’d been hoping my midterm grade wouldn’t hurt me too bad, but now it looks like fessing up is unavoidable.
So with a sigh, I tell Logan about my F in Ethics and what it could mean for the team.
“Drop the course,” he says instantly.
“Can’t. I missed the deadline.”
“Crap.”
“Yup.”
We exchange a glum look, and then Logan flops down on the stool beside mine and rakes a hand through his hair. “Then you gotta shape up, man. Study your balls off and ace this motherfucker. We need you, G.”