Perfect Love (Perfect Series Book 2)

by Amanda Cowen

  I sink into a chair across from him. “You’re the best roomie ever.”

  “I even ordered you a blueberry muffin. You always get a blueberry muffin, right? And you like two milk in your vanilla rooibos tea?”

  “Yeah,” I answer slowly. Lately, I find myself becoming irrationally annoyed by his pleasant persona, and today it’s even worse as I eye his still-damp hair and the way his sweater clings to his torso. He religiously works outs every morning and comes to class with a healthy glow, while I’m still getting very little sleep.

  I pull my textbook out of my bag and flip it open, placing it on the table.

  He meets my eyes, looking a little anxious. “Did you want something else? I can go back to the cafeteria.”

  “No…” I take a deep breath, open my mouth and close it again. It’s such a small thing—the tea and muffin I always get, the fact that he waited for me to tell me class was cancelled. But I can’t help but feel bad when Aiden’s constantly such a great friend and I’m not. He’s always so sweet, and I can’t seem to keep up with his kindness.

  He shrugs. “Quinn, it’s just a tea and a muffin.”

  “Well, it is really nice of you. You are always so thoughtful, and I’m just a mess.”

  He looks somewhat taken aback. “How so?”

  I sigh. “You’re always looking out for me. You came to my hotel that first day and went phone shopping with me. You offered me a room in your already secured apartment, you walk me from class to class, you study with me on Saturday nights, and you get me a tea and muffin just because.”

  He sits back in his chair and lets out a slow breath.

  It’s clear he doesn’t like what I’m saying, but I continue on. “I just . . . I want you to know that I appreciate it. You’re a really great friend, Aiden.”

  And that isn’t even stretching the truth. He is an amazing friend. Aiden is thoughtful and kind and everything an intelligent girl would want in a man.

  His brows draw together, and he stares down at his coffee instead of looking at me. “Thanks. Just, you know, helping out my buddy.”

  “Thank you,” I say, feeling relieved.

  “You’re welcome.” He looks up, wearing a playful little smile. “Now get your thinking cap on, Ashby. We need to ace this next project.”

  Chapter 3

  Cash

  Rotating my shoulder back and forth, it resets itself with a resounding pop but there is no pain. That’s either because there truly is no pain or I’ve blocked it out. This type of hit should’ve sent me into roaring agony, but it didn’t. Regardless, I push back from the boards during a routine practice scrimmage and wrestle for the puck against my team mate on the Santa Anna Tornadoes, Jason Garatti. We played together on the Tornadoes the first year I was drafted to the pros. I give him a hard jab into the boards and we wrestle for the puck between our legs, scrambling to flick it loose.

  There’s less than five minutes left in practice and I can’t wait for it to be done. Although I’ve been loving every minute being back in the pros, it’s absolutely fucking terrible to be on the ice with a massive hangover. I could hardly pull myself out of bed this morning, and not just because my head was pounding. I can’t stop thinking about Quinn. About what I lost. What I barely had. What I never expected to find.

  I’m so ready for this practice to be over. I need to get back to my bedroom and away from everyone.

  My vision blurs as I give a particularly hard push back to Garatti, I’m able to free my stick from the boards and put my blade on the ice. Because we are just at practice and he’s my team mate I won’t bother hammering him further into the boards. Instead I focus on making a good impression on our Coach using my speed and accuracy to spin and skate around Jason and then grab the puck and take off for a goal.

  With a quick wrist shot, the puck fires cleanly into the net, top shelf and past the goalie’s right shoulder.

  That’s how you do it in the pros.

  “Okay, switch it up.” Coach shouts. “Good goal, Brooks.”

  And even though Coach acknowledged my hard work, I know without a doubt he’ll find something to criticize about my performance today. He ain’t making my return to the pros easy. He’s one the best coaches in the league, but he’s also a hard-ass as well. He hasn’t been shy about giving me a hard time.

  Skating back to the bench, I step through the open gate and take a seat. Jason sits down beside me and gives me an elbow in the side. “Nice goal, show off.”

