by Elle Kennedy
“I’m not sure yet,” I admit. “Timing wise, I’m kinda screwed. We play Harvard two days after Thanksgiving.”
“So? Greenwich isn’t that far from here. Neither is Manhattan. You can hop a train or flight to either and still be back in time for the game.”
“My family won’t be in Greenwich or Manhattan. They’ll be at the house in St. Bart’s.”
Allie sits up again, her mouth agape. Then she starts to laugh. “Well lah-di-dah.” In the next breath, she affects a flawless British accent. “Why, yes, dear boy, my family does indeed own a home in St. Bart’s. Fahtha is an avid sailor, and Mutha simply adores sipping mimosas on our private beach.”
I poke her in the side. “You’re just jealous.”
“Of course I am. You have a house in St. Bart’s. That’s badass.” Her expression is thoughtful. “Your parents are lawyers, right?”
I nod.
“I didn’t realize lawyers made tropical-island-beach-house kind of money.”
“It depends on the lawyer. My dad is one of the top criminal defense attorneys in the country, so yeah, he’s doing all right,” I say wryly. “And Mom specializes in real estate law, which is also pretty lucrative. But they both came from money, too.”
“Let me guess. Grandpas Sebastian and Kendrick were oil barons?”
For some reason, I’m stupidly pleased that she remembered my middle names. “Nope, there’s no oil in our family. Grandpa Seb owned a shipping company. Well, he still owns it, but a board of directors runs it now. And Gramps Kendrick was a real estate developer.”
“Like Donald Trump?”
“Pretty much. Did you ever go into Manhattan when you lived in Brooklyn?” I frown as something occurs to me. “Hey, how come you don’t have the Brooklyn accent?”
“Neither of my parents was originally from New York, so maybe that’s why? Dad’s from Ohio. Mom grew up in California. I talk like them, I guess. Anyway, of course I’ve been to Manhattan—do you think I spent my days hiding under the Brooklyn Bridge like a troll?”
I snicker. “Ever spend any time on the Upper East Side?”
“Sure. I had a friend who lived—” Her eyes widen. “Holy shit. Heyward Plaza. I just put that together.”
The awe on her face makes me grin.
“You own the Heyward Plaza Hotel?” Allie exclaims.
“Me, personally? No. But I suppose I might inherit it one day. My mom’s side of the family, the Heywards, owns real estate all over the globe. Hotels mostly, but we’ve got this cool condominium in Abu Dhabi that’s basically made entirely of glass. It’s—”
“Okay, you need to stop talking now because you’re making me want to punch you. I honestly didn’t realize you were this rich. I’m not sure if it’s a turn-on or a ladyboner-killer.”
“Turn-on,” I say instantly. “Everything about me turns you on, remember?”
She snorts. “Uh-huh. If you say so.”
I flash a cocky grin and start pointing at various parts of my body. “My face? Turn-on. Chest? Turn-on. I’d roll over and show you my ass, but we both know the answer will be ‘turn-on’ so I’ll skip that one. Dick? Turn the fuck on. And then we get to the non-physical awesomeness that is Dean.”
“Speaking in the third person? Not a turn-on.”
I ignore the jab. “I’m adorable, first off. My sense of humor is stellar—obvs.”
“Obvs,” she echoes dryly.
“I’m extraordinarily skilled in the art of conversation.”
She nods. “When it’s about yourself, of course.”
“Of course.” I pretend to think it over some more. “Oh, and I’m a mind reader. No lie. I always know what the other person is thinking.”
“Yeah? What am I thinking right now?” Allie challenges.
“That you want me to shut up and fuck you again.”
She shakes her head in dismay. “Goddamn it. That’s actually what I was thinking.”
I smirk at her and tap my forehead. “Told ya. Mind reader.”
“Congratulations.” She sighs. “How many condoms did you bring?”
“One.”
“Underachiever. Stick your hand in that drawer. Should be a few in there.”
I open the nightstand drawer, which—well, lookee here—contains more than just rubbers. My hand emerges with a seven-inch silicone vibrator in a comical shade of pink.
