by Elle Kennedy
Good point. “I know, but…” I reach my car and jam my finger on the key fob to unlock the door. I’m still on edge from O’Shea’s unexpected reappearance in my life, and I just want to get the hell away from the arena. “Whatever,” I say darkly. “I guess it’s stupid of me to think Miranda would want to help me. I’m the monster who broke her heart, remember?”
“You want my advice? Just keep your head down. Show up for practice, do what O’Shea says, and don’t start any shit. Spring will be here before you know it, and then you’ll graduate and never have to see that bastard again.”
“You’re right,” I concede. “It’s not worth stressing over. I’ll be out of here soon enough, right?”
“Yup. But let me know if he gives you any trouble, okay? I’ll try to come up with a good reason to sic a lawsuit on him.”
I chuckle. “You don’t practice civil law.”
“For you, baby brother, I’ll make an exception.”
I’m in a far better mood after we hang up. My friends like to mock me about being a rich kid from Connecticut. I’m sure they think my parents are snobs and my siblings are spoiled, but truth be told, my family is awesome.
Both my parents are high-powered attorneys, but they’re the most down-to-earth people you’ll ever meet. Don’t get me wrong, my siblings and I definitely had a ton of perks growing up. We had a nanny and housekeeper. We went to private schools and got a cushy weekly allowance. But we also had to do chores and finish all our homework before we ever saw a dime. If our grades slipped, we’d be grounded in a heartbeat. And if we tried pulling that gimme-whatever-I-want-because-we’ve-got-oodles-of-money crap, we were punished for it. The one and only time I demanded money from my dad, he turned around and donated my entire college fund to a charity for underprivileged kids. Then he made me clerk at his firm for the whole summer to earn it all back.
“What’d Coach want?” Garrett asks when I stride into the living room fifteen minutes later.
“To introduce me to the new defensive coordinator.” I flop down in the armchair and glance at the flat screen. G and Logan are battling each other in a game of Ice Pro, and judging by the score, Logan is getting his ass handed to him.
“We have a new defensive coordinator?” Logan instantly pauses the game. “And why did you need a private introduction?”
I choose my words carefully. “His name’s Frank O’Shea. He was my high school coach, so Jensen figured we’d want to catch up before O’Shea is officially introduced to the team.”
Logan furrows his brow. “Okay. But why is he just coming in now? Season’s already started. Seems weird to bring in a DC after we’ve already played our first game.”
“And lost,” Garrett mutters.
“Still just one game,” Logan insists. “It’s not like we’re in such bad shape that we need a new coach to turn shit around. This feels like a panic move on Coach’s part.” Frowning, he turns to me again. “What’s he like? Good guy?”
He’s the devil. “He’s decent,” I lie, then change the subject. “Where’s Tuck?”
“Not sure. Don’t think he came home last night.” Logan unpauses the game and refocuses his attention on the screen.
I wrinkle my forehead. Tucker hadn’t spent Friday night at home either. I wonder if he’s seeing someone new, because he doesn’t usually stay out two nights in a row.
Since my roommates are distracted by the video game, I go upstairs and force myself to catch up on the course readings I’d fallen behind on. I spend the rest of the day alternating between reading and napping, only going downstairs to steal a few slices of the pizza Garrett and Logan order in the evening. I don’t know why I’m feeling so antisocial. Maybe I’m still edgy about O’Shea showing up at Briar. Or maybe it’s because every time I closed my eyes for a nap today, I pictured Allie’s sexy mouth wrapped around my dick. Her smooth, golden curves pressed up against me. Her tits filling my palms.
Why can’t I get this girl out of my mind? Yes, the sex was phenomenal. Yes, I find her attractive. But phenomenal sex and attractive girls aren’t exactly an anomaly in my life.
Get over it, I order my dick when it yet again hardens at the thought of Allie.
It twitches in response. Taunting me.
“Goddamn it,” I growl. Then I fumble on the bed for my phone and bring up the number I’d dialed last night.
