The Mistake

by Elle Kennedy

“Still not telling me what happened…”

  He keeps his eyes on the road. “It was winter, the weather was shit, and Mom slipped on a patch of ice while shoveling the driveway.” Bitterness lines his tone. “Dad was inside, not plastered, but he’d had a few. Couldn’t even be bothered to do the shoveling, or at least help her. Anyway, she fucked up her ankle real bad, pretty much shattered it, and he heard her yelling for help and ran outside. He didn’t want to move her because they weren’t sure how bad the damage was, but he did throw a blanket on her while they waited for the ambulance.”

  Logan’s shoulders are set in a tight line, as inflexible as his jaw. I’m not sure I want to hear the rest of the story.

  “So the ambulance showed up, but Dad didn’t ride with her. He told her he’d follow her in the car, that way he’d be able to pick me and Jeff up from school. And that was the last any of us saw of him for three days.”

  Logan angrily shakes his head. “He got in the car and took off. I have no idea where he went. All I know is that he didn’t go to the hospital, where his wife had to have two surgeries to fix her ankle. And he didn’t go to the school, because Jeff and I waited for hours and he didn’t show. One of the teachers finally noticed we were still there, made some calls, and took us to the hospital, and my aunt drove down from Boston and stayed with us while Mom was recovering, because Dad had gone AWOL.”

  I suck in a breath. “Why did he do it?”

  “Who fucking knows? I guess he realized he’d have to step up and take care of the kids and the house and her, and the pressure freaked him out. He went on a three-day bender and didn’t visit her at the hospital once.”

  Indignation on Logan’s behalf seizes my chest and makes my hands tremble. What the hell kind of husband does that? What the hell kind of father?

  Logan has read my thoughts, because he turns his head with a gentle look. “I know you’re hating on him right now, but you need to understand something. He’s not a bad man—he’s got a disease. And trust me, he hates himself for it. More than you or I could ever hate him.” His breath comes out wobbly. “When he was sober, he was actually a really good dad. He taught me how to skate, taught me everything he knows about cars. We fixed up this sweet GTO one summer. Spent hours together in the garage.”

  “So why did he start drinking again?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t think he even knows. It’s the kind of thing where…like if you were stressed out, you might have a glass of wine, right? Or a beer, a whiskey, something to calm you down. But he can’t have just one. He has two, or three, or ten, and he just can’t stop. It’s an addiction.”

  I bite my lip. “I know that. But how long does he get to keep using that addiction as an excuse for his actions? I think there comes a point where you have to stop enabling him.”

  “We’ve dragged him to rehab before, Grace. It doesn’t stick unless he chooses to do it himself.”

  “Then maybe you need to cut him off. Let him hit rock bottom so he’ll choose to get better.”

  “And, what, make him homeless?” Logan says softly. “Have bill collectors pounding on his door and repo men showing up at the house? Let his business crash and burn? I know you don’t understand it, but we can’t write him off. Maybe if he beat the shit out of us or treated us like pieces of garbage, then it might be easier to do that, but he’s not abusive, he’s self-destructive. We can encourage him to get sober, we can help him keep things afloat, but we won’t desert him.”

  “You’re right. I don’t understand,” I admit. “I don’t get where this unfailing loyalty is coming from. Especially when you consider the example he set for you—where’s his loyalty? Where’s his selflessness?”

  Logan flips his palm over and laces his fingers through mine. “That’s the other reason I’m doing this. Because of the example he set. If I abandon him, then I’m no better than he is. Then I’m selfish, and that’s something I never want to be. Sometimes I hate him so much I want to kick his teeth in, sometimes I even find myself wishing he’d die, but no matter how frustrating it gets, he’s still my father, and I love him.” His voice cracks. “I treat him the way I’d want to be treated if I was ever in his position. With patience and support, even when he doesn’t deserve it.”

  Logan falls silent, and my heart constricts, then swells, overflowing with emotion. This guy continues to surprise me. To awe me. He’s a better person than I am, better than he gives himself credit for, and if I wasn’t sure about it before, then I’m damn well sure of it now.

  I love him.

