The Goal (Off-Campus #4)(17)
Still, it fucking sucks balls. When we were sitting on that bench the other day, I wanted nothing more than to pull her onto my lap and fuck her right there, and to hell with anyone walking by. The Dean himself could’ve been standing there tapping his watch and I still wouldn’t have stopped. It had taken all my willpower to suppress the primal urges, but man, something about that girl…
It’s not just her beauty, though that doesn’t hurt at all. It’s…it’s…damn, I can’t even put it into words. She’s got this hard exterior, but inside she’s as soft as butter. I see flashes of vulnerability in her bottomless dark eyes and I just want to…take care of her.
The guys would laugh if they knew what I was thinking right now. Or hell, maybe they wouldn’t. They already rag me daily at home about my “nurturing” side. I’m our resident cook, do most of the cleaning, make sure shit around the house is in working order.
That’s how my mom raised me, though. I didn’t have a dad. He died when I was three and I barely remember him. But Mom more than made up for him not being there, and the father figure I was lacking came in the form of my hockey coaches.
Texas is a football state. I probably would’ve gone that route if it weren’t for a vacation we took to Wisconsin when I was five. Once a year, Mom and I would visit my dad’s sister in Green Bay. Or at least we tried to. Sometimes money wouldn’t allow it, but we did our best.
During that visit, Aunt Nancy bundled me up and took me skating. It’s goddamn cold in Green Bay—I imagine that’s most people’s worst nightmare, but I loved the chill on my cheeks, the frigid air hissing past my ears as I skated on that outdoor pond. A few older kids had a game of hockey going, and I got a thrill watching them whiz across the pond. It looked like so much fun. When Mom and I got back to Texas the following week, I announced that I wanted to play hockey. She’d laughed indulgently, but humored me, finding a year-round rink an hour from home.
I think she thought I would grow out of it. Instead, I grew to love it even more.
Now I’m here, at an East Coast Ivy League college, playing hockey for a team that’s won three national championships—consecutively. But I have a feeling there won’t be a fourth, not the way we’re playing lately.
“What, you’ve forgotten how to talk?”
I look over and find Dean watching me with a wary expression. What? Oh, right, he wants to know what I was up to this weekend.
“Just hanging with some friends,” I say vaguely.
“What friends? All your friends are here—” He waves a hand around the rink. “And I know for a fact you weren’t with any of them.”
I shrug. “You don’t know these friends.” Then I shift my gaze back to the ice as Dean grumbles beside me.
“Jesus fuck, you’re worse than Antoine and Marie-Thérèse.”
My head swings back. “Excuse me?”
“Forget it,” he mutters.
Who the fuck are Antoine and Marie-Thérèse? Just like Dean knows all my friends, I know all of his, and I’m pretty sure we don’t know anyone with those names. But whatever. I don’t want him pushing me for answers, so I’m not about to push him.
“Fuck yeah!” a voice yells from the other end of the bench.
I refocus on the ice in time to see Garrett slap a bullet past Patrick, our senior goalie. It’s the first and only goal of the scrimmage, and all the guys on the bench thump their gloves against the wall in celebration.
Coach blows his whistle and dismisses us, so we end the practice on a good note. Sort of. The d-men are asked to stay behind as usual, and I don’t miss the frustration in Dean’s and Logan’s eyes. O’Shea’s gonna need to lighten up if he wants to win the respect of this team.
In the locker room, I strip out of my sweaty jersey and pads and drop my hockey pants on the gleaming floor. We’ve got a state-of-the-art facility here. The room is huge, the lockers are padded leather, and the ventilation system is top-notch. It only slightly smells like old socks in here.
Garrett comes up beside me and whips off his helmet. His dark hair is damp with sweat and sticking to his forehead. As he reaches up to smooth his hair away, I glance at the badass flames tattooed on his biceps. It always makes me think I want to get inked myself, but then I remember the travesty on Hollis’ leg that he got after our first Frozen Four win. Three years later, and he still wears long socks to cover it up most of the time.
“Think we’ll ever remember how to play hockey again?” he says wryly.
I snort. “Season’s just started. We’ll be fine.”
He doesn’t seem convinced. Neither does Hunter Davenport, who lumbers over with a sour look.
“We keep getting worse,” the freshman growls, and then, in eighteen-year-old fashion, hurls one glove against the wall.
I quickly glance around and sigh in relief when I don’t spot Coach. The man would shit a brick if he saw one of us throwing a temper tantrum in the locker room.
“Chillax, kid,” Mike Hollis, a junior, tells Hunter. He’s bare-chested and in the process of undoing his pants. “Who cares if we lose a scrimmage in practice?”
“It’s not about the scrimmage,” Hunter snaps. “It’s that we suck.”
Hollis tips his head. “You got laid last night, didn’t ya?”