The Score

by Elle Kennedy

His voice startles a squeak out of me. My head swivels toward the bed, where Dean is sliding up into a sitting position, running one hand through his sleep-messy hair. He doesn’t look or sound groggy at all. His green eyes are alert, and his naked body is…transforming.

  I feel myself blushing at the sight of his quickly hardening dick, so I drop my gaze to my bare feet. “Would you please cover yourself up?”

  “That’s not what you said last night…”

  His mocking tone grates. “We are not discussing last night. Ever.”

  He looks even more amused. “Oh, relax. It was just sex.” He makes no move to pull the sheet over his lower body. Instead, he stretches both arms high over his head, drawing my attention to his flexing muscles. And his wrists. He has red marks around his wrists…

  Because I tied him to the bed last night.

  Sweet mother of Moses.

  When he catches where my gaze has gone, the corners of his mouth quirk up. “Granted, it was a lot kinkier than I thought it would be,” he continues with a wink. “But I ain’t complaining.”

  Kill me. Just kill me.

  As another rush of humiliation crashes over me, I grab the nearest item of clothing I can find—a black V-neck T-shirt—and throw it over my head. A familiar smell clouds my senses. Something spicy and masculine. It’s the same scent I breathed in last night when my lips were traveling over Dean’s bare chest. When my face was buried in his neck as I sucked on his skin like it was candy. And yep, there’s another hickey on his throat. I really went to town on this guy.

  “We are not talking about it,” I say through clenched teeth. “It happened, it was fine, and it will never be mentioned again.”

  “It was fine?” Smirking, Dean drags a hand down his chest, his long fingers resting right above the head of his thick erection. “It was more than fine and you know it.”

  “Would you please, please get dressed?” I beg.

  “Can’t. You’re wearing my shirt.” He arches a brow. “Why don’t you take it off and toss it this way?”

  Fat chance. This guy is never laying eyes on my naked body again.

  Since I refuse to give up the shirt, I do the next best thing and turn my back to him to go through my phone. I ignore Sean’s texts and skip to the ones from my friends. One from Hannah checking how my night was, and one from Megan asking me to brunch.

  I quickly text Meg back with a resounding YES and ask her to pick me up from Garrett’s. Just as the gray bubble that indicates she’s typing a response appears, the phone is snatched from my hand.

  “Hey!” I’m startled to find Dean behind me. Jeez. The guy moves like a ninja.

  “I’m in charge of this, remember?” He’s mocking me again, keeping the phone out of my reach. “As your sponsor, I must advise you to ignore—” he glances at the screen “these nine text messages from your ex. No good will come out of reading them.”

  He’s right about that. But after what happened between us last night, there’s no way Dean is going to be my relationship sponsor.

  “It’s fine,” I mumble. “I don’t need your help.”

  He echoes his earlier taunt. “Not what you said last night. Your phone stays with me this weekend, Allie-Cat. No arguments.”

  Allie-Cat? Oh help me Rhonda. He’s given me a pet name.

  “I’m meeting a friend,” I say tightly. “So I need my phone, okay? Besides, your sponsor duties are officially done. I’m going back to the dorms after brunch.”

  He frowns. “No, you’re staying the weekend.”

  “Not anymore.”

  I attempt to grab my phone from him. He moves it aside again. “Is this because we fucked last night?”

  My cheeks are scorching. “What part of never mention it again didn’t you understand?”

  “This is bullshit. You can’t leave just because you and I got wasted and screwed around a couple times. You’re totally overreacting.”

  I take a deep breath. “Can we please not talk about it?”

  “Babe, do you think I enjoy talking about this stuff? I’d rather roll around in broken glass than deal with this whole morning after shit. If you were any other girl, I’d say forget it, but you’re Wellsy’s best friend, so that means we’ve gotta talk about it.” He curses suddenly. “Oh shit. Wellsy is going to kill me.”

  Oh shit is right. I’ll definitely be on the receiving end of a stern lecture from Hannah if she finds out I slept with Dean. Maybe in a few days, or a week—or a decade—I’ll be able to tell her what happened last night, but right now, I want to forget all about it. Which means keeping my best friend in the dark for as long as I can.