  31

  Logan

  “Beers at Malone’s?” Dean asks as we leave the arena after what might possibly be the worst game of my entire hockey career.

  I grit my teeth. “I have plans with Grace. And even if I didn’t, I wouldn’t be celebrating at the goddamn bar tonight, man.”

  He runs a hand through his shower-damp blond hair. “Yeah, it was rough out there. But it’s done. Game over. No point in dwelling on it.”

  Times like these, I wonder why he even plays hockey. For the pussy, maybe? Because from the day he joined the team, Dean has shown a lack of intensity about our sport, which is a damn shame because he happens to be an amazing player. But he has no interest in playing hockey after college, at least not professionally.

  “Seriously, dude, quit scowling,” Dean orders. “Come to the bar with us. I set the freshman up with a fake ID, so I’m showing him some moves tonight. I could use my wingman.”

  The “freshman”, of course, is Hunter, who Dean has taken under his wing and is well on his way to corrupting.

  “Naah, I’ll pass. Grace and I are having a movie night.”

  “Boring. Unless it’s naked movie night. Then I approve.”

  I’m kinda hoping it is naked movie night. I desperately need to release all the pent-up tension that’s been plaguing me since we lumbered into the locker room after that final buzzer, leaving the sour stench of a 0-5 score in our wake.

  Granted, it’s just a pre-season game, doesn’t count toward our standings, but if we’re to take anything from tonight’s loss, it’s this: we’re nowhere near ready—and our first game is next fucking week. Plus, we got shut out by St. Anthony’s, which only pisses me off more, because St. A’s team has a roster of dickheads and douchebags.

  I’m still stewing about the game when I walk through Grace’s door a short while later, and she clucks in sympathy when she sees my face.

  “Didn’t go well, huh?” She comes up and wraps her arms around me, her soft lips brushing a soothing kiss at the base of my throat.

  “The team’s still not gelling,” I answer, aggravated. “Coach keeps rearranging the lines, trying to find a good fit, but he might as well be jamming random puzzle pieces together.”

  It’s frustrating, especially since Dean and I are a well-oiled machine when we play on the same line. But we’re also the best D-men on the roster, so Coach split us up in the hopes that we’d help the other lines not suck so hard. I’m paired up with Brodowski now, who needs so much work I’m pretty much manning our defensive zone alone.

  “I’m sure it’ll get better,” she assures me. “And I promise, I’ll be cheering for you in the stands next week.”

  I grin. “Thanks. I know what a big sacrifice it is for you.”

  Grace sighs. “The biggest.” She swipes a T-shirt off the floor and tosses it in the laundry basket. “I just want to finish tidying up, and then we can put on the movie. Is that okay?”

  “Sure.”

  I kick off my shoes and unzip my jacket, watching as she wanders around plucking random items of clothing—all belonging to her roommate, I realize. God, Daisy must love her. Awesome roommate and OCD-ridden maid all rolled into one cute package.

  Grace bends over to grab a sock that’s wedged between Daisy’s desk and bed, and the sight of her round ass jutting out makes me groan.

  She glances over her shoulder. “You okay?”

  “Oh yeah. Stay in that position fo
r a minute. That exact position.”

  “Perv.”

  “You’re right. How dare I enjoy the sight of my girlfriend’s sexy ass sticking up in the air?” My throat runs dry. “I want to fuck you just like that tonight.”

  Her breath catches. “I can live with that.”

  I chuckle at the teasing response. “Then get on the bed. Naked. Now. Bonus orgasms for speed.”

  She gets rid of her top, leggings and panties in record time, and I snicker as I reach for my zipper. “Jeez, one would think I haven’t been meeting your needs.”

  Her gaze tracks the movement of my fingers as I drag my fly down. I love the way she looks at me. Hungry and appreciative, like she can’t get enough.

  A minute later, I’m naked and covered with a condom. No foreplay necessary for me tonight—I’m hard as a rock and raring to go—but that doesn’t stop me from playing with her for a bit.

  I crawl between her legs and kiss her inner thighs. Her skin is baby-smooth, silky beneath my tongue, and when I lick my way up to her clit, her fingers tangle in my hair to trap me there. Chuckling, I give her what she wants. Soft, slow licks and gentle kisses, until she’s squirming on the mattress. I don’t let her finish, though. Her first orgasm is always the most intense, and I want to feel her squeezing my dick and hear her moan my name when she comes.

