The Score

by Elle Kennedy

  “Whatcha doing, kid?”

  He looks surprised to find me standing there. “Oh.” He flushes. “I get an extra thirty minutes to skate.” A defensive note creeps in. “Coach knows.”

  Since I know better than to take a thirteen-year-old’s word at face value, I duck out to track down Ellis, who’s in the equipment room securing sticks on the long rack against the wall.

  “What’s this about Robbie staying behind to skate?”

  Ellis glances toward the doorway. “Oh. Yes, it’s fine. I’m heading out there in a sec to supervise him. Tell him not to step on the ice until I get there.”

  I can’t hide my frown. “Why does he get extra ice time?”

  “His mother doesn’t get off work until four-thirty on Tuesdays and Thursdays, and the family lives in Munsen, so the school bus isn’t an option.” Ellis makes an annoyed sound. “Some bullshit about town boundaries and the Hastings buses being unable to ‘service’ other townships. Robbie’s mother managed to get him enrolled here because he’s an asset to our hockey program, but apparently the school district doesn’t think it’s important to provide safe transportation home to the kids who live out of the district.”

  “So Robbie hangs around the arena until his mom shows up?”

  Ellis nods. “I arranged it with Julia at the start of the season. I stick around after practice, watch him and his sister until she gets here.”

  Did I mention how much I love this man?

  “I’ll stick around too,” I offer. “I was teaching Robbie the art of wrist shots before the drill ended. Wouldn’t mind finishing up the lesson.”

  His expression is a combination of surprise and respect. “I bet he’d love that. Thanks, kid.”

  When I reenter the rink, Robbie is skating lazy circles along the boards. His dirty-blond hair ruffles behind him, and I decide he might need a lesson about hair, too—as in, trim the shit out of it before it reaches mullet status, or wave goodbye to any chance of getting laid.

  I’m walking down the concrete aisle when a high-pitched voice startles me to a stop.

  “Who are you?”

  I turn to see a tiny elfin creature sitting at the halfway point in the bleachers. Well, it’s a girl, but holy hell, she might as well be a character from a Pixar movie. Huge blue eyes take up her entire face, her hair is so fair it’s nearly white, and her mouth is a tiny pink rosebud.

  “Who are you?” I call back, one eyebrow arched.

  “I asked you first.”

  Fighting a smile, I climb the steps until I reach her row. A glance at the rink reveals that Robbie is having fun skating aimlessly. Ellis is at the boards keeping an eye on him, so I plop down in the seat next to the cartoon elf and say, “I’m Dean. The new assistant coach of the Hurricanes.”

  Those big eyes study my face, as if she’s trying to decide if I’m lying. “I’m Dakota,” she finally says. She points a skinny finger at the ice. “That’s my brother.”

  “Ah. You’re Robbie’s little sister.”

  “Who says I’m the little one?” she challenges. “Maybe I’m his big sister.”

  “Kid, I’d be surprised if you’re not still in diapers.”

  “I do not wear diapers!” Her cheeks redden. “I’m ten,” she says haughtily.

  I gasp. “Holy sh—sugar. You’re practically an old lady then.”

  That makes her giggle. “I am not. How old are you?”

  “Twenty-two.”

  Her jaw falls open. “That’s old.”

  “I know, right? I should probably start planning my funeral. Who do you think I should leave my fortune to in my will—the chick from the Hunger Games or the one from Divergent?”

  “They’re not real people,” she says frankly.

  I feign innocence. “Are you sure? I swear I saw Katniss walking down the street the other day.”

  “You’re lying.”

  “Yup, you caught me.” I gesture to the pink spiral notebook in her lap. “Whatcha doing?”

  Her bottom lip sticks out. “Homework. Mrs. Klein said to write a whole page about what I’m thankful for on this Thanksgiving.”

  “Mrs. Klein sounds like a monster.”

  Dakota giggles. “Naw, she’s okay. She ordered pizza for the whole class one time. It was after we got the highest scores on the literary test.”

  “Literacy,” I correct.

  She waves her hand. “Whatever.”

  A grin springs free. “All right, let’s stop wasting time.” I flip her little notebook to a fresh page. “It’s time to figure out what you’re thankful for.”