Allie picks up after four rings, her wary voice sliding into my ear. “Hey. What’s up?”
I let out a ragged breath. “I want to fuck you again.”
“Is this a thing now? You’re going to call me every night and say that?”
“Maybe?” Shit. I’m cranky and horny and as confused as she is. “Say yes, baby doll. Just say yes and put me out of my misery.”
“I already told you, it was a one-time thing. I’m not into casual sex. We had fun, sure, but—shit, I’ve gotta go. Call one of your puck bunnies and I’m sure they’ll take care of you, okay?”
For the second time in two days, she hangs up on me.
*
Allie
“Who was that?”
I jump nearly two feet in the air at the sound of Hannah’s voice. I disconnected the call when I heard her footsteps in the hall, but I hadn’t expected her to appear in my doorway this fast.
“Uh, it was no one.” Brilliant answer.
She raises one dark eyebrow. “No one?”
“Telemarketer,” I amend. “Which is the equivalent of no one.”
She grumbles in annoyance as she heads for my bed. “How do they even get our cell phone numbers? When I signed up with my phone provider, they had this whole section in their policy about how they’ll never, ever give my number to a third party. Well, I call bullshit, because guess what? I get daily calls from airlines and clothing stores and all these companies telling me about their awesome sales and saying I won some bogus prize. Oh my God, and the worst one? This stupid cruise ship promotion that starts the call with an automated foghorn! It’s awful.”
Hannah’s tangent lasts for several minutes, and I’m grateful for it because it means she’s too riled up to figure out I lied to her. And she’s so caught up in her rant that she doesn’t notice when I discreetly check the text message that pops up on my phone.
Dean: U really need to stop hanging up on me.
I text back, U really need to stop propositioning me. I know I’m a great lay, but get over it already.
Him: I can’t. Trust me, I’ve tried.
Me: Try harder.
Him: C’mon, baby doll. Just 1 more time. Think of how good it will be…
Of course it’ll be good. He’s a sex champion. But that doesn’t change the fact that I’m not comfortable with casual sex.
Me: Go away. I’m running lines w/ Hannah.
Him: Text me when ur done and I’ll sneak into your dorm. Wellsy won’t even know I’m there.
I’m startled to feel a sharp ache between my legs. The idea of Dean sneaking in and fucking me while Hannah sleeps obliviously in the next room is a turn-on I didn’t expect.
I ignore the unwelcome response and type, Goodnight, Dean.
Then I turn to Hannah and say, “Are we done bashing telemarketers? Because this script isn’t going to read itself, babe.”
“Sorry. I can’t help it—I hear the word telemarketer and I turn into a ball of rage.” She sits cross-legged on the center of my bed and catches the script I toss at her.
I remain standing. The opening scene requires my character to pace, and I want to get a feel for how talking while marching back and forth will affect my breath control.
Hannah thumbs through the intro pages. “All right. Who am I? Jeannette or Caroline?”
“Caroline. Her defining traits are petty and insensitive.”
My best friend grins widely. “So I get to play the bitch? Nice.”
Honestly, I wish I was playing the bitch. My character is a young widow who lost her husband in Afghanistan, which is the more emotionally draining role
. Thanks to this breakup with Sean, my emotion well is dangerously close to depleted, and I’m scared I won’t be able to tap into it and do this role justice.
My fear isn’t off base. We’re only five pages in and I’m already drained, so I call for a quick break.
“Wow,” Hannah remarks as she skims the next few scenes. “This play is intense. Everyone in the audience is going to be bawling the entire time.”
I collapse next to her and stretch out on my back. “I’m going to be bawling the entire time.” Literally, because my character weeps in every other scene.
Hannah falls back on her elbows and a comfortable silence falls between us. I like it, because I don’t have this with many people. Even with Megan and Stella, who I consider close friends, one of us is always trying to fill the silence with conversation. I think it takes a certain level of trust to sit next to someone and not feel the pressing urge to babble away.