  “Yeah, thanks.” Grabbing a water bottle, I squirt a bit into my mouth, swish it around and spit it back out.

  For the reminder of the practice, I don’t watch the action on the ice. I sit on the bench and lean my head back against the glass, thinking about how making it back to the pros doesn’t even mean anything without Quinn in my life. There’s no reason to act like I’m okay. Anger from the mistakes of my past still simmers in my veins. I am starting to think I will never recover from knowing the pain I caused Quinn.

  After practice in the dressing room, I strip off my equipment, not bothering to engage with my team mates friendly banter. I know I’ve been reclusive and guarded with my fellow team mates. And chances are, I probably won’t let anyone back into my life again.

  “Brooks,” Coach calls out from the doorway of the dressing room. “Fifteen minutes. Meet me in my office.”

  Jason glances over at me. “He’s got it out for you, huh Brooks?”

  I wish I felt something, anything, when Jason stated the obvious. My mind and my body are completely numb. Coach could ream me out at the top of his lungs for all I care. I should be nervous, but I’m not. I don’t respond to Jason. I know it’s a total dick move on my part. He’s the only friend I have right now. Everyone on the team is skeptical of my return. Let’s just say I haven’t been welcomed back with open arms.

  I slip on my jacket, zip up my equipment bag and make my way out of the dressing room and toward Coach’s office. None of my team mates, other than Jason, says good bye. And I don’t blame them, I’m a miserable fucking bastard.

  I rap my knuckles on Coach’s office door, and he calls out for me to enter. I don’t close the door behind me, only because I could give two shits if anyone hears him tear me apart. I take a seat across from his desk, and I casually lean back in the chair.

  “Good practice today, Brooks,” he says, looking up from the iPhone that he was texting on when I entered. “But you ain’t fooling me, son. You may have had your shit together on the ice this morning, but those dark bags under your eyes tell me otherwise.”

  I stare at him, offering no response to ease his mind. I should really give a fuck what he thinks, but I don’t. He basically holds my professional career in the palm of his hand. I respect him as a Coach, but I don’t give a fuck what he thinks about me.

  He waits for me to say something or even acknowledge that he’s said something. He gets nothing, so he sighs and continues on.

  “You are on thin ice, Brooks. Your AHL coach may have put up with your shit, but I won’t. This is the pros. And your last fucking chance,” he tells me.

  “Yeah, I get it,” I tell him, my face stoic.

  “Do you think I’m fucking stupid, Brooks?” Coach leans forward across his desk and his frown turns into a snarl. “You’re not my first player with an attitude and alcohol problem and you won’t be my last. You look like shit. And you smell like a brewery. Go home, clean yourself up, and stay away from the bottle.”

  My body is numb. I hear what he’s saying, I just don’t give a shit. Without Quinn in my life, why should I? I’ve fucked everything else up in my life so badly, why not my career too?

  “Can you do that?” he shouts. “We have our first regular season game next week. Don’t disappoint me.”

  “I won’t,” I say.

  Coach leans back in his chair, studying me for a moment. “You know Brooks; I don’t get you. You were the best player when you were first drafted to the Tornadoes and even after you were sent dow
n to the AHL, despite all your issues, you still managed to make your way back here. You have the potential to be great if you actually gave a shit about yourself and your career. Instead you choose to drink and fuck your life away. You are here for a reason, Brooks. You have the talent and ability it takes to make it, but sometimes you have to make choices in life, and sometimes those choices make you. Don’t be a fuck up. Be a fighter.” Unfortunately, I don’t have any fight left in me. His words tonight are absolutely wasted on me.

  “Thanks, Coach.”

  Coach snorts at my dismissive response. “Get out, Brooks.”

  I turn to walk out of his office, emotionless as I close the door behind me and continue down the hallway. I know I should take his words seriously. I really should do what he says; go home, take a shower and keep away from the bottle. Except I know I won’t do any of those things. Hell, I can’t even look at myself in the mirror. For what I did to Quinn and the pain I caused her… I’ve lost everything I ever let myself love. And now all I’ve wanted to do from the moment Quinn walked away from me is to punish myself the only way I know how; drink and fuck my life away.