  Pleasure lights up her face. “You’re going to help me with my homework?”

  “Sure, why not? We’ve got twenty more minutes to kill until your mom gets here. What else are we gonna do?”

  *

  Allie

  I’m in the passenger seat of Megan’s car when Dean texts me. I’m not surprised to see his name on my phone. I’ve been expecting another “I want to fuck you” from him all day, so it was only a matter time before it happened. But tonight he throws me a curveball.

  Him: A bunch of us r at Malone’s 2nite for Fitzy’s bday. Join us if u feel like it.

  Megan glances over from the driver’s side. “Who’s texting you? And please don’t say Sean.”

  “No, it’s not Sean. It’s one of Garrett’s friends,” I answer vaguely. “A bunch of the hockey guys are at Malone’s for someone’s birthday. He says we’re welcome to join them.”

  “Is Hannah there?”

  I shake my head. “She’s at rehearsal tonight.” Like me, Hannah is also busy preparing for one of her final projects. As a music major, she’s required to perform an original song for the department’s winter showcase.

  I guess Megan doesn’t think it’s odd that I’m getting invited to hockey gatherings without Hannah, because she doesn’t comment on it. Instead, she says, “Let’s do it.”

  “Are you serious?” After more than thirty minutes debating a dozen options for our girls’ night out, we finally decided to grab a late bite at the diner in Hastings. Malone’s is the only bar in town, so obviously that suggestion had come up early in the conversation, but Meg had been the one to veto it. “I thought you didn’t want to deal with the whole bar scene tonight.”

  She pushes her red bangs out of her eyes. “Changed my mind. I think I’m in the mood to be surrounded by cute boys.”

  “Really?” I say in surprise. “What about the new boyfriend? Is there trouble in paradise already?” Megan has been so cagey about this new guy she’s dating, but I assumed they were doing okay. Normally she’s a huge chatterbox when it comes to her love life, but not this time. All I know about him is that he lives in Boston and she only sees him on the weekends.

  “No, we’re fine.” She pauses. “Well, not really.” Another pause. “It’s complicated.”

  “You know, if you actually told me something about him instead of being Ms. Secretive, I might be able to offer some advice…”

  Her green eyes stay focused on the road. Even if she wasn’t driving, I know she’d still be avoiding my gaze.

  “Okay. Spill. What’s wrong with him?”

  “Nothing’s wrong with him.”

  “Bullshit. There has to be, otherwise you wouldn’t be hiding him from all of us. So what is it? Does he like to set barns on fire in his spare time? Does he kill squirrels and make little hats out of their fur? Does he have a weird mole that takes up his whole face? Does he—”

  “Thirty seven,” she interrupts. “He’s thirty-seven.”

  My eyebrows shoot up. “Oh. Wow. That’s…”

  Old, I want to say, but I’ve always believed in the age is nothin’ but a number philosophy. Or at least I want to be that open-minded. I mean, I think it’s hella creepy when a sixty-year-old man dates an eighteen-year-old girl. But thirty-seven isn’t exactly geezer status. It’s only fifteen years older than me and Meg.

  “See? This is why I didn’t tell you guys.” Accusat
ion colors her tone. “I knew you’d be all judgy.”

  I hold up both hands in surrender. “I’m not judging. You surprised me, that’s all.”

  Her pretty features relax.

  “Tell me more about Mr. Thirty-Seven,” I urge. “I promise there’s no judgment on my end.”

  She grudgingly provides a few more details. “His name’s Trevor. He’s a pediatric surgeon at Boston General.”

  Okay, I’m impressed.

  “He’s divorced, and he has a five-year-old daughter.”

  Hmmm. Not so impressed anymore. “And you’re cool with that?” I ask carefully. “You’re only twenty-two, hon. Are you ready to be someone’s stepmother?”

  “That’s the problem,” she moans. “I wasn’t even thinking that far ahead. Trevor and I met online. We were chatting all through September, but we didn’t meet in person until a month ago. He’s sweet. Smart, gorgeous, easy to talk to. But we’re still in the early stages of the relationship, you know? More casual than serious.” She taps her polished nails against the steering wheel. “When I saw him last weekend, he said he wants me to meet his daughter.”

  Eek.

  “Eek,” I say out loud.

