“Ah, thanks for the invite, but I’m having drinks with Maxwell. Not sure when I’ll be home.”
The conversation ends as we step into our respective stalls. I’ve barely finished soaping my balls when Logan shuts off his water. Jeez. Dude just showered like someone had offered him a million bucks if he could lather up and rinse off in less than thirty seconds.
“Later,” he calls as he slaps a towel around his waist and ducks out of the shower area.
I know he’s eager to see Grace, and for some reason that brings a strange flutter to my chest. It’s not quite jealousy. Not quite resentment. Disappointment, maybe?
I get it. My best friends are in love. They’d rather cuddle and make kissy faces at their women than hang out with the boys, and I’m not pissed at them for it, not in the slightest. Thing is, this feels like the beginning of the end for us.
After my older brother graduated from Harvard, he lost touch with his college friends within months. Teammates he once would’ve laid down his life for? Hardly speaks to them now. Friends from law school? They exchange one email a month, tops.
I understand that friends drift apart after college. People get married. They move away. They make new friends and develop other interests. But I hate the idea of not having Garrett or Logan or Tuck in my life. I also hate this cynical part of my brain that points out the inevitability of that outcome.
I’ll be in law school next year. I won’t have time to sleep let alone see my friends. Garrett will most likely be living in another city, playing in the NHL. Logan too, if it works out with the Providence Bruins, the farm team that has already stated their interest in signing him after he graduates. It’s only a matter of time before he’s called up to the pros and moving away, too. And who knows what Tucker plans to do after college. He might move back to Texas, for all I know.
Fuck. Why am I feeling so philosophical tonight? Maybe it’s because I haven’t had sex in three days. Sadly, that’s a long time for me, and my balls don’t like it. I blame Allie, of course.
“Dean!”
A familiar voice calls out to me as I leave the team facility. I spot Kelly sashaying up the path toward me, looking like she stepped off the pages of a New England clothing catalog. A thick red scarf winds around her neck, and she’s rocking a pair of brown leather boots and a long gray peacoat. Her blond hair is up in a messy knot, with long strands framing her face.
She’s hot as fuck, but truthfully, I haven’t thought about her or Michelle since I slept with Allie. Still, I don’t feel guilty that I haven’t called or texted her, and Kelly doesn’t scold me for it as she greets me with a warm hug. Like I said, chicks know where I stand these days. And ironically, when Kelly and Michelle approached me at Malone’s, they’d given me the no-strings speech before I could even open my mouth. They’d straight up told me they only wanted my dick, and I was happy to oblige.
“Did you have a good weekend?” she asks.
I shrug. “Could’ve been better.” If a certain someone didn’t keep turning me down.
“Aw, that’s no good.” She smiles. “I have something that will cheer you up, though. My sister’s in town. I told her all about you, and she’d love to meet you. She’s staying with me and Michelle…”
There is no way to misinterpret the invitation. “Ah. Well…” I’m not sure how to respond to that.
“Did I mention she’s my twin sister?”
Holy hell.
“Oh, and Michelle’s down too…” Kelly winks at me. “Everyone always says three is the magic number, but I’m thinking four is even better.”
I wait for my dick to respond. Fuck, I order it to respond. A semi, a ball tingle, a twitch. Anything, damn it. But there’s nothing stirring south of the equator. It’s like my equipment just stopped working.
Come on, Little Dean, help me out, I plead silently. We’re talking fourgy here.
Still flaccid. Apparently Little Dean isn’t going to cooperate unless I give him what he wants. And what he wants, unfortunately, is not Kelly, Michelle and Kelly’s twin sister.
It’s Allie Hayes.
“That sounds…amazing. Really. But I have to pass. I’m having drinks with a buddy tonight,” I say ruefully.
“Anyone I know?”
“Uh, maybe. Beau Maxwell. He’s—”
“The quarterback of our football team,” she finishes. A seductive glint lights her eyes. “Invite him along. Five can be just as fun as four…”
Oh sweet baby Jesus.