My dad once told me that the way a person responds to silence reveals a lot about them. I always figured he was talking out of his ass, because Dad has a habit of coming up with insightful-sounding adages and insisting there’s wisdom in them, when half the time I know he’s bullshitting me.
But right now, I see the truth in his words. When I think of the silences I’ve shared with my other friends, I realize they really are incredibly telling.
Meg breaks a silence with jokes, doing her damndest to fill the lull with laughter. For as long as I’ve known her, she’s resorted to humor whenever shit gets too serious for her.
Stella fills the silence by barraging you with questions about your life. For as long as I’ve known her, she’s avoided discussing herself if she could help it. I guess that’s why it surprised me when she started dating Justin Kohl, the football player Hannah had a crush on before she fell for Garrett. Stella has openly admitted more than once that she’s afraid of intimacy.
The thought of Justin has me turning toward Hannah. “Hey, did Garrett ever own up to being wrong about Justin?”
She wrinkles her forehead. “Where did that come from?”
I grin. “Sorry. I was just thinking about Stella, and it reminded me of how Garrett was convinced that Justin had sinister motives. Didn’t he insist that Justin was a slimeball?”
“Yep.” She sits up with a laugh. “We actually talked about it a while back. I accused him of being subconsciously jealous of Justin.”
“Ha. I bet he loved that.”
“It’s the only thing that makes sense, though. Justin is one of the nicest guys I’ve ever met. But Garrett insists he just misread him.”
“Well, either way, I’m glad Justin turned out to be a good guy. Stella deserves to be happy.” I hear the wistful note in my voice and hope Hannah doesn’t pick up on it.
She does. “You deserve to be happy too. You know that, right?”
“I know.” I swallow the lump that rises in my throat.
Her green eyes take on a hesitant light. “Allie…do you regret breaking up with Sean?”
The lump gets bigger. It makes it hard to breathe, especially when I remember the agony in Sean’s voice when he’d asked me who I slept with.
“No,” I say finally. “I know it was the right decision. We wanted completely different things for our future, and it wasn’t something we could compromise on, not without one of us resenting the other.”
Hannah looks pensive. “Do you think you’re ready to start dating again?”
I shudder out a breath. “Nope, not even close.” But God, what I would like is a distraction. I’m tired of being sad. I’m tired of wondering how Sean is doing and fighting the urge to call him. I might not want to get back together, but I hate knowing that I hurt someone I care about. I have this terrible habit of wanting to make everyone happy, even if it means sacrificing my own happiness. My dad insists it’s an admirable quality, but sometimes I wish I were more selfish.
I guess I was selfish on Friday night, though. My rebound sex with Dean was all about satisfying my own base urges, and as guilty and embarrassed as I felt afterward, I can’t deny it was hella satisfying.
Shit. Maybe Dean’s right. Maybe we should hook up again.
“Maybe I need a fling,” I say aloud, just to test out the idea.
Hannah’s response is swift and scolding. “You tried that, remember? After you and Sean broke up the first couple times. You hated it.”
It’s true. I did hate it. “But I didn’t actually sleep with anyone,” I point out. “All I did was go on a bunch of crappy dates and make out with a few jerks. Maybe that was my mistake—actually dating those guys. Maybe this time I should pick a hot dude and bang his brains out for a few weeks. Just sex, no expectations.”
She snorts. “Good luck with that. We both know you can’t even make out with a guy without hearing relationship bells in your head.”
Also true.
And why am I even contemplating this? If this is how Hannah responds to me broaching the subject of a fling, I can just imagine what she’d say if I admitted I’m considering a fling with Dean. The guy is a player to the extreme. Not only is he not relationship material, but I doubt he could even commit to a fling. I can’t see him being exclusive to me, which is absolutely non-negotiable, because there’s no way I’m sleeping with someone who’s also sleeping with other people.
Yeah…I need to nip this Dean idea in the bud. I don’t know why he’s so eager to jump into bed with me again, but I’m confident he’ll get over it eventually. The guy has the attention span of a fruit fly, and the affection-giving habits of a puppy, offering his sexual devotion to whoever happens to be holding the treat. By which I mean the vagina.