  “I know, right? So now I’m second-guessing the whole relationship. Meeting his kid is a huge deal. What if she hates me? Or worse, what if she loves me, and then me and her dad break up and this poor kid ends up traumatized?”

  “She won’t fall in love with you after one meeting,” I assure her. “But I agree—this is a huge deal.”

  Meg stops her little red Toyota at the intersection one block from Hastings’ main stretch. “I don’t know… I told him I’d let him know on Friday when I see him, but I’m super confused. I have no idea what to do.” She goes quiet for a second, then lets out a heavy breath. “If we go to Malone’s, can you DD on the way home? I might want something stronger than soda.”

  “No prob.” I wasn’t planning on drinking tonight, anyway. I have rehearsal at seven a.m., and a pounding hangover will make it hard for me to cry on command. In the opening scene alone, my character wails like a newborn three times. “Should we go to another bar, though?” I ask hopefully. “Maybe the one in Munsen?”

  “Why would we do that?”

  I shrug. “The hockey crowd can get kinda rowdy.”

  “I could use a little rowdy,” she admits. “Trevor is great, but he’s not much into partying anymore. He’s in bed by ten o’clock every night. Even on weekends.” Her bottom lip sticks out. “Maybe that’s another reason I should end it, huh?”

  “Look, I’d never dream of telling you what to do,” I say gently. “And I’m not saying you should break up with someone just because their party days are behind them. But you’re in your senior year of college, hon. You shouldn’t be going to bed at ten if you don’t want to. You should enjoy this last year of freedom, in this weird place where you’re an adult but not an adult, know what I mean? Save the early bedtimes for next year when you become a card-carrying member of the real world.”

  A pensive look crosses her expression. I can tell she’s absorbing the advice, and I hope she reaches a decision that makes her happy. God knows I’ve been dealing with tough decisions lately too. Breaking up with Sean. Figuring out where I want to take my acting career.

  Walking into a bar to willingly spend time with the guy I had a one-night stand with…

  Shit, what am I doing coming to the bar? Nothing good can be gained from seeing Dean tonight. Worse case, he’ll accidentally let something slip, and everyone will know that we hooked up. Best case, he’ll flirt shamelessly with me and just be plain annoying.

  Since Malone’s is the only alcohol game in town, it’s the go-to place for both locals and Briar students every day of the week. If you show up after nine, you’re looking at standing room only. Meg and I waltz in at ten-thirty, and it’s like stepping into a sauna crammed with hundreds of sweaty bodies. The main room is jam-packed. I can barely see the counter because too many bodies are swarming in front of it, and the row of booths in the raised sections on either side of the main area are all occupied.

  “I want to order a drink!” Megan shouts over the music. Some rock song I don’t recognize is blasting from the speakers. If Garrett Graham were here, he could probably tell me the name of the song, who’s singing it, and what year it was released. Hannah’s boyfriend has a hard-on for classic rock. I wouldn’t be surprised to find out he makes Hannah play Lynyrd Skynyrd role-playing games in bed.

  We’re about to head for the bar when a familiar voice rises above the music. “Allie-Cat! Over here!”

  I shift my head to see Dean waving at me from a large booth to my right. I don’t know how he spotted me in the throng of people. I hadn’t even texted him to say I was coming, so he’s either got exceptional Spidey senses or he’s been monitoring the door like a creeper.

  Megan and I link arms to avoid getting separated and make our way through the sea of bodies. I inhale a gust of perfume from a platinum blonde in a short skirt. I manage to survive the perfume assault only to breathe in a cloud of something more potent from the guy beside her. My eyes start to water, and I almost turn around to tell him to go easy on the Axe body spray before he kills someone.

  “Look, Fitzy, girls!” Dean announces when Megan and I reach the booth. He rapidly addresses the other guys. “Quick, make room for them before they disappear.”

  Laughter breaks out, and I notice most of the players are grinning at one guy in particular, who I’ve seen before at some of the hockey parties Hannah dragged me to. I think his name is Colin, but I usually hear him being referred to as either Fitz or Fitzy. He’s a big guy with messy brown hair, dark scruff on his face, and what looks like a tattoo peeking from the collar of his shirt. I suspect he’s definitely rocking a chest tat, because I’ve seen him in a T-shirt, and I remember him having full sleeves on both arms.