I want to be turned on. I pray for it to happen. But Little Dean ain’t having it.
As frustration forms a knot in my gut, I mumble another excuse, ask for a rain check, and then stomp toward my car, cursing my dick the entire time.
*
Twenty minutes later, I slide into the back booth at Malone’s. “Sorry I’m late,” I tell Beau. “Practice lasted an extra hour.”
Briar’s starting quarterback shrugs his big shoulders. “No worries. I just got here a couple minutes ago.” To my relief, the glass of dark ale in front of him has barely been sipped.
As I shrug out of my hockey jacket and toss it beside me on the bench seat, a cute brunette waitress wanders over to take my order.
“So whatcha been up to?” Beau asks after she leaves. “I haven’t seen you since midterms ended.”
“I know, man. Our practice schedule has been brutal. We lost every pre-season game and Coach Jensen is shitting a brick.”
“Fuck, I hear ya. Deluca is shitting bricks too,” he admits, referring to his head coach. “We have no chance of making the playoffs. Hell, I’ll be surprised if we even play in a bowl game.” His face is gloomier than I’ve ever seen it, but there’s not much I can offer in terms of reassurance.
The football team already has three losses under their belt. One or two, maybe they could’ve come back from. But three pretty much torpedoes their chances of ranking this season.
Beau’s blue eyes darken as he takes a long swig of beer and chugs nearly half the pint glass. I feel his frustration. I know what it’s like to be an above average player on a below average team. Granted, the hockey season just started and pre-season games don’t count for standings, but our ineffective game play and clumsy practices don’t bode well for the upcoming season.
On the other hand, we’re three-time national champions, so it’s not like I’ll be crying in my pillow every night if we don’t make it to the playoffs this year. Hell, maybe we’re due for a bad season. Could be the hockey gods’ way of keeping us humble.
Beau’s situation is different, though. Briar recruited him out of high school and he blew everyone away during his freshman year. The coaches actually benched their senior quarterback and named Beau as the starter. He led the team to an undefeated season and took them all the way to the championship game. They lost, sure, but Briar going to the playoffs after more than a decade of being shut out had been a major achievement.
The following year, shit fell apart. Nearly all the star players on the team either graduated or declared early for the draft, leaving Beau with a weak offensive line and an even weaker receiving corps. The team has been racking up losses ever since, which is disheartening in general, but even more so because Beau happens to be an incredibly talented quarterback. Unfortunately for him, he doesn’t have the necessary weapons around him that it takes to win.
“You had the opportunity to transfer in sophomore year,” I remind him. “LSU all but sucked your dick to lure you down there.”
He scowls. “And, what, abandon my team? What kind of asshole does that?”
An asshole who wants to play for the NFL, I want to say, but I bite back the remark. Thanks to the football team’s recent performances, the chances of Beau going high in the draft—or getting drafted at all—are pretty slim. But I suppose his loyalty to Briar is admirable. It definitely speaks to his character, that’s for sure.
“Subject change,” Beau orders. “Now, before I start crying in my Sam Adams.”
&
nbsp; As if on cue, the waitress returns to deliver my Coors Light. I’d asked for a bottle instead of a pint glass, and she makes an elaborate show of popping off the cap and passing me the longneck, bending low so I have a perfect view of her cleavage.
“You boys let me know if you need anything else,” she coos. “I’m only a holler away.”
We both check out her ass when she turns around. I don’t even feel pervy about it, because she’s pretty much inviting our appreciative glances by shaking that round bottom and swaying her hips as she walks. Her short black shirt reminds me of the other fine ass I saw this weekend. An ass that Beau, despite my numerous vocal warnings, is very familiar with.
“I saw Sabrina at Malone’s on Friday,” I tell him.
He shifts his gaze away from the waitress. “Yeah?”
I nod. “You still seeing her?” And by seeing, I mean no-strings banging, because Beau and I are kindred spirits. He doesn’t do relationships, either.
“Naah. It fizzled out,” he admits. “She’s too busy.”