“Aw, who’s this little fella?” I wave the dildo up and down, and it’s flexible enough that it flops around like a real dick.
Allie snatches it from my hand. “Little? You better take that back or else you’ll give Winston a complex.”
“Winston? Are you kidding me?”
“Oh come on, you’re telling me he doesn’t look like a Winston?”
I study the pink sex toy. For something that’s shaped like a cock, it’s actually ridiculously girly. And Winston is a girly name if I’ve ever heard one. “Huh. I guess he does.”
She nods earnestly. “I have a talent for picking suitable dick names.”
I promptly scowl at her. “Don’t get any ideas about naming mine, you hear me?”
“Why? Are you scared I’ll come up with something better than what you’ve already got?” Her tone is pure sweetness.
“Who says I named my dick?”
Allie slants her head in challenge. “Are you saying you didn’t?”
I shrug in response.
“Ha! I knew it! What’s his name?”
My scowl deepens.
“Come on, tell me,” she begs. “I promise I won’t make fun of you.”
After a five-second internal debate, I capitulate. “It’s Little Dean.”
That makes her howl in laughter. “Oh my God. Of course it is. You are such a dork.”
I pinch her thigh in retaliation, but she only laughs harder, so I shut her up by rolling her over and slamming my mouth down on hers. She immediately parts her lips to grant my tongue access, and soon we’re making out and rubbing up against each other like cats in heat.
I ease my mouth away and rasp, “Feel like tying me up again?”
“Nope. I’ve got something else in mind.”
“Damn, but I was really excited about it.”
“Stop complaining, sweetie. Trust me, you’re going to like this.”
It’s her turn to roll me over, and I groan as she starts kissing her way down my body. A moment later, her warm mouth engulfs my cock, and…yeah…Little Dean sure ain’t complaining.
15
Dean
Saturday night’s game against Yale starts off promising.
After Garrett scores an early goal, we successfully manage to keep Yale out of our zone for most of the first period. Well, except for when Brodowski foolishly gets out of position and hands Yale’s center and right wing a breakaway.
Thanks to that bonehead move, I’m faced with an odd man rush and it’s pure blind luck that Yale doesn’t get a goal out of it—the shot smacks off the pipe. I dive toward the puck and snap off a quick pass to Hunter. Our forwards blessedly fly past the center line into Yale territory, while I do my damnedest not to strangle Brodowski as we whiz toward the bench for a line change.
I squirt water through my face guard and spit it at my feet. Sweat pours down my face from the exertion it took to singlehandedly defend our zone.
Beside me, Brodowski is properly shamefaced. “I messed up the coverage,” he mutters to me.
I grit my teeth and say, “Happens to the best of us.” Because that’s what you’re supposed to say when you’re part of a team. We don’t play the blame game here at Briar.
But if anyone is to blame for that breakaway? It’s Brodowski, sure as shit.
“What happened to your lip?” he asks, studying the thin red cut splitting my bottom lip.
“Sex,” I grunt in response.
On my other side, Tucker snickers. He’d asked me the same thing this morning, and I’d given him the same non-answer.
On the other side of Tucker, on
e of our freshman wingers looks highly impressed. “You’re my idol, dude,” he calls out.
The first line’s shift lasts for the rest of the period, and we hit the locker room with a lead of 1-0. For the first time in weeks, morale is high.
The second period starts off exactly like the first. Another early goal, this time courtesy of Fitzy. We’re leading 2-0 now, and Yale is feeling the pressure. As a result, they come at us hard, playing aggressively and taking shot after shot at goal. Patrick Corsen, our goaltender, is nowhere near as talented as our old goalie Simms, who graduated last year. He also has a bad habit of skating too far from the crease, so when the opposing winger connects with a centering pass from his D-man, Corsen isn’t in position to stop the puck.
But it’s all right. We’re still in the lead. For…oh, about another thirty seconds. I’m hopping out for my shift when the same winger who’d just scored does an impressive wraparound and flicks another shot past Corsen. The fucker scores again. Two goals in less than a minute, and just like that, our lead becomes a tie.
