So yes, it’s a daunting life. It’s long stints away from your loved ones. It’s sex on a platter. But I have faith in Hunter. And although he’s finally starting to have faith in himself, he still needs one last push.
I pull up Brenna’s number and gaze out the window as I wait for her to answer. The bus is about ten minutes from the station in Hastings.
“Hey,” Brenna greets me. “Are we still good for tonight?”
“Of course. I’m going to take an Uber to campus and stop off at home first to shower and change, though. But I just had a quick question for you.”
“What’s up?”
“Do you have any way of contacting Garrett Graham?”
A beat. “Um. Yeah, I should be able to do that. Why?”
“I’m planning a surprise thing for Hunter,” I answer vaguely. “I could use Garrett’s help.”
“Sure. I don’t know if I have his cell saved in my phone, but Fitzy would definitely have it, or Summer’s brother. I’ll ask them.”
“Thanks, chica. I’ll see you in a bit.”
The moment I get home, I strip off my clothes and take a hot shower, hoping to inject some warmth back into my bones. We’ve reached that hideous part of the winter where you can never, ever feel warm. February in New England is a glacial hellscape, the time of year when my mother and I are in whole-hearted agreement. She hates the winter from start to finish, I hate it in February. It’s like a Venn diagram and we’re finally in the same circle, clinging to each other for body heat.
I bundle up in my terrycloth robe and approach my closet, debating what to wear. I’d like to look cute for Hunter if we’re hanging out afterward, but the arena is so damn cold. Sure, there are heaters and enough bodies in the place to generate some heat, but it doesn’t completely eliminate the chill.
I finally settle on thick leggings, thick socks, and a thick red sweater. Key word: thick. I look like a marshmallow, but oh well. Warmth trumps cuteness.
I’m about to start doing my makeup when my phone lights up. I hope it’s not Hunter calling to ask how it went in Boston. He needs to focus on the game tonight, and hearing that my father and I aren’t speaking right now probably won’t pump him up for the playoffs. I’ll tell him later.
But it’s not Hunter; it’s TJ. “Hey,” I greet him. “Are you coming to the game? You never gave me an answer.”
“No. I’m not.”
“Ah. Okay. That sucks.” I open my makeup case. “It would have been nice to see you.”
“Really? Would it have?” His mocking voice ripples into my ear.
I furrow my brow. “Are you all right? You sound a bit drunk.”
He just laughs.
My frown deepens. “Okay, then. Well. I’m getting ready right now, so tell me what’s up, otherwise I’ll call you tomorrow.”
“Mmm-hmmm.” He’s still laughing, but it’s tinged with hysteria.
“TJ.” A queasy feeling tickles my stomach. “What the hell is going on?”
Silence. It lasts about three seconds, and just when I’m about to check if the call dropped, TJ starts babbling. He talks so fast I can barely keep up, and my constant interruptions—“wait, what?” “What are you saying?” “What does that mean?”—only agitate him further. By the time he winds down, I’m on the verge of throwing up.
I draw in a fearful breath. “Stay where you are. I’m on my way.”
38
Hunter
Excitement sizzles in the air as my teammates and I gear up. Whoever wins tonight will progress to the conference finals, so we’re all feeling the pressure. Last season we made it to those finals, and I suffered a broken wrist thanks to a scorned boyfriend. This season my wrist is perfectly fine and my dick hasn’t gotten me into an iota of trouble.
Beside me, Bucky is shoving his pants up to his hips, while babbling to Matt and Alec about some new radical therapies being used on athletes these days.
“Swear to God, this chamber looks like something they’d torture James Bond with. They blast you with liquid nitrogen to like minus-a-hundred-and-fifty degrees.”
“And then what?” Alec sounds fascinated.
“Well, in theory it stimulates healing. In reality I think it just gives you frostbite?”
I glance over in amusement. “What’s this you’re talking about?”
“Cryotherapy,” Bucky replies.