“Busy doing what?” As far as I know, Sabrina doesn’t even have a job.
“No clue. She lives in Boston, so I guess the commute has something to do with it. But it got to the point where she was only coming to see me once, maybe twice a month? And she disappears on the weekends, just…poof, disappears.” He shrugs. “I figured she was playing hard to get, but now I legit think she’s leading a double life.” He pauses. “You think she’s CIA?”
I consider it. “No conscience, black heart…yeah, makes sense.”
He snickers. “Aw, fuck off. She’s a cool chick, even if she is impossible to read.”
“If by cool chick you mean ‘judgmental bitch’, then sure.” It’s my turn to change the subject. “Hey, so Justin came by last week, and he said there’s this freshman wideout on the team who might amount to something?”
Beau nods. “Johnson. He’s fast, but he still has issues with securing the ball.”
We chat about our respective teams again for the next ten minutes. I might play hockey while Beau is Mr. Football, but we’re fans of each other’s sports, so the conversation flows smoothly between us. After we’ve ordered a second round of beers, the subject shifts back to chicks, as I glumly relay to Beau the offer Kelly had made back at the arena.
“What the fuck, man? You turned down an orgy? An orgy I was invited to?” He shakes his head at me. “Are you coming down with the flu or something?”
I run my fingers along the neck of the beer bottle. “Naah. Just wasn’t feeling it.”
“You weren’t feeling an orgy—with twin sisters.” Disbelief drips from his tone. “Who the hell are you and what have you done with my man Dean?”
I groan. “I don’t know. I’m screwed, dude. I hooked up with someone the other night, and now I can’t get her out of my head.”
“You’re shitting me.”
“Nope. God-awful truth.”
Beau continues to gape at me.
“You think I like this?” I say defensively. “Trust me, I don’t need this headache in my life.” I swallow a mouthful of beer. “Hey. You know Twilight?”
He blinks. “Excuse me?”
“Twilight. The vampire book.”
His wary eyes study my face. “What about it?”
“Okay, so you know how Bella’s blood is extra special? Like how it gives Edward a raging boner every time he’s around her?”
“Are you fucking with me right now?”
I ignore that. “Do you think it happens in real life? Pheromones and all that crap. Is it a bullshit theory some horndog dreamed up so he could justify why he’s attracted to his mother or some shit? Or is there actually a biological reason why we’re drawn to certain people? Like goddamn Twilight. Edward wants her on a biological level, right?”
“Are you seriously dissecting Twilight right now?”
God, I am. This is what Allie has reduced me to. A sad, pathetic loser who goes to a bar and forces his friend to participate in a Twilight book club.
“I don’t know whether to make fun of you or refer you to a shrink,” Beau says solemnly. “I’ve never met a dude who’s actually read that book.”
“I haven’t read it. My sister was obsessed with those books when they came out. She used to follow me around the house and offer me recaps against my will.”
“Uh-huh. Sure. Blame it on your sister.” Beau laughs before going serious again. “Okay, so you’re horny for this chick. Why don’t you just nail her again?”
“Because she doesn’t want to hook up again,” I reply through clenched teeth.
“Impossible. Everyone wants to hook up with you.”
“I know, right?” I lift the bottle to my lips. “So what should I do?”
Beau offers a shrug. “Get over it. Go out with someone else.”
I only pick up on the Wayne’s World reference because Tucker and I literally watched it last weekend when it came on TV. “Nice.” I grin at him and add, “I don’t even own a gun, let alone many guns that would necessitate an entire rack.”
We both recite the next line, “What am I gonna do…with a gun rack?”
Our loser selves proceed to break out in laughter and high five each other, and then Beau addresses the topic at hand. “Seriously, though.” He gestures around the bar. “This place is full of women who’d sell their firstborn to go home with you. Pick one and sex this other chick right out of your head.”
“My dick won’t let me,” I mutter.
Beau snickers. “Can you repeat that, please?”