  “She’s not going to kill you, because we’re not going to tell her,” I say firmly. “Seriously, this has to stay between us.”

  “Agreed.”

  “And you’re not allowed to bring it up ever again. As far as I’m concerned, it didn’t happen.”

  He gives me a cocky grin. “Don’t kid yourself, baby doll. You won’t be able to stop thinking about me now that you’ve had a taste of this.” To punctuate that, he grips his semi-hard dick and gives it a slow stroke.

  A jolt of heat spirals down to my core.

  Argh. Stupid Dean and his stupid awesome dick.

  “I’ve already forgotten all about it,” I lie. But in my head, more memories crop up, making me want to scream in frustration.

  “I like you like this…”

  “Ha. So you admit it—you do like me,” he drawls.

  I smile at his immobilized wrists. “I said I like you like this.” My mouth slowly descends on his erect cock. “Completely at my mercy…”

  Sweet lord. My cheeks are on fire again. Sean wasn’t always on board with my adventurous nature when it came to sex. I was the one who had to coax and plead with him to try whatever kinky new idea sparked my interest.

  Dean hadn’t even batted an eye at our sexual exploits.

  “Do you need me to remind you how good it was?” He tilts his head mockingly, his hand still on his dick.

  “No, I need you to be a fucking grown-up,” I burst out. I’m losing patience with him, and I’m too angry with myself to control my temper. “I’m hung-over and I’m really embarrassed and you’re making it worse by throwing last night in my face, okay?”

  His expression falters. “Shit.” He clears his throat and lets go of his dick, then hastily picks up his sweatpants. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.” He yanks the pants on. “And you have no reason to feel embarrassed. We’re both adults. We had fun and made each other come a bunch of times. No biggie, okay? But if you really don’t want me to bring it up again, I won’t.”

  I draw a shaky breath. “Thank you.”

  Dean studies my face. “Are we cool?”

  I manage a nod. My head is still throbbing, but it’s not the hangover that’s making me feel weak and wobbly right now. It’s the fact that I did something so out of character for me. It’s the horrible knowledge that I slept with someone else a measly twenty-four hours after I broke up with Sean. That’s not me, damn it.

  “Are you sure?” he presses.

  I force myself to speak. “We’re cool, Dean.” My phone buzzes and I see a text from Meg saying she’s five minutes away. “I need to get dressed. Megan will be here soon.” I bite my lip when something occurs to me. “Crap. My clothes are downstairs. Tucker…”

  As I trail off, Dean wanders over to the window and peeks behind the curtains. “He’s not here—Logan’s truck is gone. Guess he didn’t come home last night.”

  Relief hits me, but also a burst of annoyance. Because where was Tucker yesterday when I needed him? If he’d been home, I probably wouldn’t have ended up in bed with Dean. Or maybe instead, I would’ve ended up in bed with Tucker, who happens to be the hottest ginger I’ve ever met. He’s also far quieter than his roommates and doesn’t talk about himself much, but from what I can glean, he’s smart, well-spoken, and definitely easy on the eyes.

  In hindsight,
Tuck would have been a fantastic rebound candidate.

  “I’m going to run down and get my clothes,” I mutter awkwardly.

  He calls out after me. “What are you going to tell Wellsy about bailing mid-weekend? You know she’ll ask questions.”

  Damn it. He’s right. “I’ll tell her I decided to put on my big girl pants and deal with my breakup at home.”

  I’m halfway to the door when his voice stops me again. “Allie.”

  “Yeah?” I turn around.

  His green eyes flicker unhappily. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

  Nope, I’m not sure at all. “I’m fine,” I lie, then duck out of the bedroom.

  As far as walks of shame go, this one isn’t so bad because at least there’s nobody around to witness it.

  4

  Dean

  I’ve always been popular. Doesn’t matter how far back I go in my memory bank, I always see myself surrounded by friends. And girls. Lots and lots of girls. The giggling ones in grade school who slipped me Do you like me??? notes when the teacher was facing the blackboard. The ones in high school who’d fight for my attention and line up to make out with me on the lacrosse field after hours.