“Sounds intense,” remarks Conor, who’s sitting on the bench beside me. He lifts a hand and tucks his blond hair behind his ears.
“Dude,” I tell him. “Not sure if anyone’s told you this, but…you’re treading pretty damn close to mullet territory.”
From his locker, Matt hoots. “Bizness in front, party in the back, yo.”
Conor just gives that easygoing shrug of his. Even being informed he’s rocking a mullet doesn’t faze this guy. I wish I could bottle up his confidence and sell it to pimply-faced teenage boys. We’d make a killing.
“You should cut it,” Jesse advises. “It’s a lady-boner killer.”
Con rolls his eyes. “First off, there’s nothing I could ever do that would kill a lady’s boner.”
He’s probably right about that.
“And secondly, I can’t cut it. Otherwise we’ll lose the game.”
“Shit,” Jesse says, paling. “You’re right.”
Hockey players and their superstitions. Looks like Con ain’t getting a haircut till April.
“Jesus Christ, what is that stench?” Coach demands from the doorway. He strides into the locker room, his nose wrinkled in repulsion.
I exchange a look with the guys. I don’t smell anything, and everyone’s blank expressions say they’re equally stumped.
“It smells like a sulfur factory exploded,” Coach growls.
“Oh,” Bucky realizes. “Yeah, that’s Pablo.”
“The egg?”
I can’t help but snicker. “Yup yup—”
“Don’t fucking say yup yup, Davenport.”
I ignore him. “—because that’s what happens when you ask someone to take care of an egg for like five months. It goes rotten. We’re all used to the smell now.” I glance at Bucky, who’s pulling Pablo Eggscobar out of his locker. “I thought you were keeping him in that zippered pouch to try to contain the stink.”
At the current moment, Pablo is wrapped in numerous layers of cellophane, his pink drink-cozy stretched tightly around the plastic bundle. You can’t even see his little pig face anymore because the odor-suppressing plastic wrap is an inch thick.
“I took him out because I felt bad for the guy, always being locked up like that. He’s not a criminal.”
Snorts and chuckles ring out in the locker room. Coach, however, is not amused.
“Give it to me,” he orders, sticking out a meaty paw.
Bucky looks alarmed. He checks with me as if to ask, should I?
I shrug. “He’s the boss.”
The second Coach has our team mascot in hand, he marches over to the wastebasket by the door and unceremoniously dumps Pablo in the trash.
A strangled cry bursts out, courtesy of Bucky, followed by a widespread hush that lends a spooky air to the room.
I feel like the wind was just knocked out of me. Pablo’s been a part of us for so long that I don’t even know what to say. My teammates’ stunned faces confirm they feel the same way.
Coach Jensen crosses his arms. “Congratulations, you passed the absurd task I didn’t want to assign or think you’d remember to carry out. But—” His voice becomes gruff. “—you all showed some real teamwork and responsibility passing that egg around. And I’m a man of my word—I spoke to the dean and he said we might be able to make something happen with the pig.”
Bucky looks ecstatic. “Seriously? We get the pig? Guys, we did it.”
“Pablo the Pig,” Jesse says slowly. “Doesn’t have the same ring to it. We need a new name.”
“Pablo Pigscobar,” Conor and I blurt out in unison, then turn to each other, grinning.<
br />
“Oh Jesus,” Matt says with a wail of laughter. “That’s it, everybody stop talking. Nothing you say could ever top that.”
The rest of the team is cackling their asses off. Even Coach’s lips are twitching. But then he claps his hands to signal that Happy Time is over, and everyone resumes getting ready.
I’m about to slide my chest protector over my head when my phone buzzes. I peer into my locker to see an incoming call from Garrett.
“Hey Coach,” I call out. “Your favorite child Garrett Graham is on the line. Mind if I take this?”
He glances at the clock. We have thirty minutes before the puck drops. “Yes, but make it fast, Davenport. And tell him that was a brilliant play at the end of the third during yesterday’s game against Nashville.”