  I plant one last kiss, then grip her hips and roll her over. “All fours, baby. Bring that sweet ass toward me.”

  Bring it she does. Her firm bottom bumps my groin as I rise on my knees behind her, and then she rubs it against my shaft, sending a bolt of heat up my spine. Two months together and she’s still driving me crazy. Melting my goddamn brain with the pleasure she brings me.

  I fist my erection and guide it to the crease of her ass, sliding lower until it nudges her opening. Anticipation heats the air. This is my favorite moment, the hint of suction around my tip, the knowledge that soon she’ll be clutching me tight, surrounding me with the warmth of her pussy.

  She’s so wet I slide right in with my first thrust, filling her to the hilt. I fuck her slowly at first, wanting to prolong it, but each deep stroke scrambles my brain more and more, and soon the slow pace turns into a fast, relentless rhythm that makes me groan with abandon. But for all my talk about screwing her from behind, this position feels too…impersonal. I yank her up so her back is flush against my chest, and I fill my palms with her tits, teasing her nipples as I give an upward thrust.

  Her head lolls to the side, and I take advantage of it, pressing my lips to her neck. I breathe her in, sucking on her smooth, fragrant flesh as I drive my cock inside her. Quick, shallow thrusts that make both of us gasp. I skim one hand down her body, grazing her tits, dancing over her belly, until I find her clit and rub it with my index finger, gentle circles that contrast the fast strokes of my cock.

  We’ve gotten good at timing our responses, synchronizing our bodies so that we shudder in release at the same time. We collapse in a sweaty tangle of limbs, breathing hard from the orgasms, kissing frantically even as we come down from the euphoric high.

  Afterward, she gets her laptop, and we cuddle under the blanket and start the movie. It’s her pick, so naturally we’re watching an old Jean-Claude Van Damme cheese fest that’s bound to put us in hysterics. We’re only five minutes in, however, when Grace’s cell phone rings.

  She drapes across my chest to check the display, but doesn’t answer the call. “It’s Ramona,” she says when I offer a quizzical look. “Not in the mood to talk to her right now. Let’s keep watching.”

  The phone rings again.

  Grace makes a frustrated noise and presses ignore.

  I’m not sure I blame her. Dean told me he ran into Ramona at the bar a few times, but I haven’t seen her since last semester. And I don’t particularly want to.

  “She probably just wants to hang out,” Grace says, then switches the phone to vibrate.

  She’s about to rest her head on my chest, but she barely makes contact before a loud buzz shakes the mattress. “O-kay then, guess I should’ve picked silent instead of vibrate.” She sits up again, snatches the cell, and freezes.

  “What’s wrong?” I try to peek at the phone.

  She flips it over so I can see the screen. SOS is all it says. Sent by—who else?—Ramona.

  Maybe I’m a cynical bastard, but this smacks of manipulation to me. Grace wasn’t answering, so Ramona decided to make her answer.

  “I have to call her back.”

  I smother a sigh. “Babe, she’s probably trying to scare you into calling—”

  “She’s not.” Grace’s expression is stricken. “We don’t abuse the SOS. Ever. In all the years we’ve been friends, we’ve only SOS’d each other twice. I did it when I thought I was being followed by some creep in Boston this one time, and she did it when she blacked out at a party senior year and woke up with no idea where she was. This is real, Logan.”

  Even if I’d wanted to argue, she’s already hopping off the bed and making the call.

  *

  Grace

  I’m actually frightened. Palms sweating, heart racing, lungs burning. But I guess that’s the appropriate response to finding out your friend is being held against her will by a bunch of thugs. When she had to sneak into the bathroom to call you because the thugs in question tried confiscating her phone after she announced she wanted to leave.

  In the passenger side of Logan’s truck, I drum my fingers against my thighs in an anxious rhythm. I want to beg him to drive faster, but he’s already speeding. And he won’t stop barking out questions at me, questions to which I have no fucking answers, because Ramona hung up on me five minutes ago and is no longer picking up her phone.

