“You’re all full-time college students with intensive athletic schedules—and don’t even get me started on your social lives—and you think you can take care of a living creature? I call bullshit.”
He’s done the exact wrong thing. A bunch of competitive hockey players being told they can’t do something? Suddenly even the guys that were indifferent to the pig are coming to their own defense.
“I could take care of a pet,” objects Joe Foster, a new addition to the forward roster.
“Me too.”
“Ditto.”
“Yeah, come on, bro, give us a shot.”
Coach’s jaw tightens and twitches as if he’s holding back a sea of expletives. “I’ll be right back,” he finally says, before stalking out of the room without explanation.
“Holy shit, you think he’s going to get a pig?”
I turn toward the moron who asked the question. “Of course not,” I sputter at Bucky. “Where the fuck would he find one? Hiding in the equipment closet?” I shake my head mutinously. “You just had to make me ask him, eh? Now he thinks we’re insane.”
“There’s nothing insane about wanting the love of a pig.”
Jesse hoots. “Guys, I know what to write on Bucky’s tombstone.”
“Fuck off, Wilkes.”
My teammates are still bickering amongst themselves when Coach returns. With purposeful strides, he goes to the center of the media room and holds up an egg, which I assume he grabbed from the team kitchen.
“What’s that?” Bucky asks in bewilderment.
Our fearless leader smirks. “This is your pig.”
“Coach, I think it’s an egg,” one of the freshmen says hesitantly
That earns him a look of disdain. “I know it’s an egg, Peters. I’m not a moron. However, until the end of the regular season, this egg is your pig. You want me to sign off on a team pet, which, by the way, involves a shit ton of red tape with the university? Then prove to me that you can keep something alive.” He waves the egg in the air. “It’s hard-boiled. If it cracks, you killed your precious porker. Bring it back to me in one piece and then we’ll talk pigs.”
Coach grabs a Sharpie from the desk and scribbles something on the egg.
“What are you doing?” Bucky asks curiously.
“Signing it. And trust me, I know when my signature has been forged. So if this breaks, don’t even think about trying to swap it out with another one. If this isn’t the egg that comes back to me, then no pig.” Coach plants the egg in Bucky’s hand. “Congratulations, you have a team mascot.”
Bucky catches my eye and gives me a triumphant thumbs-up.
If this is what being team captain is all about, I don’t know if I really want the job.
6
Hunter
We’re absolutely wiping the ice with Eastwood College on Friday night, and it has nothing to do with Kriska’s weak glove. We’re simply on fire and they are not. Kriska stops shot after shot, but five—count ’em, five—light up the lamp. I’d like to say I contributed more than one, but the hockey gods decided to spread the wealth. The first goal was mine, but the next four went to various teammates.
I don’t know what happened to Eastwood’s defense, but the D-men didn’t show up to play tonight. Kriska is all alone in the net batting off pucks like Neo dodging bullets in The Matrix. Any time a Briar player gets a breakaway, the goalie’s face turns snow white behind his mask, because he knows he’s in trouble. The Eastwood D-men are either scrambling to keep up with us, or tangled up in the corners providing endless rebound opportunities for Briar.
Our fans scream their approval. This is a home game, so our school colors, black and silver, make up a massive expanse of the stands. Damn, it feels good to be back, to be breathing the crisp air in the arena. The chill tickling the back of my neck only heightens the adrenaline coursing in my blood.
I’m on the bench. Two minutes left in the third period, but there’s no way Eastwood is scoring five goals in two minutes. I glance over. Con’s beside me. We’re on the same line this year, along with Matt, and the three of us are a forced to be reckoned with. This line is going to take us all the way to the finals.
“Je-sus, that was a crazy crosscheck,” I praise him.
We’re both out of breath. Our last shift was a penalty kill, during which Conor landed a bone-jarring hit on an Eastwood forward.
“Dude, my ears are still ringing from it.” His grin gives off a toothy, wolfish vibe thanks to the mouth guard half dangling from his mouth.
“We needed you last season,” I admit. “We didn’t have a lot of goons.” Meanwhile, our biggest rival Harvard had the goon of all goons, Brooks Weston.