  And college, don’t get me started on college. I thought I knew the meaning of chick magnet before I came to Briar, but these past three years have exceeded even my own expectations about my desirability. The older I get, the more the ladies dig me.

  So yeah, I’m not surprised that Allie threw herself at me last night. It was an inevitability the moment she informed me I have “perfect nipples.”

  But the sheer disgust on her face this morning when we woke up in bed together? That’s a new one.

  “Fuckin’ Corsen wouldn’t be able to stop a puck if it was moving two miles an hour in a straight path toward him.”

  My teammate’s grumbled complaint draws me from my thoughts and makes me stifle a groan. My boy Hunter doesn’t seem to understand bar etiquette. You don’t go to bars to gripe and moan about a hockey game. You go to bars to score. Period.

  But the kid’s only eighteen. He’ll wise up one day.

  “Dude, the game was two days ago,” I tell the freshman. “Get over it.”

  I scan the bar for Tucker, but my roommate hasn’t shown up yet. It’s mostly the hockey crowd that fills up the bar tonight. Several of my teammates, tons of fans, and a parade of scantily clad puck bunnies. More than a few appreciative female gazes flit in our direction, but Hunter doesn’t seem to notice a single one.

  His features are tight, and he’s barely touched his drink. “This is your fault, you know.” Accusation rings in his tone. “I didn’t even want to play this year, but you just had to talk me into it. I could have ended my career as the star forward on the number one ranked prep school team in the country. And now I’m the nobody left wing on a team that’s going down the shitter.”

  I sip my beer. “Anyone ever tell you you’re a sore loser?”

  “Oh fuck off. Like you enjoy losing.”

  “Of course I don’t. But I also know that winning isn’t everything. Oh, and by the way? Glass houses, throwing stones, et cetera et cetera.”

  “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

  “It means that instead of blaming Corsen for letting in three goals, you should be concentrating on the fact that you didn’t score a single one. This ain’t prep school, Superstar. College D-men aren’t as easy to deke out.”

  Harsh, but true. And Hunter Davenport needs to hear it. Coach has been going easy on Hunter in practice, because other than Garrett, he’s the only forward on the roster who’s capable of greatness. But unlike Garrett, Hunter has one major weakness: overconfidence. The kid thinks he’s the next Sidney Crosby.

  “You’re saying I’m not good enough to play at this level?” Rather than anger, Hunter’s expression conveys distress, which only highlights his major strength: he’s always striving to get better.

  “I’m saying you need work. You made some amateur mistakes the other night. Like when Fitzy was in trouble after that power play? You went to bail him out—that’s not your job, bro. You don’t skate into another winger’s corner. You’ve gotta trust your center to help the other guy out.”

  Hunter takes a hasty sip of beer.

  “And you suck at reading plays sometimes. When Eastwood’s D-man made that sweet pass that led to a breakaway? You should’ve anticipated who he was going to pass to, but you totally misread him.”

  “I was watching the puck the whole time,” he protests.

  “Forget the puck. Watch the player, dude. Pay attention to who he’s looking at, where his teammates are moving. Read who he’s targeting and then intercept that pass.”

  Hunter goes quiet. When he speaks again, he sounds grudgingly impressed. “You know a lot about this stuff, huh?”

  I shrug. I know I have a reputation for not being as serious about hockey as my teammates, and maybe there’s some truth to that, but that doesn’t mean I don’t understand the mechanics and nuances of the game.

  Hockey has been a part of my life for as long as I can remember. I grew up playing it. Lacrosse too, but that was mostly a way to pass time in the spring until hockey started up again. Both my dad and older brother played hockey at Harvard. I could’ve too, but I chose Briar instead. I’m always following in their footsteps, and I guess I just wanted to be different or some shit.

  Don’t get me wrong, I don’t play hockey only because they did. I love the game. It just doesn’t give me the same thrill that Garrett and Logan seem to experience every time they’re on the ice.