  Chapter 4

  Quinn

  “Come to the bonfire with us tonight.” Nadia, a fellow classmate, walks across the campus lawn with me. We’ve finished a tough group project together, and one of our classmates is hosting a party at his place to celebrate. When I hesitate, she adds, “Don’t even think of saying no. I’ll bet you haven’t been out once since orientation.”

  Nadia’s the first female friend I made at Harvard. We met the weekend before classes started during an orientation event. She was standing next to me at a cocktail party and talked my ear off about her impressions of…well, everything. I immediately loved her outgoing and bubbly personality because she reminded me of Lyndsey. We hit it off right away. She is one of those girls who speaks her mind and doesn’t care what anyone thinks. She’s opinionated, ballsy, and wicked smart.

  Aiden, who is walking on my other side, looks over at me.

  “What time does it start?” I ask.

  She takes this as a yes “Great! It’s in a few hours. How about I come to your place and hang out until then?” She turns to Aiden. “Do you have any booze?”

  He nods. “Sure. I’ve got a few beers in the fridge.”

  I let out a groan of surrender. “Okay, fine. I’m not staying too late though. I want to start the reading for the next case study.”

  Laughing, she asks, “Tonight?”

  “I know it’s dorky, but I’m excited to dive into the next topic.”

  “Then you need to celebrate with us tonight,” Aiden insists, “We promise you’ll have an awesome time. And if you want to leave early, I’ll go home with you and we can dig into that reading together.”

  “Think I will be the soberest person there?” I ask.

  “Probably,” Aiden admits. “But I know for a fact you will also be the hottest.”

  “Hey!” Nadia shoves his shoulder.

  “Okay, okay, I lied,” Aiden says. “You will be tied for hottest with Nadia.”.

  “That’s better.” She smirks at him.

  I shrug. “Fine. You guys have yourself a deal. I’ll come.”

  ____________

  The party isn’t exactly what I expected. It’s at a big house minutes from campus, filled with a few poverty-level graduate students but lots of younger undergrads too. Alcohol bottles litter every open surface. Music blares from two speakers on the opposite ends of a stained futon. People are everywhere holding red Solo cups. Most guys are wearing what would be considered preppy attire and most girls are dressed in what could be argued are child-sized clothes. The coffee table looks like it’s seen better days. There are dents in the wood legs, and the tabletop has water stains all over it. This party is not my scene, but Nadia is completely enthralled when she sees a group of shirtless guys doing a keg-stand.

  Aiden meanwhile is more unreadable. When some guy I’ve never seen before greets him and hands him a beer, he disappears into the swarm of warm bodies.

  Nadia bounces a little and then reaches for my hand, squeezing it. “I’m so glad you finally came out! I know you’re going to opt for a ginger ale, but I need something hard to drink. And fast.”

  She pulls me through the crowd, and we make our way into the kitchen. We squeeze through a cluster of guys shouting at a television propped against the wall behind the kitchen table. My head turns to the familiar sound of skates slicing and tangled sticks.

  I let go of Nadia’s hand and my stomach twists. There he is, covering virtually every inch of that ice in a Tornadoes jersey. Strong build, aggressively wild. Cash Brooks mocks me through the flat screen. I played you, Mittens. Just like every other puck bunny…

  I snap out of it when Nadia appears in front of me, holding out a can of ginger ale.

  “For you.” She smiles at me, unaware that my heart is racing.

  “Go, Brooks! Go!” yells a guy with dark-rimmed glasses and spikey brown hair. “If Brooks gets a hat-trick in his first game back in pros, all of you fools owe me ten bucks!”

  Just hearing Cash’s name again is enough to make me sick. I turn away, but then the buzzer goes off and I see him with his stick raised above his head. Great. He scored a frickin’ goal. Looks like he’s doing fine without me.

  Bitterness clogs my throat. Okay, Quinn, take a deep breath and get out of this kitchen.

  I take a sip of my ginger ale. Nadia’s talking, and I lean in to catch the rest of what she says.