But Conor only transferred this year from a college on the West Coast. He’s a California boy, with his surfer hair and laidback attitude. Yet there’s nothing laidback about him when he’s smashing other dudes into the boards.
Coach keeps us on the bench as the clock ticks down, letting our third and fourth lines enjoy the action. We’re in no danger of losing the game, and the extra ice time helps to develop them as players. The boys manage to hold Eastwood, and our first game ends in a shutout.
Everyone’s in a celebratory mood as we file into the locker room to shower and change. Arrangements are made to go to Malone’s, the bar in Hastings where the hockey crowd usually gathers.
“You in?” I ask Bucky.
“Yeah. Just gimme a couple minutes. Gotta make sure Pablo gets his dinner.”
I choke back laughter.
On the top shelf of Bucky’s locker, the team mascot is tucked away in its brand new coral-pink drink cozy. With the utmost care, Bucky reaches for Pablo Eggscobar.
Jesse, who’s wandering by in a towel, spots the egg in Bucky’s hand. “What the hell, man! Can’t you see Pablo’s hungry?”
“Feed me,” a singsong voice drifts from across the room, courtesy of Velky, our international student from Sweden.
In the day and a half since Pablo joined us, things have taken an evil turn. A few of the guys decided to be dicks about it and fuck with Bucky, texting him at random times throughout the day and night from the egg’s point of view. Usually in all caps. Messages along the lines of: FEED ME! PET ME! LET ME OUT TO TAKE A DUMP!
However, like my friend Mike Hollis, Bucky is rubber and we’re glue, and nothing anyone says or does ever bothers him. The fucker decided that sticking to a care schedule actually makes sense. Then he discussed it with Coach, and now we’re all sworn by the honor system to treat Pablo like a real pig. Reasoning being that if we don’t, then any time he’s in our custody we’d toss him in a drawer and forget about him.
Bucky’s the only one treating it seriously. The rest of us are just excited to mess with each other.
“Here, Pablo, eat your dinner,” Bucky tells the egg.
The egg says nothing because it’s a goddamn egg.
“I feel like I’ve traveled back in time to pre-school,” Matt remarks. He shakes his head. “I’m not pandering to an egg, dude.”
“Aw, well, that’s too bad,” Bucky answers smugly. “’Cause tonight’s your turn with him.”
“No, it’s not. It’s Conor’s,” Matty protests.
“Nope. Refer to the schedule.” Bucky did a random draw this morning to determine who has custody of the egg and when. My turn is next week.
“This is fucking balls.” Matt grabs the plush egg container from Bucky. “Swear to God, I’mma get wasted tonight and eat this motherfuckin’ thing.”
I’m chuckling as I leave the locker room, with Matt and Bucky in tow. Conor and the others are already gone. We meet up with them again at Malone’s, my favorite place in town. Mostly due to its roomy booths, cheap beer, and sports memorabilia all over the walls, which at the moment are shaking from the classic rock song blasting through the bar.
Matt says something, but the loud chatter and blaring music drowns him out. He switches to sign language, nodding toward the bar and making a drinking motion with his hand, signal
ing he’s going over there to order.
My gaze gives the main room a quick sweep, but doesn’t land on anyone familiar. I weave through the crowd toward the arched doorway to the adjoining room, which houses the pool tables and some more booths along the wall. I spot a blonde head and then a brunette one. The Betty and Veronica of Briar University.
“There’s Brenna and Summer in the middle booth.” I raise my voice so Bucky can hear me.
His brown eyes glaze over. “Fuuuuck. She’s so hot.”
“Who? Brenna? Or Summer?”
“Well, both. But I was talking about Summer. That top she’s wearing is…fuuuuck,” he says again.
Yeah, her skimpy yellow halter top is hot, I have to acknowledge as we near the booth. But I’m gratified that the sight of Summer Di Laurentis no longer elicits a sexual response from me. Even celibate, I don’t particularly want to sleep with her.