  Truthfully, I have more fun during practice. I enjoy the drills and the scrimmages, the opportunity to get better and help my teammates get better. I’m not interested in going pro after I graduate, which pleases my family to no end, because Heyward-Di Laurentises don’t become professional athletes. They become lawyers. Next fall I’ll be attending Harvard Law like every other member of my family. I’m cool with that, and I have no doubt I’ll be good at it. The Di Laurentis charm I inherited from my dad pretty much guarantees I’ll be winning over judges left and right.

  “What else am I doing wrong?” Hunter sounds more curious than pissed.

  I grin at him. “Tell you what, how about some one-on-one sessions this week? I’ll see if Coach will sign off on extra ice time.”

  “Seriously? I would really appreciate that, actually. Thanks—”

  I interrupt him. “But only if you agree to quit talking about hockey for the rest of the night.” I gesture to the packed bar. “Look around. It’s a hot girl banquet in here. Pick the one you like and feast, idiot.”

  Hunter laughs, but his dark eyes gleam as he takes in the view. Several chicks respond to his attention with DTF smiles, but rather than wave them over, he glances at me—or rather, at my neck—and snorts. “Actually, maybe you should introduce me to the wildcat you hooked up with last night. Ms. Hickey seems like fun.”

  I stiffen. No way am I letting this kid anywhere near Allie. He might be young, but he’s well on his way to becoming an even bigger player than I am.

  Then again, maybe it’s Hunter I should be worrying about. After last night’s performance, Allie Hayes proved that she’s fully capable of leaving her mark on a man. Jesus. That girl can fuck.

  Damn, and now my dick is semi-hard. It’s been doing that all day, chubbing out every time I think about Allie. It was the hottest hook-up I’ve had in a long while. Hell, my wrists are still sore from being tied to the bed, but it’s the kind of sore that just makes me want to do it again.

  Tapping the same ass more than once isn’t usually my style, but right now my dick is aching to bury itself in Allie’s naughty pussy again.

  “Sorry, Superstar. Not happening,” I tell him. “Find your own wildcat.”

  “Fine.” Grinning, he gives the room another scan. “Oh yeah. I think I know who I’m going home with tonight.”

  I follow his gaze to the long wooden counter, where a tall brunette has
her back turned to us as she leans forward to order a drink. She’s in a short black skirt and high heels, with long brown hair falling down her back in waves. The male bartender is damn near drooling, his hungry eyes peering down her shirt, which tells me she must have a great rack. All I can see is her ass, though, and it’s pretty fantastic.

  Normally I’d be all over the brunette, but I’m not in the mood to score tonight. My mind keeps drifting back to Allie. And Allie’s pussy. And her tits. Man, her tits were incredible. A perfect handful, with pale pink nipples that went harder than icicles when I sucked on them.

  I sigh and do some strategic rearranging in my crotchal region. I’ve gotta quit thinking about last night, for chrissake. God knows Allie is doing her best to forget it.

  “What do you think?” Hunter asks me.

  I shift my gaze away from the brunette. “She might be a little out of your league.”

  “I’m a hockey player. Nobody’s out of my league.”

  “Truth.” I chuckle. That was the first thing I taught Hunter when I took him under my wing at the start of the season. But even so, the brunette has the sexiest body I’ve ever seen. A woman like that can have anyone in this bar, and I’m not sure freshman Hunter makes the cut, even if he is wearing a Briar hockey jacket.

  Across the room, the chick we’re admiring suddenly turns around. Just like that, my appreciation fizzles into disgust. “Oh hell no. Stay away from that one, kid. She’s toxic.”

  “She doesn’t look toxic to me,” Hunter drawls.

  Naïve bastard. Luckily, I know better. Sabrina James is undeniably gorgeous, but I’d pour hot wax on my balls before I hooked up with her. Well, before I hooked up with her again.

  Yup. Been there, done that, got the T-shirt.

  Someone jostles me from behind, and I turn to find Tucker approaching. His black-and-silver jacket is soaking wet, and so is his hair.

  “Je-sus. It’s coming down hard out there.” He does a full-body shake like a dog who’s just scampered out of a lake.

  “Hey Fido, go dry off somewhere else,” I order as cold droplets splash my face and hit me in the eye.