The Score

  I study the small thumbnail pic. She hasn’t changed in four years. She still has the same round face, the same unruly dark curls, the same brown eyes.

  To my dismay, her profile is private. I can’t see anything except her profile pic and cover photo, which is a generic beach landscape. I stare at the little green button at the top of the page.

  Add friend.

  I don’t know what possesses me to click it. But I do.

  With the friend request sent, I turn off the app and put my phone away. Tucker isn’t on his anymore either. He’s leaning back against the headrest with his eyes closed, and I decide to follow his lead. We’ve got two more hours until we reach Boston, then another hour to Hastings. Might as well get some sleep and try to forget tonight’s disastrous game.

  The nap does the trick. I wake up feeling centered and relaxed, and when I peer out the window and wait for the next road sign to appear, I discover we’re only a half hour from campus.

  In the seat beside me, Tucker is also awake, typing on his phone again.

  “Dude, are you dating someone?” I can’t stop myself from asking. I’ve barely seen Tucker lately, and we live in the same house.

  “No,” he says dismissively.

  “You sure about that?”

  “I think I would know if I was dating someone.” But there’s an odd note in his voice, which I can’t for the life of me decipher.

  “Where’ve you been, then? You’re never home anymore.”

  Tucker shrugs. “I go to class. Study at the library. Chill in my room.” He pauses. “I crashed at a friend’s place in Boston a few times.”

  “What friend?”

  Before he can answer, my phone rings, and I swear he looks relieved. I make a note to cross-examine him again later. It’ll be good practice for law school.

  I pick up when I see Beau’s name and give him the usual greeting. “Maxwell. What’s shaking?”

  “Hey. How was the game?” Loud music blasts in the background, but I can hear him loud and clear.

  “Shitty.”

  “Yeah. I read the recap on the college sports blog. You got your asses kicked.”

  “Why’d you even ask how it went if you already knew the answer?”

  “I was being polite.”

  I have to snicker.

  “Anyway, party at my place tonight. I know it’s late, but I’m still extending an invite. Figured you might need something to help take your mind off the beating you got from Yale.”

  I consider it, but only briefly. “Naah. Thanks, but I’m not in the mood.” A tired breath slips out. “It’s been a crap night.”

  “All the more reason for you to come out. It’s a hot girl smorgasbord in here. And you know women—they can’t resist a mopey, brooding man. Tell them how sad you are about losing your game, and they’ll be begging you to let them make you feel better.” He pauses. “Wait. Unless you’re still dealing with…ah, equipment malfunctions?”

  “Nope. We’re all better now.”

  “Nice! Does that mean Bella finally threw you another bone?”

  “Bella?” I say blankly.

  “Yeah, you know, the chick you imprinted on.”

  I chuckle. “Right. Yeah, she did.” I keep my response vague, because Tucker is right there and he’s not allowed to know about Allie and me. And…shit. I guess that means I’m not allowed to harass him for being so secretive lately, what with this pot/kettle situation we’re in.

  “Good, then you’re all fixed. Now come over and put that newly functioning dong to good use.”

  “Naah,” I say again. “I’m really not feeling it.” But I am feeling something else, because as usual, the mere thought of Allie gets me hard. “We’ll connect sometime this week. Go out for beers or something.”

  “Sounds good. Later, bro.”

  The second we hang up, I open a new text box. It’ll be nearly one a.m. by the time I get home. That’s absolutely booty call territory, but it’s Saturday night and Allie doesn’t have classes tomorrow, so I figure I’m safe.

  Me: u + me = wild animal sex 2nite?

  She responds right away. Good, she’s still up.

  Her: u = tempting – me = already in bed ÷ sleep.

  Me: Why the division sign??

  Her: I don’t know. I was trying to answer in math. Bottom line: I’m in bed.

  Me: Perfect. That’s right where I want u to be. I’ll be there in 45.

  Her: U can’t. Hannah’s home.

  Me: We’ll be very, very quiet. She won’t even know I’m there.

  There’s a short delay, and even before her answer appears, I know it’s going to be a no.

  Her: Don’t want 2 risk it. Let’s wait for a nite we can be alone.