I had a thing for Summer when she first transferred to Briar, but unfortunately she had a thing for Fitz. And while I still believe my friend was shady in the way he handled the situation, I’m one hundred percent over Summer. She and Fitzy are happy together, and the more time I spend with her living in the same house, the more I realize she’s not my type.
Summer’s too easy, and I don’t mean slutty. She’s just not much of a challenge. She’s easy to please, easy to figure out. Her transparency was initially why I liked her, but I can’t deny it’s more fun when a woman poses a bit more of a mystery.
Not that I’m solving any female mysteries any time soon. No sex means limiting my exposure to women, because I know myself. The more time I spend with someone, the more I want to fuck them. My roommates are the exception. And as of Monday, so is Demi Davis. My new classmate is fun to talk to, but the best thing about her is her boyfriend.
Brenna bolts out of the booth when she spots me. “Hunter! Jesus, what a game!”
“I know, right?”
“You superstar, you.” She flings her arms around me, which is way more touchy-feely than Brenna usually is. But then I see the two shot glasses on the tabletop. Ah. She and Summer already started hitting the vodka.
“Seriously, I was on my feet the entire time cheering my lungs out,” Brenna raves, and I know it’s not just drunken praise. Brenna Jensen is probably the biggest hockey fan (and expert) in this entire bar. She’s definitely her father’s daughter, even landing an internship at ESPN. She works there on weekends, and afternoons when she doesn’t have class.
“That was the ass kicking of the century,” Summer agrees. “I wish Fitzy got to see it, but I was live-tweeting the entire time, so he can read the thread later.”
I sit next to Brenna. Bucky slides in next to Summer. A minute later Matt reappears with a pitcher and a stack of plastic cups. Malone’s has a new Friday night special—half-price pitchers, baby. I don’t plan on going overboard tonight, because we have another game tomorrow. But a few beers won’t hurt.
“Where’s the nutty one?” Matt asks the girls.
“Who? Rupi?” Brenna snickers. “She’s at home watching Glee reruns.”
“Why didn’t she come out?”
“She doesn’t have a fake ID,” I supply. “And she refuses to get one.”
Summer speaks up, mimicking Rupi’s high voice so flawlessly it’s almost like she’s in the booth with us. “I can’t break the law! I will wait until I am of age, thank you very much!”
Brenna lets out a rueful sigh. “I honestly don’t know how Hollis puts up with her. And vice versa.”
“For real,” Summer agrees. “All they do is scream at each other.”
“Or make out,” I counter.
“True. They scream or they make out.” Summer shakes her head. “There’s no in between.”
“Is he still coming back on the weekends?” Matt asks, raising his beer to his lips. He takes a sip. “I haven’t seen him in ages.”
“He’s home every weekend,” I confirm. “But he spends most of his time with Rupi. Hollis in love is a scary thing to witness, bro. You need to come over this weekend and see it for yourself.”
Bucky sets Pablo on the table so he can pour himself a beer. When Summer reaches for the egg, he swiftly smacks her hand away. “Pablo isn’t a toy,” he scolds.
“It’s just an egg.”
“Just an egg?” Conor drawls, approaching the booth to catch the end of Summer’s amused response. “That’s our fucking mascot, Di Laurentis. Show some respect.”
“Oh, I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to insult your egg.”
He grins, and even Summer can’t deny him a response. Her cheeks pinken, and Con’s grin widens. Dude’s well aware of what his smile does to women. He’s probably been harnessing that power since grade school, like one of the X-Men.
But although Summer isn’t entirely unaffected, she’s still very much unavailable. “Stop smiling at me like that or I’ll tell Fitz.” She sticks out her tongue. “Then he’ll show up at practice and kick your ass.”
“I’m not allowed to smile at you? All right, then. How ’bout dancing? Can we dance?”
Summer ponders that. “Sure, that’s allowed. But only because I like this song.” It’s some Taylor Swift track I don’t know too well.
She hops up and drags Conor toward the cluster of people gathered near the small stage that’s hardly ever used. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a live band grace the stage at Malone’s, but the tiny space in front of it is the closest to a dance floor that the bar has.
Brenna’s eyes track Conor’s easy gait. And his ass. “Geez, that boy is attractive.”