The rest of the second is scoreless.
In the third, everything falls apart for us. I can’t even count all the things that go wrong—it’s one bullshit error after the other.
Logan takes a two-minute penalty for slashing. Yale scores on the power play.
2-3.
Wilkes lands in the sin bin for hooking. Yale scores on the power play.
2-4.
Corsen is faked out by a winger, who moves as if he’s shooting low, then snaps the puck high. It flies into the net, top left corner. Yale scores, and this time we weren’t even short-handed.
2-5.
Hunter slaps in a one-timer.
3-5.
I take a brainless tripping penalty. Yale scores on the power play.
3-6.
The final buzzer sounds, and we’ve lost our third game of the season. Fun times.
*
O’Shea pulls me aside before I can board the bus. He already yelled at me and Logan in the locker room for taking foolish penalties that resulted in two goals for the other team, and I sincerely hope he’s not gearing up to do it again. I’m in a foul mood and my brain-to-mouth filters aren’t working at full capacity right now. If O’Shea pushes my buttons, I don’t know that I can control my temper.
“What is it, Coach?” I ask as politely as possible.
His dark eyes flick over me, and then he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a BlackBerry. Which momentarily distracts me, because I can’t remember the last time I saw a BlackBerry. Doesn’t pretty much everyone have an iPhone these days?
“Anything you’d like to tell me?” O’Shea says coolly.
I am literally drawing a blank. “Um…about what?”
His jaw ticks. Without a word, he hands me the phone.
There’s a slight queasiness in my gut as I glance at the screen. It’s open to an Instagram account I don’t recognize, but the photo in question features a slew of familiar faces, including my own. I’m not sure who took it, but it was obviously some chick who was at Malone’s on Thursday night, because the hashtags below the image are #HockeyHotties and #SexyBriarBoys.
I’ll be honest—I’m not really seeing the problem here. The picture shows the guys and me clinking our shot glasses together in cheers. We’d ordered the round of shots before switching to pitchers of beer. And sure, we’re drinking, but none of us are minors, and it’s not like we’d gotten caught with our pants down, hanging brain. We’re just sitting in a booth, for chrissake.
“Still have nothing to say?”
I raise my gaze to O’Shea’s. “This was taken on Thursday night. We were celebrating Fitzy’s birthday.”
“I can see that. And exactly how much celebrating did you do?”
“If you’re asking if we got sloppy drunk, the answer is no.”
That doesn’t appease him. “Do you remember what I told you in Jensen’s office the other day? I said no boozing, no drugs, and no brawling.”
“We weren’t ‘boozing’, sir. We just had a few drinks.”
“Are you aware of Briar’s policy regarding drug and alcohol restrictions for student athletes? If not, I’d be happy to provide you with a copy of it.”
“Oh, come on, Coach, you can’t expect us not to drink. We’re in college, for fu—Pete’s sake. And we’re all over twenty-one.”
“Watch your tone, Di Laurentis,” he snaps. “And yes, the other coaches and I do expect that of you. As long as you play hockey for this school, you’re to follow the rules set out by your coaches and the NCAA, and conduct yourself accordingly.”
“Sir…” I take a calming breath. But I don’t feel calm. I’m pissed about tonight’s loss and not in the mood to get chewed out for having a couple goddamn drinks. “My teammates and I conducted ourselves superbly the night in question. So rest assured, you have nothing to worry about.”
“Don’t get smart with me, son. We have a serious problem here—”
“No, we don’t,” I cut in. “I think you’re overreacting. We went to a bar and had a few beers. It’s what we do, okay? But hey, if this is something you’re truly concerned about, maybe you should run it by Coach Jensen and see what he says.” My mouth twists in a sneer. “He’s the head coach of this team, right? Shouldn’t he be the one to handle this ‘serious problem’?”
I regret the words the moment they exit my mouth, but goddamn it, I’ve had it up to here with this man.