  “What hockey players?” Logan demands for the third time in ten minutes. “Briar guys?”

  “For the last time, I don’t know. I told you everything she told me, Logan, so please stop harassing me.”

  “Sorry,” he mutters.

  We’re both on edge. Neither of us knows what we’ll find when we reach the motel, and as we race toward Hastings, my conversation with Ramona buzzes through my mind like a swarm of bees.

  “I thought there would be other people here, but it’s just the players. And they won’t let me leave, Gracie! They promised to give me a ride home and now they’re saying I should crash in their room, and I don’t want to, and I don’t even have my purse with me! Just my phone! I don’t have money for a cab, and nobody will come get me…and…”

  At that point she’d started to cry, and fear had flooded my stomach. I’ve known Ramona a long time. I know the difference between her crocodile tears and her real ones. I know when she’s fake-panicking, or freaking the fuck out. I know what she sounds like when she’s calm, and what she sounds like when she’s terrified.

  And right now, she’s terrified.

  The ride into town is thick with tension. My muscles are coiled so tight, my body actually feels sore by the time we reach the motel. The L-shaped brick building is located on the outskirts of Hastings, and although it’s nowhere near as nice as the inn on Main Street, it’s not a fleabag shithole either.

  When Logan pulls into the parking lot, his blue eyes immediately darken. I follow his gaze and notice the shiny red bus parked on the pavement.

  “That’s the St. Anthony’s bus,” he says in a curt voice. “They’re playing Boston College tomorrow, so I guess it makes sense for them to crash here for the night.”

  “Wait, this is the team you played against tonight?”

  He nods. “They’re assholes, each and every one of them, coaching staff included.”

  My concern escalates. I’ve heard Logan trash-talk opponents before, but even when he does it, I can tell there’s a level of respect there. Like the rivalry with Harvard—Logan will bitch about it, but you’ll never catch him saying the Harvard players are hacks, or attacking their character the way he just did with these St. Anthony’s guys.

  “Are they really that bad?” I ask.<
br />
  He kills the engine and unbuckles his seatbelt. “Their old captain was suspended last season for breaking a Briar player’s arm. Our guy didn’t even have the puck when Braxton smashed into him. Their new captain is an entitled shithead from Connecticut who spit on the guys on our bench tonight every time he skated by them. Disrespectful POS.”

  We hop out of the pickup and march right up to Room 33, which was one of the few details I’d managed to pry out of Ramona while she’d been sobbing. Logan grasps my arm and moves me behind him in a protective gesture.

  “Let me handle this,” he orders.

  The deadly gleam in his eyes is too terrifying to argue with.

  He pounds his fist on the door, so hard he rattles the doorframe. Loud music blares inside the room, along with raucous male laughter that turns my veins to ice. It sounds like they’re having a raging party in there.

  A moment later, a tall guy with dark hair and a goatee appears in the threshold. He takes one look at Logan’s Briar jacket and curls his lips into a sneer. “What the fuck do you want?”

  “I’m here to pick up Ramona,” Logan snaps.

  Rap music blasts from the open door, the bass line vibrating beneath my sneakers. I peek from behind Logan’s broad shoulders, trying to see what’s happening inside the room. All I can make out is a wall of big, bulky bodies. Four, maybe five of them. Horror eddies in my belly. Oh God. Where’s Ramona? And why the hell did she think it was a good idea to party with these guys—alone?

  “Go home, asshole.” The St. Anthony’s player smirks. “She just got here. She doesn’t need a ride.”

  Logan’s jaw turns to stone. “Get out of my way, Keswick.”

  The music dies abruptly, replaced by a beat of silence, then the menacing thump of heavy footsteps as Keswick’s teammates come up behind him.

  A blond behemoth with ice-blue eyes gives Logan a mocking smile. “Awww, how sweet. You crashing our after-party, Logan? Yeah, I get it. You want a taste of what it’s like to be a champion, huh?”

  Logan’s answering laugh is humorless. “Yeah, I’m so fucking jealous of you for winning a pre-season game, Gordon. Now move aside so I can make sure Ramona is all right, or God help me, I’ll—”