“Don’t you have a boyfriend?” Matt reminds her.
“So? I’m not allowed to acknowledge someone else is attractive? Come on. Look at him.”
Matt, Bucky and I turn to scrutinize our teammate. He’s got one hand on Summer’s slim waist, the other holding his beer as they dance. When he leans in to whisper something in her ear, his gray eyes twinkle devilishly.
I mean, I’m not going to lie. Edwards is hot. We all know it.
“Ugh. Now I feel left out,” Brenna whines, and the next thing I know she’s shoving me out of the booth and tugging me to my feet. “Come on, hot stuff, dance with me.”
Before I can blink, we’re across the room and Brenna is squished up against me. And her body is so fire that I forget how to breathe. Skintight jeans are plastered to her long, shapely legs, her dark hair is thick and glossy, and her top is even more indecent than Summer’s. So tight it looks like her full tits are trying to escape.
I don’t want to touch her. I’m scared that if I do, that if my hands connect with a hint of bare skin or the slightest female curve, I might embarrass myself.
“What’s the matter?” Brenna says. “You forget how to move?”
I offer a self-deprecating smile. “Trust me, you don’t want me to move.”
“Why’s that…?” Understanding suddenly dawns. “Ohhh. Because you’re out of commission.” She purses her lips. “Are you scared that if our bodies touch, you’ll get aroused?”
“I already am aroused,” I grumble. “Everything gets me aroused, Bee. The feel of the wind on my face gets me aroused. Bumping into a table gets me aroused.”
She throws her head back and laughs. “Oh, you really are in a state, aren’t you?”
I groan. “The worst kind.”
“You poor thing.” She grabs my hands and plants them on her hips, then loops her arms around my neck.
And yup, my dick cannot distinguish between a girl with a boyfriend and one without. It promptly thickens behind my zipper.
“Fucking hell, Jensen, let’s not do this. Please.”
“Aw, come on. What’s a boner between friends?” She starts moving to the upbeat T-Swift song, except three seconds later it ends and is replaced with that old T.I. track—“Whatever You Like.” The one that’s all about fucking, with a sultry beat that is way too dangerous for my aching nether regions.
“My boner doesn’t understand that you�
�re off-limits,” I mutter.
“Can I tell you a secret?” Brenna says, and I almost pass out when she brings her red lips to my ear and seductively whispers in it. “Jake and I have an open relationship.”
Immediately, my throat goes dry. “W-what?” I stammer hoarsely.
“I’m just saying…” Her hips sway. “If you ever want to break your vow…”
A bolt of heat shoots up my spine. “What the hell are you saying?”
“You know exactly what I’m saying.”
She draws tiny circles on my nape with her fingernails. Meanwhile, T.I. is singing about things being wet and hot and tight and I’m in big trouble.
“Why don’t we go home?” she suggests, wrapping her arms tighter around my neck. Our bodies are almost flush now. Her sexy voice is still tickling my ear. “We’ll be really, really quiet. Rupi won’t hear a thing.”
My mouth is sawdust. From the corner of my eye, I catch Summer giving us an odd look. I’ve given up on dancing because my dick is way too hard. “Are you serious right now?” I demand. Because I don’t buy it.
And I’m right not to.
“Oh my God, Hunter. Of course I’m not serious.” Mischief gleams in her expression.
“So you and Connelly don’t have an open relationship?”
“No!”
I stare at her. “What if I’d said yes? What if I’d kissed you?”
“Then Jake would catch the next redeye from Edmonton and your body would probably never be found.”
“You’re such a bitch,” I sigh.
“Sorry.” She’s still laughing, but she has the decency to sound somewhat repentant. “I couldn’t help myself. This celibacy thing of yours is fascinating. But…dude, if you’re so hard up that you were actually considering hooking up with me? Then I don’t know how you’re ever gonna survive this.”
Me neither.
“Whatever, c’mere,” I grumble, tugging her against me. “Let’s just dance.”
“You sure?”
I nod miserably. “Yeah, why not. What’s a boner between friends, right?”
7
The Play: Briar U Page 5