The Goal (Off-Campus #4)(4)
“Do you remember Ten-Second Greg, though?”
I shudder. “First, thank you very little for bringing that bad memory up, and second, I’m not saying there aren’t duds. Just that the odds are better with an athlete.”
“And the hockey players are duds?” Carin asks.
I shrug. “I wouldn’t know. I didn’t ax them from my list of potentials because of their performance in the sack, but because they’re hyper-privileged jerks who get special favors from the profs.”
“Sabrina, girl, you got to let that go,” Hope urges.
“Nope. Hockey players don’t make the cut.”
“God, but look at what you’re missing out on.” Carin licks her lips with exaggerated lasciviousness. “That one guy on the team with the beard? I want to know what that feels like. Beards are on my bucket list.”
“Go on then. My boycott against hockey players just means more for you.”
“I’m on board with this, but…” She smirks. “Need I remind you that you hooked up with the manslut Di Laurentis?”
Ugh. That’s a reminder I never need to hear.
“First, I was totally drunk,” I grumble. “Second, that was sophomore year. And third, he’s the reason I’ve sworn off hockey players.”
Even though Briar University has a championship-winning football team, it’s known as a hockey college. The guys who wear skates are treated like gods. Case in point—Dean Heyward-Di Laurentis. He’s a poli sci major like me, so we’ve had several classes together, including Statistics in our sophomore year. That course was hard as fuck. Everyone struggled.
Everyone but Dean, who was screwing the TA.
And—shocker!—she gave him an A, which he absolutely did not deserve. I know this for a fact, because we were paired together for the final assignment, and I saw the garbage he turned in.
When I found out he aced it, I wanted to chop his dick off. It was so unfair. I worked my butt off in that course. Hell, I work my butt off for everything. My every accomplishment is stained with my blood, sweat and tears. Meanwhile, some asshole gets the world handed to him on a platter? Fuck. That.
“She’s getting mad again,” Hope stage-whispers to Carin.
“She’s thinking about how Di Laurentis got an A in that one class,” Carin shout-whispers back. “She really does need to get laid. How long has it been?”
I start to flip her off again when it occurs to me that I can’t remember my last hookup.
“There was, um, Meyer? The lacrosse guy. That was in September. And after that was Beau…” I brighten up. “Ha! See? It’s only been a little over a month. Hardly a national emergency.”
“Girl, someone with your schedule isn’t allowed to go a month without sex,” Hope counters. “You’re a walking ball of stress, which means you need a good dicking at least…daily,” she decides.
“Every other day,” Carin argues. “Give her lady garden some time to rest.”
Hope nods. “Fine. But no rest for the pussy tonight—”
I snort in laughter.
“You hear that, B? You’ve been fed, you had an afternoon nap, and now you need some sexy times,” Carin declares.
“But Malone’s?” I repeat warily. “We just established that the place is crawling with hockey players.”
“Not exclusively. I bet Beau is there. Want me to ask D’Andre?” Hope holds up her phone, but I shake my head.
“Beau’s too much of a time commitment. Like he wanted to talk during sex. I want to do the deed and leave.”
“Oooh, talking! Scary.”
“Shut it.”
“Make me.” Hope tosses her head, her long braids smacking against my coat, and then exits Professor Gibson’s house.
Carin shrugs and follows her, and after a second of hesitation, I do too. Our coats are drenched by the time we reach Hope’s car, but we have our hoods on, so our hair survives the downpour.
I’m really not in the mood to chat up any guys tonight, but I can’t deny that my friends are right. I’ve been plagued with tension for weeks, and these past few days I’ve definitely been feeling the…itch. The kind of itch that can only be scratched with a hard, ripped body and a hopefully above average-sized cock.
Except I’m extremely selective about who I hook up with, and just as I’d feared, Malone’s is thick with hockey players when the girls and I stride inside five minutes later.
But hey, if that’s the hand I’ve been dealt, then I guess there’s no harm in playing it and seeing what happens.
Still, I have zero expectations as I follow my friends to the bar counter.
2
Tucker
“Stay away from that one, kid. She’s toxic.”
Dean is dispensing his (usually misguided) wisdom to our freshman left wing, Hunter Davenport, as I walk into Malone’s out of the pouring rain.
The roads are shit, and I don’t particularly want to be here tonight, but Dean insisted that we needed to party. He’d been restlessly pacing our townhouse all day, grumpy as hell and obviously upset, but when I questioned him about it, he shrugged and said he was feeling antsy.
Which is bull. I might be considered quiet compared to my loud-mouthed teammates, but I ain’t slow. And I sure as hell don’t need to be a detective to put the clues together.