The Score

by Elle Kennedy

“Ah. Makes sense. Sort of like how whenever a bell rings, an angel gets its wings.”

  “Exactly like that.”

  I crank one eye open and direct it toward the doorway. “I can hear you, you know.”

  My annoyed voice puts an end to the most bizarre conversation I’ve ever heard. “Oh good, you’re up,” Logan says.

  “Of course I’m up,” I grumble, rubbing my eyes. “How am I supposed to sleep when you two fucktards are standing at the foot of my bed talking about angels blowing their loads?”

  Garrett snickers. “Like I’m the first one to ever wonder about that.”

  “Trust me, you are. When’d you guys get back?”

  Logan props one massive shoulder against my doorframe. “About an hour ago. Gracie needed to be back early because she has a show to produce tonight.”

  I nod. Logan’s girlfriend works as a producer at the campus radio station. Which reminds me… “You planning on calling in and professing your love again?” I ask mockingly.

  He sighs. “You’re never gonna let me forget that, are you?”

  “Nope.” Though I wish someone had recorded that radio segment so I could pull some quotes from it and torture him with them. After screwing up and nearly losing Grace last weekend, Logan had won her back by calling the advice show she produces and saying the sappiest shit imaginable. I worry about him sometimes.

  I toss the covers aside and slide out of bed buck-ass naked. My roommates continue to lurk in the doorway.

  I find a pair of clean boxers and tug them on. “I swear to God, if you tell me you’ve been watching me sleep for the last hour like a bunch of creepers, I’m calling the cops.”

  “Coach called,” Garrett tells me. “He said he’s been trying your phone all morning but you weren’t picking up. He wants you at the arena in an hour.”

  “Why?” I ask warily.

  Garrett shrugs. “Fuck if I know. Maybe he found out you got wasted this weekend—I assume you got wasted, right?—and wants to ream you out.”

  “How would he even know? It’s not like he’s got people tailing us.”

  “Dude, Coach is like that spy master from Game of Thrones. His sources are endless.”

  Shit. Hopefully I’m not in store for one of Coach Jensen’s long-winded lectures about keeping my nose clean. We’re not allowed to drink or dabble in drugs during the season, but that doesn’t stop any of us from getting plastered or smoking the occasional joint. Still, I’ve never failed a piss test or tarnished the team’s good name with my partying, so I’m not sure why Coach is constantly on my case about it.

  “Hannah still here?” I ask Garrett as I hunt down some pants.

  “Naah, she went home. She’s having a girl day with Allie.”

  I’m glad my back is turned, because the moment he says Allie’s name, my dick actually goes half-mast. Wonderful. I’m turned on by the sound of her name now?

  “You didn’t do anything stupid when she was here, did you?” Garrett’s tone is lined with suspicion.

  I fucked her twice. So…yes?

  I bite my tongue and throw on a T-shirt, followed by a navy-blue Briar hoodie. “I was a perfect gentleman.”

  Logan snorts. “Well, that’s a first.”

  “Fuck you very much. I happen to be skilled in the art of gentlemanry.”

  “That’s not an art. Or a word.” Logan rolls his eyes and disappears from the room, but Garrett stays behind.

  He studies my face for so long I shift in discomfort. “What?” I mutter.

  “Nothing,” he says, but he still wears a suspicious expression as he ducks out of my bedroom.

  When I pop into the bathroom to brush my teeth, I realize that the purple hickey on my neck is still very, very noticeable. Had Garrett seen it?

  But so what if he had? Anyone could’ve sucked on my neck this weekend. There’s no reason for him to suspect it was Allie.

  Goddamn Allie. I told her I wanted her again, and she’d hung up on me. That doesn’t happen to me—ever. I’m Dean Di Laurentis, for fuck’s sake. I can snap my fingers and a dozen chicks appear, begging to ride my dick. Last time I was at the campus coffeehouse, the hot barista handed me a free coffee and then offered to suck me off in the stock room.

  So what the hell is Allie’s problem? I spent way too much time last night wondering if she’s playing hard to get. I mean, it’s not like she hadn’t enjoyed the sex. I’ve never been with anyone who showered my dick with so much glowing praise.