“Will do.” The locker room’s too damn loud, so I step out into the hallway, where I nod at the security guard standing there. Briar takes the protection of its athletes seriously.
“G,” I answer, raising the phone to my ear. “What’s up?”
“Hey, glad I caught you. I was worried you’d already shut your phone off.”
“Aw. Calling to wish me good luck?”
There’s a snort in my ear. “Nah, you don’t need it. BU doesn’t stand a chance.”
Damn right they don’t. They’ve been our toughest competitor this year, but I’m confident we can beat them. Granted, I would’ve preferred playing a softer opponent. Like Eastwood College, who, just as I suspected, couldn’t pull their shit together despite their amazing goalie. Kriska can stop a thousand goals, but it won’t help if his forwards aren’t scoring any on the other net.
“Anyway, I’m with Landon in his office right now. He’s headed for LA tonight and will be gone for two weeks, but he wanted to touch base with you before he leaves.”
“Landon?” I have no clue who G is talking about.
“Landon McEllis? My agent—but that word isn’t allowed to be spoken right now, so pretend I never said it. In fact, we’re not having this conversation at all, okay?”
“Okay? Why are you calling exactly?”
“Because I was just talking to Demi and she said you were hoping to sign with a franchise after graduation.”
I almost drop the phone. “What?” When the hell did he speak to Demi?
“Yeah, she and I spoke at length about it. She was wondering if you’d need an agent in order to do that, and I explained that technically you can’t have an agent while you’re in an NCAA program. But I was with Landon when she called, and he wanted to have a quick chat with you. Just remember—this conversation ain’t happening.”
I understand his need for secrecy. NCAA athletes aren’t allowed any contact with sports agents. Even guys who’ve already been drafted are required to officially end their player-agent relationship for the duration of their college careers.
That’s the official party line, anyway. In every sport, there’s a fair bit of shadiness behind the scenes. But it’s important to be careful.
“I’m putting you on speaker now,” Garrett says. “Cool?”
“Sure.” I’m still a tad dazed.
“Hunter, hey. This is Landon McEllis.”
“Hello, sir.”
“Can it with the sir stuff—call me Landon.” He chuckles. “Listen, when G mentioned you might be in the market for an agent next year, I just about jumped out of my chair and dove for the phone.”
Damned if that doesn’t puff up my chest a little.
“I wanted to introduce myself,” he goes on. “Unofficially, of course.”
I try not to laugh. “Of course.”
“And I won’t beat around the bush—you’re one of the top college players in the country. If you’re interested in going pro, I can put together a deal for you without even lifting a pinky.”
“Really?” I know it’s far easier for the eighteen- and nineteen-year-old guys to land somewhere big. But I’ll be twenty-two when I graduate. Yup, I’m getting up there in my years, an old man at the current age of twenty-one. But athletic careers have short life spans.
“Absolutely. And look, I can’t sign you right now, and we can’t speak again after tonight. But I just wanted to gauge your interest, find out which other agents you might be considering.”
“I’m not considering other agents,” I admit. Hell, I didn’t expect to hear from this agent. I don’t know whether to be pissed at Demi’s interference, or eternally grateful for it. I could get in trouble with the university if anyone found out Landon and I were even having this conversation.
“Then you’re interested,” he says.
“Definitely.” Even if I had a dozen agents knocking on my door, Landon McEllis would still be at the top of the list. His client roster is staggering, and Garrett’s said nothing but good things about him.
“Perfect, then we’re on the same page.” He chuckles again. “I’ll touch base with you next year.”
“Sounds great. Thank you, sir—Landon.”
“Kick ass tonight,” Garrett’s voice chirps in my ear. “I’ll talk to you later.”
“Later, G.” I hang up. Once again I feel winded, as I stand there staring at my phone. Fuckin’ Demi. That woman is literally the best thing that’s ever happened to me.
“Davenport,” booms a deep voice.
The universe has a real sense of humor, because the moment I think about Demi, her father appears like a scary apparition.
I stare in confusion, because either I’m hallucinating it, or that’s actually Marcus Davis at the other end of the hall.