  Me: U have no sense of adventure.

  Her: U have no patience.

  Me: Not when it comes to u.

  Her: We had sex 3 times last nite! I’m sure that’ll tide u over til we see each other again.

  Me: And when will that be?

  Her: Tomorrow nite maybe? I’ll let u know.

  Me: Fine.

  Me: Btw—totally gonna think of u when I’m jerking off 2nite.

  Her: That’s cool. I just fingered myself and pretended it was u.

  I groan out loud.

  Tucker swivels his head toward me. He looks at my face, then my phone, then rolls his eyes. “Seriously, man? You’re sexting right beside me? Get a room.”

  I wish I could get a room. Allie’s room, to be exact. But clearly that’s not in the cards tonight. And now, thanks to that little cocktease, I get to spend the rest of the bus ride with a stiffy.

  16

  Dean

  “Do you have a girlfriend?” Dakota skips around the equipment room like a tiny pixie, while I stack helmets on the shelf in front of me.

  Since the boys’ locker room isn’t exclusive to the hockey team—it’s also the one used by every other male student at Hastings Elementary—that means all the hockey gear needs to be stored in this equipment room. As assistant coach, it’s my job to put it all away.

  “Well, do you?” she demands when I take longer than two seconds to respond.

  I glance at her over my shoulder. “No, I don’t. And shouldn’t you be doing your homework right now?” Not that I mind her company. Dakota is highly entertaining.

  She hops up onto the closed lid of a large storage container and sits cross-legged. “Don’t have any homework today.” Twirling the end of her blond ponytail, she chews loudly on her gum, blows a big pink bubble, then says, “Why not?”

  “Why not what?” I shove the last helmet on the shelf and turn toward her.

  “Why don’t you have a girlfriend?”

  “Because I don’t.”

  “Have you ever had a girlfriend?”

  “Sure. I’ve had lots.” Well, not since I started college, but I don’t tell Dakota that. It probably isn’t appropriate to reveal to a ten-year-old girl that I’ve been single for the last few years because I was busy screwing my way through Briar.

  Speaking of screwing, if I don’t get some action soon, I swear to God my balls will explode. I didn’t end up seeing Allie on Sunday, and she wasn’t able to meet up yesterday either. She’s been busy with rehearsals and mentioned something about needing to make an audition tape, but I’m starting to wonder if she’s dodging me. She’d better not be, because I’m not ready for this…fling? Sure, fling. I’m not ready for this fling to end.

  “You know my brother Robbie?” Dakota asks in a hushed voice.

  I snicker loudly. “No, kid, I don’t know Robbie. I just coach his team.”

  A sheepish flush blooms on her cheeks. “Oops. Right. That was a stupid question.”

  “Ya think?”

  Giggling, she says, “Anyway, you can’t tell anyone, but Robbie has a girlfriend!”

  I raise my eyebrows. “Yeah? And how do you know that? Are you spying on your big brother?”

  “No, he told me, dum-dum. Robbie tells me everyth
ing. Her name is Lacey and she’s in eighth grade.” Dakota shakes her head in amazement. “That’s a whole grade higher than him.”

  I stifle the laughter threatening to spill over. “Landed himself an older woman, huh? Good for Robbie.”

  Dakota lowers her voice to a whisper and proceeds to tell me every single detail about her brother’s eighth-grade girlfriend. I listen obligingly, all the while trying to pinpoint exactly when it was that hanging out with middle-schoolers became the highlight of my days.

  Don’t get me wrong, the time I’ve spent at Briar has been awesome. My hockey team won three national championships, and academically I’ve always been at the top of my class. The only course I had trouble with was an incomprehensible politics class in sophomore year, which I finished with a B+. But I don’t like to think about that grade, because it’s tangled up with a lot of other bullshit I’d rather forget. Despite that, I can’t deny I’ve had a successful academic career. I knocked the LSATS out of the park. I got into Harvard Law on my own merit instead of relying on my family name.

  But I don’t remember ever being excited about my courses. I didn’t jump for joy when my LSAT scores came back. And I’m certainly not doing cartwheels at the thought of going to Harvard.