  “Oh my gosh, I want to marry your cock!”

  “Best. Dick. Ever.”

  “Dean, you’re making me come…”

  Her throaty cries run through my head on a perverted, boner-inducing loop, and I grip the towel rack with one hand as a groan slips out. The toothbrush in my mouth falls into the sink. My cock tents in my pants and nudges the porcelain, needing to make contact with something, anything.

  I wonder if Coach would be pissed if I was late to meet him because I was jerking off.

  Probably.

  *

  Thirty minutes later, I swipe my student ID in the keypad at the hockey facility, sipping on the coffee I grabbed on the way here. The wide corridor is deserted, and my sneakers squeak on the shiny floors as I head to the back of the building. I walk past the row of classrooms and the screening room, bypass the kitchen and weight rooms, then duck through the massive equipment area.

  Our facility is state of the art. There are half a dozen big cozy offices that Chad Jensen could’ve parked his ass in, but for some reason he chose this modest office tucked away near the laundry room.

  I knock on the door, only opening it when I hear Coach’s gruff, “Get in here.” The last player who waltzed in without knocking got a tongue-lashing that the rest of us could hear all the way from the showers. I like to think Coach uses the office to jack off and that’s why he insists on privacy. Logan hypothesizes that he has a secret office family that’s only allowed to venture out in the wee hours of the night.

  Logan is an idiot.

  “Hey, Coach. You wanted to see me—” I halt when I realize we’re not alone.

  I’m not caught off guard often. I’m a go-with-the-flow kinda guy, which means it takes a helluva lot to shock or surprise me.

  Right now, the only flow I’m going with is the rush of anxiety that travels through my blood and seeps into my bones.

  Frank O’Shea rises from the visitor’s chair and flicks his cool gaze over me. I haven’t seen him since my senior year of high school, but he looks exactly the same. Dark buzz cut, stocky body, severe mouth.

  “Di Laurentis,” he says with a curt nod.

  I nod back. “Coach O’Shea.”

  Jensen glances between us, then gets right down to business. “Dean, Frank’s coming on board as our new defensive coordinator. He filled me in about your history at Greenwich Prep.” Coach pauses. “I decided it would be prudent if you two aired out your issues before practice tomorrow.”

  I can only imagine what O’Shea had to say about our “history.” Whatever it was, I’m positive it was both inaccurate and in no way favorable toward me, because O’Shea’s version of the story is so skewed it makes the stories in the National Enquirer seem like well-researched academic papers.

  Coach Jensen steps to the door. “I’ll leave you to it.”

  Goddamn it, he’s leaving us alone? Woulda been nice to have a witness around in case O’Shea tries something. After all, this is the man who clocked one of his own players in the empty parking lot of a high school. I was eighteen at the time. I didn’t report it because I understood why he’d done it, but that doesn’t mean I’ve forgotten about it. Or forgiven him for it.

  O’Shea doesn’t speak until the door latches firmly behind Coach. “So. Are we going to have a problem here?”

  I set my jaw. “You tell me.” I force myself to add, “Sir.”

  His dark eyes flash. “I see you’re still the same insolent smartass you were when I coached you.”

  “Wi
th all due respect, sir, I’ve been in this office for all of five seconds. I don’t think you can make that judgment.” My tone is polite, but inside I’m seething. I loathe this man, which is so fucking ironic because I used to worship him.

  “There isn’t a problem on my end,” he says as if I hadn’t even spoken. “The past is in the past. I’m willing to wipe the slate clean if that makes for a more conducive training environment.”

  How generous of him.

  “All I ask in return is that you treat me with respect and listen to me when we’re on the ice. I won’t tolerate any insubordination.” His mouth pinches in a frown. “And I won’t condone any shenanigans. Jensen said you have quite the reputation as a party boy. Which doesn’t surprise me—” he makes an unflattering noise “—but if you want to keep your roster slot, I expect you to be on your best behavior. No booze, no drugs, no brawling. Understood?”

  I jerk my head in assent.