A second security guard is preventing him from entering. The university started taking more precautions after one too many troublemakers snuck into the team locker rooms. It never happened in my day, but Dean said that when he was a freshman, a rival team smuggled in a duffel full of chocolate syrup containers and sprayed the brown sauce all over our locker room. When the Briar players showed up before the game, they thought there was actually diarrhea dripping down the walls.
“Hey, it’s okay,” I call to the guard. “I know him.”
The guard steps aside, and Dr. Davis comes stalking toward me in all his terrifying glory. Jeez, he is a big man. Ironically, he’s only two, maybe three inches taller than me, but he’s built like Dwayne the Rock Johnson, and looks twice my size. It boggles the mind that this enormous man spends his days performing delicate surgeries in an operating room. But never judge a book by its cover, right?
“Hello, sir.” I brace myself for his response—I suspect it won’t be pleasant. I haven’t seen him since our very short, very awkward brunch back in January, when he made his dislike for me crystal clear.
“It’s time we have a talk,” Dr. Davis retorts. “Man to man.”
I swallow a sigh. “I would love to do that, sir, but I’ve got a game starting in about twenty minutes. Maybe we could postpone this until tomorrow?”
“No. We can’t. I take matters regarding my daughter very seriously.”
“So do I,” I say simply. “She means a lot to me.”
“Does she? Is that why you’re encouraging her to throw her future away?” Ice hardens his tone, and his harsh features are even more forbidding when he’s pissed.
Evidently Demi’s trip to Boston didn’t go as well as she’d hoped.
“She’s not throwing her future away,” I reply in a careful tone. “She’s staying in the same field, just taking a different direction to get there.”
“Do you know how much a psychiatrist makes on average? Over two hundred K annually. Two seventy-five, on the top end. Want to compare that to a clinical psychologist? Or better yet, a run-of-the-mill therapist? There’s one of those on every street corner.”
“Demi doesn’t care about money. And she doesn’t want an MD. She wants to get a doctorate.”
“Look, son, where do you get off dictating my daughter’s life choices?”
“I’m not dictating her life choices. If anything, she’s the dictator in our relationship.” I
can’t help but snort. “Have you met your daughter? She’s the bossiest person on the planet.”
For one fleeting second a flicker of humor lights his eyes, and I think maybe, just maybe, he’s softening. But it’s gone in a flash, and his face turns to stone again.
“I don’t trust you,” he says tightly.
I let out a tired breath. “With all due respect, sir, you don’t even know me.”
“You and my daughter are too different. She’s—”
The door behind me flies open without warning. I expect Coach’s furious face to appear, so I’m already uttering, “I’m sorry, I—” when I realize I’m looking at Matt.
Matty is startled to find a beefy bald man looming over me, but then he shakes himself out of it. “Dude, you need to get in here right now.” He waves his phone under my nose. “It’s fucking chaos.”
I knit my brows. “What is?”
“Shit’s going down at Bristol House. There’s two people up on the roof, and it looks like they’re going to jump. Someone’s live-tweeting it, and a chick on the top floor of Hartford House managed to snap a picture.” Matt thrusts the phone in my hand. “One of them is your girl.”
39
Demi
None of the dormitories on campus offer roof access to their residents. In fact, it’s explicitly disallowed, which is understandable. The administration doesn’t want raucous parties up there. Drunken kids accidentally falling to their deaths.
Or, in rare cases, not accidentally.
Most schools have safeguards against this shit. Locks that only the maintenance staff has keys for. Some of the newer dorms require keycards to access the roofs. But Bristol House is known for its lax security. The door to the roof is old, and the lock is easy to pick. If you live in the dorms, as I did in freshman year, it’s common knowledge how easy it is to sneak up to Bristol’s roof. Most residents stay under the radar, usually going up there to smoke weed or have sex. It’s widely understood that if you use Bristol’s roof, you don’t make a big production out of it.
The Play: Briar U Page 33