  It was always assumed that I’d go the law school route. It’s not something my folks pushed me into, but I can’t pretend it’s something I’m passionate about. Not like my brother, who lives and breathes the law. He loves his job at the firm, says that every time he steps into a courtroom, he feels alive. It’s the same way Garrett and Logan feel about playing hockey.

  Me? I’ve never had that feeling before. Loving something so hard that it buzzes through my blood and makes my entire body come to life.

  Or at least I hadn’t felt that way before Friday night, when I witnessed the Hurricanes utterly dominate the division leader. And then again today, when I set up a passing horseshoe drill and watched every boy on the ice absolutely kill it.

  “Dean, you’re not listening!”

  Dakota’s aggravated voice jerks me from my thoughts. “Sorry, kid. I spaced out. What were you saying?”

  “Nothing,” she mutters.

  She’s obviously upset about being ignored, which tells me she must have said something important. I drag a metal chair toward her, twist it around, and straddle it, resting my forearms on the backrest. “Talk to me.”

  Her bottom lip sticks out in a pout. “I was asking you a question.”

  “Okay, then ask it again. I promise to listen this time.”

  “Will you…” The rest flies out in a hurried rush. “Teachmehowtoskate?”

  “Can you slow that down?” I ask with a smile.

  “Teach me how to skate,” she repeats.

  I furrow my brow. “You don’t know how to skate?”

  Dakota slowly shakes her head.

  “Why the he—heck not?” I’m aghast. Who lives in New England and doesn’t know how to skate? That’s just blasphemy.

  “My mom only had enough money to send one of us to skating lessons, and Robbie’s older so he got to go. And he’s gonna be a famous hockey player one day so he needs to know how to skate.”

  Although Dakota’s tone is defensive, I don’t miss the note of hurt beneath the surface. My heart does a painful little somersault. My siblings and I never had these kinds of problems growing up. Our family had plenty of money, which means we didn’t have to make any sacrifices. Summer got her ballet lessons and swimming certificates. Nick and I got our skating lessons and hockey camps and all the equipment we ever needed.

  I hadn’t lied to Allie the other week—the Life of Dean is pretty fucking sweet. I’ve always gotten whatever I wanted.

  Now, seeing Dakota’s upset face, I feel like a spoiled, ungrateful brat.

  “I guess that means you don’t own skates?” I say slowly.

  She gives another shake of the head.

  “What size are your feet?”

  “I dunno. Small?”

  I chuckle. “Let me see one of your shoes.”

  She quickly pulls off a neon-pink sneaker and holds it out for me.

  After I check the size tag, I hand the shoe back and wander over to the large metal cabinet that holds the boys’ skates. Most of them are far too big for her, but after some rifling and digging around, I find a pair of Bauers on the bottom shelf that might fit her.

  I hold up the scuffed black skates. “Try these on?”

  Horror fills her big blue eyes. “But those are boy skates! I want girl skates.”

  Another laugh tickles my throat. When her expression collapses, I sigh instead. “Okay. Don’t worry, kid. I’ll see what I can do, okay?” I tuck the evil boy Bauers back in the cabinet and firmly shut the door before she bursts into tears.

  Coach Ellis chooses that moment to poke his head in the room. “Your mother’s here,” he tells Dakota.

  I’m afraid he’ll notice her stricken face and have me arrested for upsetting a minor or something, but when I glance back at Dakota, she’s all smiles.

  “Bye, Dean!” She hops off the crate and darts out the door.

  Ellis grins at me. “Sweet kid, huh?”

  I follow him out of the equipment room and we spend a couple minutes discussing what we want the boys to work on next practice. Once we wrap up, I leave the arena and check my phone on the way to my car. There’s a text from Garrett saying he’s crashing at Bristol House with Hannah tonight, but that he left his Jeep at home, so he’ll need a ride back from practice tomorrow.

  When I stride into our kitchen ten minutes later, I find a note from Tucker on the fridge, informing us he’s spending the night at a friend’s. His mysterious non-girlfriend, I suppose.

  And then? The trifecta. Logan wanders in to grab a bottle of water and says he won’t be home til late.