  “As for our former issues, they will not be discussed.” O’Shea levels me with another cold glare. “Not between us, and not among you and your teammates. The past is in the past,” he repeats.

  I shove my hands in my pockets. “Can I go now?”

  “Not yet.” He moves toward the desk and picks up a thin folder. Either I’m imagining it, or there’s a smug gleam in his eyes. “Two more things. And rest assured, Coach Jensen is in complete agreement about this.”

  Uneasiness tickles my stomach.

  “First, we’re moving you to the second line with Brodowski—”

  “What?” I balk.

  O’Shea holds up his hand. “Let me finish.”

  I slam my mouth shut, fighting to control my rising temper. I’m no longer seething. I’m fucking enraged.

  There isn’t a problem on his end, my ass. I’ve always played on the first line with Logan. We’re the two best defensemen on the roster. A dynamic duo, for chrissake. Brodowski is a junior who needs so much work I’m surprised he’s still on the team.

  “Jensen trusts me to work with this defense and make decisions as I see fit,” my old coach barks at me. “The second line is weak. Kelvin and Brodowski aren’t gelling, and each of them will benefit from being paired up with players of your and John Logan’s caliber.”

  “Did Coach happen to mention that he tried this already during pre-season?” I can’t help but say, snidely enough to make him frown. “I was paired up with Kelvin for the St. Anthony’s game. It was a disaster.”

  “Well, you won’t be with Kelvin this time, will you?” he counters in an equally snide tone. “I’m putting you with Brodowski. And the decision is final—I’m doing what’s best for the team.”

  Bullshit. He’s doing this to punish me, and we both know it.

  “What’s the second thing?”

  He blinks. “Pardon me?”

  “You said there were two things.” It’s a struggle to keep my voice calm. “You’re rearranging the lines—that’s number one. What’s number two?”

  He slants his head as if trying to decide if I’m being disrespectful again. Dude doesn’t even know how badly I want to slam my fist in his jaw right now. It’s taking all my willpower not to.

  O’Shea flips open the folder and extracts a single piece of paper. The satisfied gleam returns as he passes it to me.

  I scan the page. It’s a photocopy of what looks like a practice and game schedule, but it’s not for our team. “What’s this?” I mutter.

  “Starting this week, you’ll generously be volunteering your time to the Hastings Hurricanes—”

  “The what?”

  “The Hastings Hurricanes. That’s the hockey team at Hastings Elementary. Middle school league, seventh and eighth graders. Briar has a community outreach program in which our student athletes volunteer to coach or act as assistant coaches with local sports teams. The senior who’s been working with the Hurricanes—she’s the left wing for the Briar’s ladies team. She came down with mono, so we need to replace her. Jensen and I think you’d be the perfect candidate to take over.”

  I try to mask my horror. I don’t think I’m successful, because O’Shea is openly smirking at me now.

  “It’s two afternoon practices a week, and game day is Friday at six. I went ahead and peeked at your class schedule and it doesn’t interfere with the Hurricanes’ schedule. So we’re all set.” He tips his head. “Unless you have an objection…?”

  Damn right I do. I don’t want to spend three days a week coaching a bunch of middle-schoolers. This is my senior year, for chrissake. My course workload is massive. And I’m already practicing six days a week with my own team and playing my own games, which doesn’t leave a lot of downtime.

  But if I object to this, O’Shea will no doubt make my life miserable. Same way he did back in high school.

  “Nope, it sounds like fun.” I force the words out and resist from giving him the finger.

  He nods in approval. “Well, look at that. Maybe you have changed. The Dean Di Laurentis I knew only cared about one person—himself.”

  The jab stings more than it should. Sure, I can be a selfish bastard at times, but I hadn’t done anything wrong back then, damn it. Miranda and I had been on the same page…until suddenly we weren’t.

  But I guess it doesn’t matter who was in the wrong, does it? Because it’s pretty fucking clear that Frank O’Shea is never going to forgive me for what went down between me and his daughter.