As I return to my senses, I change the subject. “Hey, what are you doing for Thanksgiving?”
“Garrett and I are going to my aunt and uncle’s place in Philly. My parents are flying in and meeting us there.”
“Nice. Sounds like fun.”
“You’ll be in Brooklyn, right?”
I nod. I spend every holiday in Brooklyn with my dad. I always look forward to seeing him, but this year I’m a tad worried because the last time we spoke, he insisted on cooking Thanksgiving dinner himself.
Usually I’d be cheering over that announcement, because Dad happens to be the best cook on the planet. But since he was diagnosed with multiple sclerosis five years ago, I’ve been doing my best to make sure he doesn’t push himself. The only reason I turned down a free ride to UCLA’s drama program was so I could remain within driving distance of him. The man is so damn stubborn, insisting he doesn’t need help and that he can manage on his own, but I hadn’t felt comfortable moving to the opposite end of the country once his remission periods became few and far between.
Now I’m even more relieved I stayed on the east coast, because Dad’s condition has gotten progressively worse this past year.
Like most people who suffer from the disease, he was initially diagnosed with relapsing-remitting MS, but now it’s transitioned into the secondary-progressive type, which means his relapses are more frequent and more severe than they used to be. When I visited him over the summer, I was shocked by the change in him. Suddenly he was having trouble walking, when before it was the occasional loss of balance and mild numbness in his limbs. He had two attacks of vertigo when I was there, and when I pressed him, he admitted that the pain was getting worse and he was experiencing the occasional vision problems.
All this? Fucking terrifies me. I already lost my mom to cancer when I was thirteen. Dad is all I have left. I refuse to lose him too, even if it means chaining him to his recliner in our Brooklyn brownstone and forcing him to watch football while I cook dinner in his stead.
“Okay, break time is over.” Once again I need a distraction from my bleak thoughts. Groaning, I sit up and open the script to where we left off. “Caroline is about to yell at Jeannette again.”
Hannah tucks a strand of dark hair behind her ear. “For the record? If you ever lost your husband, I would never call you a c
rybaby and tell you to ‘get over it’.” Her expression grows serious. “In other words, you can keep moping about Sean for as long as you need to. I promise I won’t judge you for it.”
Emotion wells up in my throat, but I manage to squeeze out two words. “Thank you.”
7
Dean
For all his bullshit about the past staying in the past, it’s painfully evident that my former coach is pushing a Make Dean’s Life Miserable agenda. The first practice with our new defensive coordinator runs an hour late—but only for the defensemen. While everyone else heads to the locker room to shower, change and go home, O’Shea forces the D-men to stay behind for extra skating drills after announcing that we’re the sorriest excuse for hockey players he’s ever seen.
When he finally dismisses us, my teammates and I skate off the ice, cursing and grumbling the entire time. We’re all dripping with sweat, steam is rolling out of our helmets, and our mood is foul as we strip off our gear in the now-deserted locker room.
“Decent guy, huh?” Logan says sarcastically, echoing the description I’d offered yesterday.
“He was just showing us his dick is bigger than ours,” I mutter. “It’s probably his way of trying to earn our respect.”
No, it’s his way of punishing me for hurting his daughter, but I keep that delightful tidbit to myself. Not because O’Shea ordered me not to discuss it with my teammates, but because I’d rather not think about all the shit that happened with Miranda.
Ironically, my relationship with Miranda O’Shea didn’t just impact my high school life, but also my college one. Miranda is the reason I now spell out my intentions—or lack thereof—before every single hookup. Granted, I thought I’d spelled everything out back then too, but clearly I hadn’t articulated it as well as I should have. These days, I make sure women know exactly where we stand before their heads can fill up with fantasies about happily ever after.
“You doing anything for dinner?” Logan asks as we hit the showers. “Grace is grabbing Chinese food in town and meeting me at the house. I think she’s bringing enough grub for everyone.”