“You’re banging your teacher? Isn’t that some kind of fantasy every guy has?”
“What? What the fuck are you talking about? No. Just—what? No. I can’t believe you even said that. Christ.”
“What? It’s the truth, isn’t it? You going to tell me you didn’t fantasize about that one hot teacher in school?”
“No. Well, not really. Okay, maybe. But no.” Dillon shook his head, trying to bring the conversation back out of the realm of absurdity. “Maggie’s not my teacher. She’s my tutor.”
“There’s a difference?”
“Of course there’s a difference.” Dillon turned onto a side street, his eyes scanning the road for a place to park. This must be the right place, because cars lined both sides of the street. There were even some haphazardly parked on the grassy areas.
Ethan leaned forward then pointed. “There’s a spot up there. Maybe.” He settled back in the seat then looked at Dillon. “So what’s the difference?”
“What?”
“What’s the difference between a teacher and a tutor? You said there was a difference. What is it?”
Dillon eased the car into an opening that barely passed for a parking spot. He cut the engine and pocketed his keys. “A teacher is someone who teaches an entire class. You know, like in school. A tutor is just someone who helps people who need help in a specific subject.”
“Sounds like a teacher to me.”
“It’s not.”
“I think you’re splitting hairs.”
“No, I’m not. It’s totally different.”
Ethan laughed and held his hands up in surrender. “Okay, fine, it’s different. It’s still kind of hot, though.”
Dillon opened the door then hesitated, shooting Ethan a warning glare. “Do me a favor, and don’t say that to Maggie. Okay? If you do, I swear I’ll—”
“Fine. I won’t say a word. Honest.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Dillon hoped Ethan wouldn’t let anything slip, because he was pretty sure Maggie wouldn’t see the humor in it. Although okay, now that he thought about it, it was kind of a hot fantasy. But no, Maggie still didn’t need to hear it, not with her hang-up about jocks. At least she had gotten over that.
He and Ethan moved up the sidewalk, following the loud music and handful of people heading in the same direction. Strings of lights were wrapped around the large porch of the nearest building, trailing across the lawn and over to several large oaks on the side. Whoever strung the lights had probably been going for a festive look. Instead, it looked like the decorating fairy had been partying too much and just hurled lights all over the place.
And the place already looked like it was filled to capacity. People were crammed on the upstairs balcony and the downstairs porch. Even more were milling around outside. Dillon figured the place must be packed inside if the party had already spilled onto the lawn.
“Nice crowd. How are we going to find your girlfriend?”
Good question. Maggie hadn’t given him any specifics on where to meet, just gave him the address of the party. Had she known it was going to be this crowded? Probably not. She wasn’t really the type to hang out with such large and rowdy crowds. At least, he didn’t think she was.
No, she wasn’t. But she had been tense and uptight lately, too, so maybe she was just trying to unwind. And if she wasn’t—well, there was nothing saying they couldn’t cut out early. In fact, he was hoping she’d want to do just that.
“I guess we’re going to have to go look for her. It shouldn’t be too hard, right?”
No, it shouldn’t. But fifteen minutes later, Dillon still hadn’t seen her. Of course, they’d barely made it inside. Not just because the place was so crowded, but because they kept getting stopped—by guys and gals alike. The guys were mostly jocks or fans who wanted to talk or pose for selfies. The girls, on the other hand, wanted more than just a selfie pose—after they found out who they were.
Dillon shot a look at Ethan and figured his teammate was getting nearly as frustrated as he was. Frustrated, impatient, and ready to call it quits. Dillon kept pushing through the crowd, figuring he’d give it five more minutes then head back outside and call Maggie instead. That might be the only way to find her.
And it’s what he should have done in the first place, as soon as he saw how crowded it was.
Dillon pushed through a throng of people, every single one of them with a drink in their hand. How long had this party been going on? Long enough that a majority of the students were feeling no pain. Dillon shook his head at the absurdity of it. Yeah, he understood the need to blow off steam, but to this extreme? Damn if he remembered ever going quite that far when he had been in school. The thought made him feel older than everyone around him. A lot older.