“My dick is being difficult,” I explain irritably. “I tried to jerk off to porn last night, and swear to God, damn thing wouldn’t get hard. Then I thought of All—this girl,” I correct myself, because I promised Allie I wouldn’t tell anyone about our night together “—and bam” I snap my fingers. “Hard as a rock.”
Beau eyes me thoughtfully. “You know, I don’t think we’re dealing with a Bella’s-magical-blood situation here.”
“No?”
“No. I think you’ve imprinted on this girl’s pussy.”
A choked cough sounds from behind me, and I turn in time to see our waitress walking by. Her cheeks are red, lips twitching as if she’s trying not to bust a gut.
I turn back to Beau. “What do you mean?”
“I mean you’re facing a Jacob quandary. You imprinted on her pussy, and now it’s the only pussy you can think about. You exist solely for this pussy. Like Jacob and that weird mutant baby.”
“You fucking asshole. You’ve totally read those books.”
“Nuh-uh,” Beau protests. He gives a sheepish grin. “I’ve seen the movies.”
I decide to save my taunting for later because there are more pressing matters to focus on. “So what’s the cure, Dr. Maxwell? Go on a fuck spree and hope I un-imprint? Or keep working the charm and hope I wear her down?”
My buddy snorts loudly. “How would I know?” He raises his pint glass. “I’m drunk, dude. Nobody should ever listen to me when I’m drunk.” He drains his glass and signals the waitress for another. “Hell, nobody should listen to me when I’m sober.”
8
Dean
The second game of the season is an unmitigated disaster. No. Scratch that. It’s a goddamn bloodbath.
Nobody says a word as we file into the locker room, the humiliation of the loss creeping behind us like a puddle of tar. We may as well have yanked our pants down, stuck our bare asses in the air and cheerfully asked the other team for a spanking. We fucking handed them the win. No, we handed them a shutout.
As I whip off my jersey, I mentally replay every second of the game. Every mistake we made out there tonight is burned into my mind like a cattle brand. Losing sucks. Losing at home sucks harder.
Damn, there are going to be a lot of disappointed fans at Malone’s tonight. I’m not looking forward to seeing them, and I know my teammates are equally upset. None more so than Hunter, who hurriedly strips out of his uniform as i
f it’s covered with fire ants.
“You got some nice shots on goal tonight,” I tell him, and it’s the truth. Our scoreless game wasn’t for lack of trying. We played hard. The other team just played harder.
“Would’ve been nicer if one of them went in,” he mutters.
I stifle a sigh. “Their goalie was on point tonight. Even G couldn’t get one past him.”
Garrett takes that moment to lumber up to his locker, and he’s quick to reassure the frowning freshman. “Don’t sweat it, kid. There’s plenty more hockey to be played this season. We’ll bounce back.”
“Yeah. Sure.” Hunter is unconvinced. We don’t get the chance to offer more encouragement, because Coach Jensen strides into the locker room, tailed by Frank O’Shea.
Coach wastes no time delivering one of his brief, post-game speeches. As usual, it sounds like he’s talking in point form.
“We lost. It feels shitty. Don’t let it get to you. Just means we work harder during practice and bring it harder for the next game.” He nods at everyone, then stalks out the door.
I’d think he was pissed at us, if not for the fact that his victory speeches more or less go the same way—“We won. It feels great. Don’t let it go to your head. We work just as hard during practice and we win more games.” If any of our freshman players are expecting Coach to deliver epic motivational speeches a la Kurt Russell in Miracle, they’re in for a grave disappointment.
O’Shea lingers in the room. My shoulders instinctively tense when he trudges toward me, but he surprises me by saying, “Good coverage in the defensive zone tonight. That was a solid block in the second.”
“Thanks.” I’m still suspicious of the unexpected compliment, but he’s already moved on to praise Logan for successfully killing the power play in the third period.
I toss my gear in one of the huge laundry bins, then head for the showers and wash the stench of failure off my body. I hate losing, but I don’t allow myself more than ten minutes to dwell on it. My father taught me that trick when I was eight years old, after a particularly demoralizing loss on the lacrosse field.