The Score (Off-Campus #3)(50)

15




Dean


Saturday night’s game against Yale starts off promising.

After Garrett scores an early goal, we successfully manage to keep Yale out of our zone for most of the first period. Well, except for when Brodowski foolishly gets out of position and hands Yale’s center and right wing a breakaway.

Thanks to that bonehead move, I’m faced with an odd man rush and it’s pure blind luck that Yale doesn’t get a goal out of it—the shot smacks off the pipe. I dive toward the puck and snap off a quick pass to Hunter. Our forwards blessedly fly past the center line into Yale territory, while I do my damnedest not to strangle Brodowski as we whiz toward the bench for a line change.

I squirt water through my face guard and spit it at my feet. Sweat pours down my face from the exertion it took to singlehandedly defend our zone.

Beside me, Brodowski is properly shamefaced. “I messed up the coverage,” he mutters to me.

I grit my teeth and say, “Happens to the best of us.” Because that’s what you’re supposed to say when you’re part of a team. We don’t play the blame game here at Briar.

But if anyone is to blame for that breakaway? It’s Brodowski, sure as shit.

“What happened to your lip?” he asks, studying the thin red cut splitting my bottom lip.

“Sex,” I grunt in response.

On my other side, Tucker snickers. He’d asked me the same thing this morning, and I’d given him the same non-answer.

On the other side of Tucker, one of our freshman wingers looks highly impressed. “You’re my idol, dude,” he calls out.

The first line’s shift lasts for the rest of the period, and we hit the locker room with a lead of 1-0. For the first time in weeks, morale is high.

The second period starts off exactly like the first. Another early goal, this time courtesy of Fitzy. We’re leading 2-0 now, and Yale is feeling the pressure. As a result, they come at us hard, playing aggressively and taking shot after shot at goal. Patrick Corsen, our goaltender, is nowhere near as talented as our old goalie Simms, who graduated last year. He also has a bad habit of skating too far from the crease, so when the opposing winger connects with a centering pass from his D-man, Corsen isn’t in position to stop the puck.

But it’s all right. We’re still in the lead. For…oh, about another thirty seconds. I’m hopping out for my shift when the same winger who’d just scored does an impressive wraparound and flicks another shot past Corsen. The fucker scores again. Two goals in less than a minute, and just like that, our lead becomes a tie.

The rest of the second is scoreless.

In the third, everything falls apart for us. I can’t even count all the things that go wrong—it’s one bullshit error after the other.

Logan takes a two-minute penalty for slashing. Yale scores on the power play.

2-3.

Wilkes lands in the sin bin for hooking. Yale scores on the power play.

2-4.

Corsen is faked out by a winger, who moves as if he’s shooting low, then snaps the puck high. It flies into the net, top left corner. Yale scores, and this time we weren’t even short-handed.

2-5.

Hunter slaps in a one-timer.

3-5.

I take a brainless tripping penalty. Yale scores on the power play.

3-6.

The final buzzer sounds, and we’ve lost our third game of the season. Fun times.

*

O’Shea pulls me aside before I can board the bus. He already yelled at me and Logan in the locker room for taking foolish penalties that resulted in two goals for the other team, and I sincerely hope he’s not gearing up to do it again. I’m in a foul mood and my brain-to-mouth filters aren’t working at full capacity right now. If O’Shea pushes my buttons, I don’t know that I can control my temper.

“What is it, Coach?” I ask as politely as possible.

His dark eyes flick over me, and then he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a BlackBerry. Which momentarily distracts me, because I can’t remember the last time I saw a BlackBerry. Doesn’t pretty much everyone have an iPhone these days?

“Anything you’d like to tell me?” O’Shea says coolly.

I am literally drawing a blank. “Um…about what?”

His jaw ticks. Without a word, he hands me the phone.

There’s a slight queasiness in my gut as I glance at the screen. It’s open to an Instagram account I don’t recognize, but the photo in question features a slew of familiar faces, including my own. I’m not sure who took it, but it was obviously some chick who was at Malone’s on Thursday night, because the hashtags below the image are #HockeyHotties and #SexyBriarBoys.

I’ll be honest—I’m not really seeing the problem here. The picture shows the guys and me clinking our shot glasses together in cheers. We’d ordered the round of shots before switching to pitchers of beer. And sure, we’re drinking, but none of us are minors, and it’s not like we’d gotten caught with our pants down, hanging brain. We’re just sitting in a booth, for chrissake.

“Still have nothing to say?”

I raise my gaze to O’Shea’s. “This was taken on Thursday night. We were celebrating Fitzy’s birthday.”

“I can see that. And exactly how much celebrating did you do?”