Someone pushed him from behind and he turned around, expecting to see Ethan. But Ethan was beside him, not behind him. The guy behind him was stumbling and weaving, liquid sloshing over the top of the large mason jar he was carrying. He mumbled something then lurched sideways, crashing into more people.
Dillon rolled his eyes and entered the next room, his gaze scanning the crowd. Was that Maggie, over by the far wall? Yeah, he thought so. She was turned to the side, facing away from him, but he was pretty sure it was her.
And two jerks were surrounding her, leaning in way too close. Dillon’s hands curled into fists and he moved forward, only to have Ethan grab his arm.
“What is it?”
“It looks like some assholes are bugging Maggie.”
“Looks like? Are you sure?”
“Pretty sure.”
“Okay, I’m right behind you. But don’t do anything stupid until you know for sure.”
That’s what Dillon liked about Ethan: he had everyone’s back, no questions asked.
Dillon pushed ahead, his gaze never leaving Maggie. Yeah, the guys were definitely messing with her. Not touching her or anything like that—hell no, he’d already be all over them if that had been the case. But they were leaning too close, crowding her, phony smiles on their faces. Maggie was standing too straight, her back stiff and her shoulders tense. Now that he was closer, he could Cindy standing next to her, her body language almost identical to Maggie’s.
No, whoever the guys were, they weren’t just having a casual conversation.
Dillon shoved a few more people out of the way, ignoring their grunts of complaint or exclamations of recognition. He stopped beside Maggie and draped his arm around her waist, feeling her stiffen at his touch. She turned her head, relief flashing in her eyes as her body relaxed. He leaned down and pressed a kiss against her mouth, too quick but still possessive.
“Sorry we’re late. Took us longer to get here than I thought.” Dillon narrowed his eyes at the two guys in front of him then nodded at Ethan. “Maggie. Cindy. This is Ethan. My teammate.”
Ethan nodded and moved to Cindy’s side, his hand gently resting on her arm. Casual, easy. He exchanged a glance with Dillon then both of them turned to the two guys still standing there.
Dillon wanted to roll his eyes. What the fuck? It was assholes like these two that gave people preconceived notions about jocks. Hair slicked back, chins jutted at a cocky angle, more brawn than brain. Too much brawn. Football players? Wrestlers? Maybe. Juicers? Dillon wouldn’t be surprised.
“Everything okay?” He directed the question to Maggie but didn’t look away from the guys. Were they so thick-skulled they couldn’t pick up on the message that they weren’t wanted? Or maybe they were just too drunk. Or both.
Maggie sidled closer, her hand wrapping around his waist. “Yeah. Now, anyway.”
Something in her voice caught his attention, even through all the noise surrounding them. He turned his head, watching her, looking for something off. But he didn’t see anything and she didn’t offer him any clues. Had he imagined it? He wasn’t sure but he didn’t think so.
“Wait. No way. No. Fucking. Way. I know who you are.” The first guy leaned closer, waving his plastic cup. B
eer sloshed across the back of his hand but he didn’t seem to notice. “You play for the Banners. Both of you do.”
The second guy blinked, the excessively slow blink of someone who’s had too much to drink, and leaned forward. He squinted then straightened, turning to look at his friend. “Who?”
“The Banners. Ice hockey. You dumb ass.”
“Oh. Oh, yeah. Yeah, you’re right. Cool.”
The first guy stepped closer, like he was suddenly Dillon’s best friend. He took a long swallow of the beer, belched, then gave Dillon a wink. “So how do you know our little Mags?”
Maggie stiffened. “I told you, it’s—”
“Her name is Maggie. Not Mags.” Dillon’s voice was cold and flat, and a lot more threatening than Maggie’s. The guys didn’t seem to pick up on it.
“Nah. I like calling her Mags. So how do you know her? You guys friends or something?”
“She’s my girlfriend.”