  “Where’re you going?” I ask as I rummage around in the fridge.

  “Boston. Grace’s dad got us tickets for this orchestra thing. Neither of us really want to go, but she says he’ll be hurt if we don’t.”

  I grin over my shoulder. “So you’re spending your evening listening to classical music?”

  “Yup,” he says glumly. “But there’s an intermission, so Grace promised we could fool around in the coat closet during it.”

  “Sounds like a good tradeoff.”

  “I know, right?”

  Logan leaves a couple minutes later, and my in-dire-need-of-sex libido springs to life at the thought of having the house to myself tonight. I don’t waste any time contacting Allie, who must be as horny as I am, because she answers right away.

  Her: YES! 3 days of stress = coming over right after my workout. Gimme a couple hours, tho.

  Me: Favor to ask.

  Her: ?

  Me: Bring Winston.

  The request earns me a laughing emoticon and a winky face, which could either mean “That’s hilarious but no” or “That’s hilarious and yes I will.” I hope for the latter.

  *

  I flip through a Sports Illustrated at the kitchen counter while I scarf down my dinner, which consists of leftover chicken and broccoli. The team nutritionist emails us a weekly list of suggested meal plans, but Tucker, our resident chef, seems to think the word “suggested” means “mandatory” because he refuses to keep any junk food in the house. Since he’s the only one who remembers to go grocery shopping and the only one who actually enjoys cooking, this is the healthiest house on the fucking planet.

  After dinner, I shower, shave, and do a little bit of manscaping, because I’m nice like that. Then I settle at my desk to start my International Relations paper, which I’m still working on when Allie rings the doorbell. I save the file, close the laptop, and go downstairs to let her in.

  She’s on the phone when I swing open the door. She mouths, “Sorry” and holds up one finger to indicate she’ll be a minute.

  “Want dinner?” I murmur as she enters the front hall. “We’ve got leftovers.”

  Allie covers the mou
thpiece for a second. “Thanks, I already ate.” She lifts her hand, “No, I’m still here, Ira. And yes, I sent you the tape. I don’t get why you needed it this fast, if they’re not making any casting decisions until February.”

  We head upstairs, and I let her walk ahead of me so I can admire her ass. When we reach the second-floor landing, I can’t help but ease in behind her, rubbing my aching groin against her bottom as I bend my head to kiss her neck.

  She shivers and swats me away. “I don’t know,” she says into the phone. “I’m still on the fence about this role.” She pauses. “Yes, I read what they asked me to read. My friend Megan read Zoey’s part off-camera.”

  I notice that she keeps rubbing her lower back. Every time her palm touches a certain spot, her expression grows pained. Or maybe she’s just annoyed with whatever this Ira dude is saying to her.

  “I overnighted it to you at the campus shipping center, so you should get it tomorrow afternoon.” She presses her hand to her tailbone, massaging absently. “If you think I need to redo it, I will. But I did the best I could with what they gave me…yes…yes, Ira…we’ll talk tomorrow.”

  She hangs up and turns toward me. “My agent is driving me nuts,” she announces.

  I hadn’t even known she had an agent, so I’m notably impressed. “How come?”

  “He wants me to audition for this Fox pilot, but I’m not able to fly to LA for the casting session so I had to send an audition tape instead. Now he’s all worried that my ‘natural charm’ won’t show through on camera. Which is fricking stupid, because that’s what television acting is—conveying emotion on camera.”

  I frown when I notice she’s still clutching her back. “What’s wrong?”

  “I don’t know,” she moans. “I think I pulled something at the gym. I’ve been super stressed about this play I’m doing, and I worked myself too hard tonight. My back is killing me.”

  “Want me to rub it for you?”

  “God, yes. Please?”

  I’m about to instruct her to lie on the bed, but then I have a better idea. “Get naked,” I order. “I’ll be right back.”

  After years of playing sports, I’m no stranger to aches and pains. Tight muscles, sore ribs, busted knees…I’ve had it all, and I discovered a long time ago that nothing loosens me up more than a good soak. Since a visit to the team facility’s whirlpool or steam room isn’t an option, I do the next best thing by running a scalding hot bath.