Predictably, O’Shea doesn’t take kindly to having his authority challenged. “Chad has given me free rein over the defensemen, and it would serve you well to remember that,” he spits out. “When it comes to the defense, I handle any issues that arise. And this, Mr. Di Laurentis, is an issue. You will not indulge in alcohol or drugs of any kind while you’re a member of this team, you hear me?”
For chrissake. I’m done with this shit.
“You got it, Coach. Can I get on the bus now?”
Anger reddens his face. “You want to join your teammates on the bus? Then you’d better take some fucking responsibility for your actions. Acknowledge that you did something wrong.”
I’m seconds away from losing it. My hands ball into fists, but by some miracle, I manage to stop myself from hitting him. “Out of curiosity, are you planning on delivering this same lecture to everyone else in that picture? Or am I just special?”
“I plan on talking to all of them, don’t you worry. I chose to speak to you first because I was already aware of your history with alcohol abuse.” He lifts one eyebrow, and holy fucking shit, I almost let my fist fly.
My history with alcohol abuse?
Fuck that. And fuck him.
He knows damn well I don’t have a problem with alcohol. He’s just being a spiteful ass and trying to find new ways to punish me for what happened with Miranda. But this? Referencing the one time I drank too much—when I was a goddamn teenager—and using it to imply I’m a drunk?
I’m. So. Done. With. This. Shit.
“Thank you for your concern,” I say pleasantly. “It’s much appreciated. Really.” Then I leave him standing on the pavement and stalk toward the bus.
Fortunately, he doesn’t stop me.
I’m still fighting to gather the scattered pieces of my composure as I slide into my usual seat next to Tucker, who shoots me a quizzical look. “What was that about?”
“Absolutely nothing.” I fish my earbuds out of my pocket and pop them in. If Tuck considers that rude, he doesn’t say anything—he just lowers his gaze to his phone, and a few minutes later, we’re on the road.
The rock track that comes up on my iPod shuffle only riles me up more, so I pull up the playlist Wellsy made for me this summer and try to calm down to the sounds of smooth jazz and easy crooning. Nope. Not working, either. I switch off the iPod and listen to the low chatter of my teammates instead.
Logan and Fitzy are babbling about a first-shooter video game that Fitzy is reviewing for the college blog. Hollis is try
ing to convince someone to meet him at his dorm—“I’ll make it worth your while, baby”—which means he’s either on the phone, or he and his seatmate just came out to the entire bus. Corsen and his seatmate are arguing about who the hottest actress on Game of Thrones is: the chick who plays Daenerys or the broad who plays Cersei.
“You’re both wrong,” Garrett calls out. “Melisandre is the hottest. Hands down.”
“The red witch? No way. She gave birth to a gross shadow creature. That pussy’s tainted, dude.”
“Spoiler alert!” Wilkes says irritably. “I was planning on starting season one this weekend!”
“Don’t bother,” Fitzy advises. “The show sucks. Read the books instead.”
“I swear to God, if you tell us to ‘read the books’ one more time, I’m going to strangle you,” Corsen announces. “I mean it. I’ll straight up strangle you, Colin.”
Our resident nerd shrugs. “Can’t help it if the books are better.”
I don’t join in, but secretly I agree with Fitz. The books are better. Though I doubt anyone will believe me if I said I read ’em. With the exception of my roommates, most of my teammates don’t take me seriously. I’m pretty sure they think I’m only attending Harvard Law because my rich parents bought my way in. Doesn’t bother me, if I’m being honest. I get a kick out of it when people underestimate my intelligence. Half the time I willingly play into the dumb blond stereotype, just for funsies.
As the chatter continues, I tune everyone out and reach for my phone. I don’t know what compels me to open the Facebook app and search her name. I’m on autopilot, barely aware of what I’m doing until the search results pop up.
There are dozens of Miranda O’Sheas on Facebook, but none of them are the one I’m looking for.
I do another search, this time with her name and the words “Duke University.” I have no idea if she even goes there, but it seems like a good place to start. When we were dating, all Miranda ever talked about was how much she wanted to get into Duke.
This time her profile appears on the screen.