The guy choked on his swallow of beer, sending it shooting all down the front of his shirt. He brushed it away, his eyes wide in disbelief. “Girlfriend? Get the fuck out. No fucking way.”
“Yeah, okay, we’re done here.” Dillon grabbed Maggie’s hand, intending to turn around and lead her back through the crowd, outside and away from this place. But the guy dropped his hand on Maggie’s shoulder and she froze, her body stiffening more than before.
“Mags! What the fuck?” The guy laughed, the sound loud and obnoxious. “If I had known for sure you put out, I would have just carried you upstairs and done the deed.”
Dillon dropped Maggie’s hand and turned in one fluid move. He didn’t think, didn’t stop, just kept moving. Someone called his name. He heard a sharp cry, heard someone else say no. He didn’t care, just moved from instinct, his fist connecting with a jaw.
A jaw made from concrete and steel.
Dillon didn’t stop, just swung again until the guy staggered back. One more swing and he finally fell, his beer spilling all over him. His buddy just stood there, his mouth hanging open in bewilderment.
“Oh wow. Holy cripes. Ohmygod. I can’t—” The words fell from Maggie in a whispered squeal, stopping when she her mouth snapped shut. She turned, her eyes wide, and stared at Dillon. “Holy cripes, you just—”
“Yeah. We can talk about that later. Come on, let’s go.”
“But—”
“No buts. Let’s go.” He grabbed her hand and pulled her through the crowd closing in on them. The noise was growing, shouts uttered here and there. Nobody else had realized what had happened, not yet. But they would, and he didn’t want to be there when they did.
He glanced behind him. Good, Ethan was on his heels, a firm grip on Cindy’s hand. Their eyes locked and Ethan grinned, his blue eyes sparkling with mischief.
“I had no idea what I was missing out on by not going to college.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
“I still can’t believe you did that!” Maggie stepped away from the counter, a cup of tea in one hand and a bag of ice in the other. Dillon shifted, ignoring the stinging along the back of his knuckles, and frowned at the ice.
“I can. What else was I supposed to do? And what is that for?”
“For your hand.” Maggie placed the cup on the small tray table she set-up next to the sac chair then sat down next to him. She curled her legs under her and reached for his hand, trying to put the bag of ice on it. He pulled his hand back and shook his head.
“I’m fine. I don’t need ice.”
“I saw your knuckles. Yes, you do.”
“No, I don’t. Trust me, I’ve been hurt a lot worse on the ice.”
She drew back, a frown on her face. “Really? And they don’t do anything for that? They don’t do anything if you guys get hurt?”
“Of course they do. I’ve been stitched up between plays, had ice baths, even had to wrap a broken finger after one of my shifts.”
“This isn’t any different.”
“The hell it isn’t.”
“Really? How?”
Dillon looked away, his mind searching for reasons. Not a single one appeared. But it was different—he just wasn’t sure how yet. He turned back to her and went for a charming grin. “It is different. This is minor. Like, it doesn’t even rate on the boo-boo scale.”
“A boo-boo scale? That is so lame.”
“No it’s not.”
“There’s no such thing as a boo-boo scale.”
“Sure there is. Like, if you miss a shift, that rates low. Maybe a one. If you miss a period, that’s maybe a little higher. Like a two. And if you have to go to the quiet room—”
“What’s the quiet room?”
“That’s where they send you if they think you might have a concussion. That sucks. But if you go to the quiet room, then that might be a three or a four. Maybe even a five.”
“On the boo-boo scale?”
“Yeah, absolutely.” He snuck a glance at her, wondering if she was buying any of this. No, it didn’t look like it. But that didn’t stop him from making things up as he went.
“And if you miss a game?”
“Well, that would depend on how many games and what the injury is and why you’re missing it. Just one game, and that could rate a four or five.”
“I thought you said the quiet room was a four or five.”
He waved her correction away. “Same thing. If it’s, like, a broken bone—a real broken bone, like your leg or your arm, not a finger or nose or anything small like that because they don’t count—then you could miss more games so that would be higher.”