  “. . . you wouldn’t believe the way these guys lay bets over hockey. Every damn party. Their latest obsession is with the comeback of this Brooks, guy. Apparently he’s the most controversial player to ever make it back in the pros. His old record was that he usually gets a goal or two a game, so they decided to bet money on his points or some shit like that. All I know is that he is a complete hottie.” she looks back at me over her shoulder, clarifying. “I’m not into hockey, but if that Brooks plays something I’ll watch.”

  I’m uncomfortable, unsure of what to say to my friend whose blue eyes are now glued to the Tornadoes game flashing on the flat screen. I’ve made a point of avoiding all things Cash since Bexley. The Internet, sports networks, social media—when it comes to hockey and, in particular, the Santa Anna Tornadoes, I’ve stayed as far away as possible. That’s not so easy since my father is the President of Hockey Operations for Cash’s team, but I’ve managed to keep our conversations and texts short, sweet, and simple. The last thing I want to hear about is his beloved team. I’ve even told Lyndsey not to mention Cash’s name.

  And now there he is, on the television, killing it on the ice. I can’t tear my eyes away, even though I know I should.

  “I heard he was a toughie when he played in the minors.” Nadia takes a sip of her drink. “Aiden told me your dad works for the Tornadoes and that he used to be a big hockey star. Do you go to many games? Maybe we could go to one some time.”

  “I’m too busy usually.” I shake my head.

  The memory of the game I went to with Lyndsey where I first met Cash flashes across my mind. I imagine Nadia throwing herself at Cash, just like the hordes of other women at the rink that night. My heart clenches at the thought, and I fight the overwhelming emotional struggle swirling inside me at the realization that Cash isn’t mine anymore. Looking at the television one last time, at the very man I loved, makes me question if he ever really was mine to begin with.

  Nadia laughs. “Too busy? The players are hot, especially Cash. Maybe I should come home with you at Christmas. I assume your dad knows him.”

  “Of course he does. He knows all his players.”

  She raises an eyebrow, sensing my discomfort. “Did you know him?”

  I am about to lie and tell her no, when Aiden’s voice startles me.

  “Yes, Quinn knew him…well.” I turn around to see him holding a beer. “She used to work for the Bruisers.”

  “What? Seriously?” Nad
ia shrieks. “You never tell me anything!”

  I give Aiden a scolding look. “There is nothing to tell.”

  “Is there actually a chance that your dad would introduce me?”

  Not a wise idea unless you’d be okay with being his part-time mistress and committing adultery. That’s what I want to say, but opt for something less telling. “I’m from Bexley, California, not Santa Anna,” I remind her.

  Nadia flicks her long blonde hair over her shoulder, “Fine. But next time the Tornadoes play in Boston, I’m expecting your dad to hook us up with front row seats.” Her gaze slides over my shoulder to someone behind me. “Ohmigod! Tammy’s here! I’m going to go say hi. I’ll be right back.”

  Once she disappears, Aiden turns to me. “Want to head outside to the bonfire?”

  “Sure.” I follow him out the patio doors.

  I’m in a far better mood at the bonfire. It’s a lot more my pace. One guy with long blond hair plays a guitar on a lawn chair, while the guy beside him keeps the beat on a hand drum. People are drinking and standing around the fire, chatting and sharing stories. It actually feels like I am at a completely different party. Aiden glances over at me as he roasts a hotdog over the fire and continues to talk my ear off about nothing of any importance. The more beers he drinks the more talkative he gets.

  After he eats his hotdog, he leans in closer to me and holds his phone in front of us.

  “Whoa. What are you doing?” I lean away.

  “I thought we could take a selfie.” He takes a sip of his beer. “Come on, Quinn, we’ve been friends for years, and the last picture we took together was in the tenth grade.”

  I laugh. “Let me put on some lipstick at least.” I reach into my purse, pull out a dark red gloss, and coat my lips.

  Aiden smiles. “I didn't know this was going to be a big production. I feel honored.”

  I wink at him. “Getting one's picture taken is always a big production.”

  He raises an eyebrow. “I like your thinking. Now smile.”

  He holds his phone out in front of us and snaps a few shots with the bonfire flickering in the background.