  6

  Dean

  First thing I do after I stalk out of the arena is call my older brother. It’s Sunday, so I try his cell first, though there’s a good chance he’s at the office. Nick works long hours at the firm, including most weekends. I think he’s trying to impress our dad with his dedication to the law, and honestly, I think it’s working.

  The cheerful voice that slides into my ear, however, doesn’t belong to Nick.

  “Dicky! Yay! I haven’t spoken to you in ages!”

  The nickname never made me cringe when we were kids, but now that we’re adults, it’s fucking mortifying. As far as I’m concerned, once my little sister learned how to pronounce Dean, our folks should’ve ordered her to kick Dicky to the curb. Then again, ordering Summer to do anything pretty much ensures she’ll do the opposite. My sister is a stubborn brat.

  “Why are you answering Nick’s cell?” I ask suspiciously.

  “Because I saw your name and wanted to talk to you first. You never call me anymore.”

  I can envision the pout she’s no doubt sporting, and it brings a smile to my lips. “You never call me either,” I point out.

  Summer goes quiet for a second. Then she heaves a colossal sigh. “You’re right. I don’t. I’ve been a terrible sister.”

  “Naah, you’re probably just as busy as I am.” I head down the cobblestone path toward the back of the training center, making my way to the parking lot.

  “I have been pretty busy,” she relents.

  I hear a loud snort over the extension. “What was that?” I ask.

  “Nothing. Just Nicky being an ass. He’s been driving me nuts all weekend. Has he always been this uptight, or did it happen once he became a lawyer?”

  She says “lawyer” as if it’s a dirty word. Though to Summer, it probably is. My sister had declared at the age of twelve that law is “hella boring”, and eight years later her stance remains the same. She only agreed to attend an Ivy League college to placate our parents, but last we spoke, she told me she wants to go into interior design after she graduates.

  “Compared to you, everyone is uptight,” I tell my sister. “Which isn’t to say I approve of all the batshit crazy things you do.” Summer is two years younger than me, but she gives me a run for my money when it comes to grabbing life by the horns and seizing the day and all that crap. I’m surprised our parents haven’t disowned her yet.

  A thought suddenly occurs to me. “Why are you in Manhattan? Shouldn’t you be at school?”

  “I felt like visiting my big brother.”

/>   Her tone is way too innocent for my liking. “Bullshit.”

  “It’s true,” Summer protests. “I wanted to see Nicky. And I want to see you too, so don’t be surprised if I show up on your doorstep sometime soon.” She pauses. “Actually, I’m thinking of transferring to Briar.”

  An alarm goes off inside me. “Why? I thought you were happy at Brown.”

  “I am. But…uh…yeah.” Summer sighs again. “I’m on probation.”

  I halt mid-step. “What did you do?” I demand.

  “What makes you think I did something?” There’s a sniff over the line.

  “Save your Little Miss Innocent act for the parentals.” I snicker. “Not that it works on them anymore, either. Now tell me what happened.”

  “Let’s just say there was an incident at the sorority house. Togas were involved.”

  I choke down a laugh. “Can you be more specific?”

  “Nope.”

  I groan in exasperation. “Summer—”

  “I’ll tell you all about it when I see you,” she chirps. “Nicky wants to talk to you now.”

  “Summer—”

  She’s already gone. My brother’s deep voice comes on the line half a second later. “Hey,” he says.

  “What’d she do?” I ask him.

  Nick gives a hearty laugh. “Oh no, I’m not spoiling it for you. All I’m going to say is, classic Summer.”

  Fucking hell. I’m not sure I even want to know anymore. “Do Mom and Dad know?”

  “Yup. They’re not thrilled about it, but it’s not like she got kicked out. It’s just two months of probation and twenty hours of community service.”

  The last bit distracts me from Summer’s woes. “Speaking of community service…” I quickly fill him in about O’Shea’s new gig at Briar.

  “Shit,” Nick says when I’m done. “Did he mention Miranda?”

  “No, but it’s obvious he still blames me for everything that happened.” Bitterness clogs my throat. “A part of me is tempted to track her down and talk some sense into her, maybe ask her to speak to her dad.”

  “She didn’t bother doing that back then,” Nick points out. “Why do you think she’d do it now?”