“You are so totally making this up.”
“And if you’re going to be out an extended time, then you’re looking at something like a seven. Maybe. Like our goalie, Alec. He had knee surgery and he’s not coming back this season, so he scored an eight. Although, from what everyone’s saying, he might not come back at all.”
“So that would be a ten?”
“No, that might be a nine.”
“Then what rates a ten?”
“That’s when you get your throat sliced open or even die during game.”
“What? Ohmygod, that’s not even funny!”
“Hey, it’s happened. At least two guys have had their carotids sliced open by skates and damn near bled out on the ice. Both of them came back to play. And one guy actually had a heart attack on the bench during a game. He woke up in the hospital and asked to be put back in.”
“How gullible do you think I am? I know you’re making that up.”
“No, actually, I’m not. Look it up if you don’t believe me.”
Maggie sat there, not moving for a long minute as she watched him. Trying to judge if he was making everything up? Probably. And he knew the exact second she realized he was telling her the truth. Not about the boo-boo scale, but about everything else. Her eyes widened behind her glasses and a gasp escaped her parted lips.
“That is barbaric! Absolutely, horrifically, barbaric.”
“No it’s not. It’s hockey.” He leaned forward and dropped a kiss on her forehead. “And that’s why I don’t need ice for my knuckles. Trust me, I’ll survive.”
“You’re an idiot.” She tossed the ice bag onto his hand and tried to push away. The sac shifted beneath her and instead of getting to her feet, she fell forward so she was sprawled across him. Dillon didn’t waste any time taking advantage, just wrapped his arm around her and held her close. She struggled against him, but only for a second, and only half-heartedly. She shifted again, turning so she was mostly sitting on his lap, and rested her head against his chest.
“Thank you, by the way.”
“For what?”
“You know. Defending me. I’ve never had anyone do that before.”
He tightened his arms around her and pressed his lips against her temple. “I’m really hoping that’s because you haven’t needed anyone to do that before.”
She didn’t say anything, just made a little humming noise. Dillon cl
enched his jaw and wished he could go back in time and flatten every asshole that had ever even thought of giving her a hard time.
“Well, at least I understand now why you don’t like jocks.”
She turned toward him and wrapped her arms around his neck, a smile teasing her mouth. “Not all jocks.”
“No? So you mean there’s some you might actually like?”
“Maybe one or two.”
“Yeah? Anyone I know?”
She pressed her lips against the corner of his mouth, the kiss soft and teasing. “Maybe.”
“Hm. Should I be jealous?”
She kissed him again, this one a little longer—but still just a teasing touch against his lips. Dillon tightened his arms around her and tried to swallow his groan when she pulled away.
“Maybe.” Her voice was soft, a little raspy. It took him a second to figure out what she was talking about. Oh yeah, if he should be jealous or not.
He ran one hand along her cheek and around to the back of her head, tugging on the fabric-covered elastic band holding her hair in place. “Tell me who it is and I’ll go beat them up.”
“I can think of something better for you to do.”
“Yeah?”
“Definitely.”
Dillon smiled then captured her mouth in a long, slow kiss. Her lips parted on a sigh, opening in invitation—an invitation he wasted no time accepting. Sweet, hot, maddening. He tilted his head, deepening the kiss, his hands running along her sides. She sighed again and pressed herself closer, her delicious ass wiggling against the hard length of his cock.
This time it was his turn to groan. He tightened his hands on her waist and partially lifted her, resettling her legs so she was straddling him. He cupped his hands around her ass, squeezing as he rolled his hips, pressing his cock against her.
She moaned, a soft throaty sound that sent his blood roaring through his veins. But then she ended the kiss and pulled away, her hands flat against his chest. “We shouldn’t.”
He shook his head and leaned forward, dragging his mouth along the delicate skin of her throat. “Shouldn’t what?”
“You know. This.”
One-Timer (The Baltimore Banners Book 9) Page 15