  The boys shuffle around to accommodate us. Megan slides in next to a guy with a buzz cut. He introduces himself as Hollis. I squeeze in between Tucker, who’s engrossed on his phone, and Pierre, one of the French-Canadians on the team. He greets me with a smile, and a pair of adorable dimples pop out. Rounding out the group are two players I’ve never met. In his heavy accent, Pierre introduces them as Wilkes and Ekberg.

  Dean, who is across from me on the other side of Hollis, winks when our eyes lock. “You made it. Didn’t think you would.”

  “We were in the neighborhood,” I say lightly.

  “Glad you were, because this was becoming a total sausage fest. Seriously, the birthday boy didn’t invite a single chick tonight.”

  “Fitzy is allergic to women,” Hollis says helpfully.

  The birthday boy—or man, rather, because there’s nothing boyish about this guy—rolls his eyes. “I didn’t realize that wanting to celebrate my birthday with the guys was such a crime.”

  “Did you even stop to consider the implications?” Dean shoots back. “What about the time-honored birthday blowjob? Did ya think of that? Or do you expect one of us to do it?”

  “I’m sure Pierre’s down,” Hollis pipes up. When the French-Canadian gives him the finger, he smiles sweetly. “What? I thought that’s what you guys did up in Quebec, no? Blow your buddies while whispering sweet French nothings to them?”

  Pierre snorts. “You’re from San Francisco. I’m pretty sure that’s the blow-your-buddies capital of the world.”

  A round of smack talk ensues, which is cut short when a frazzled waitress appears to serve Megan and me. Meg orders a vodka cranberry. I ask for a glass of water.

  “Water?” Dean mocks after the waitress dashes off. “You sure you don’t want anything else, baby doll? Maybe…hmmm…how about tequila? I always pegged you for a tequila girl.”

  I narrow my eyes at him. Fortunately, nobody else puts much stock in the comment. Why would they? It’s not like any of them know that tequila is the reason I wound up in bed with Dean. The only person who knows is Dean, who promised to keep his mo
uth shut about it.

  But…the teeny smirk on his face is making me antsy.

  Why do I get the feeling he’s about to spill the beans?

  11

  Allie

  I’m still glaring at Dean when my phone vibrates in my purse. I absently fish it out and my breath catches when I see the message.

  Him: Remember when I took that tequila shot off your tits?

  I look up to find Dean blinking innocently at me. But I can see his arm moving under the table. Sure enough, a follow-up message appears.

  When I poured it all over your nipples and licked up every drop? Mmmm. Getting hard just thinking about it.

  Argh. I can’t believe he’s sexting me in the bar. During his friend’s birthday hang.

  I grit my teeth and text him back.

  Me: Cherish the memory, sweetie. Cuz it’s never happening again.

  Him: U saying u didn’t like it when I was sucking on those sexy nipples?

  The nipples in question tighten into hard peaks. I know the padding of my bra hides the traitorous response, but the way Dean’s smug gaze drops to my breasts tells me he knows.

  I draw a breath and answer, Meh. It was all right.

  His smile widens. “Naah,” he says in response to something Wilkes just asked. “I’m not worried. Yale’s goalie has nothing against G’s slapshot.” I guess they’re talking about their game against Yale on Saturday, but I’m too busy watching the subtle movement of Dean’s arm. He’s typing something else.

  Him: Hmmm. I see. What about when I licked your pussy? Just all right too?

  I ignore the sharp clench between my legs and scowl at him.

  “Allie,” Megan says in exasperation.

  “Sorry. What?”

  “I was asking about your play. Rehearsals started this week, didn’t they? How’s it going?”

  “Pretty good,” I answer in an absent tone. I can’t tell if Dean is typing something else. I hope not. “The guy who’s playing my dead husband is fun to work with. How’s yours going?”

  “Shitty.”

  “Aw, I’m sorry, hon.” I know Meg isn’t happy with the playwright she’d been paired with, and I don’t blame her, because he happens to be the most pompous asshole in the drama department. Everything he writes is pretentious and brimming with over-the-top angst. He thinks he’s the reincarnation of Arthur Miller.