I force myself to speak. “We’re cool, Dean.” My phone buzzes and I see a text from Meg saying she’s five minutes away. “I need to get dressed. Megan will be here soon.” I bite my lip when something occurs to me. “Crap. My clothes are downstairs. Tucker…”
As I trail off, Dean wanders over to the window and peeks behind the curtains. “He’s not here—Logan’s truck is gone. Guess he didn’t come home last night.”
Relief hits me, but also a burst of annoyance. Because where was Tucker yesterday when I needed him? If he’d been home, I probably wouldn’t have ended up in bed with Dean. Or maybe instead, I would’ve ended up in bed with Tucker, who happens to be the hottest ginger I’ve ever met. He’s also far quieter than his roommates and doesn’t talk about himself much, but from what I can glean, he’s smart, well-spoken, and definitely easy on the eyes.
In hindsight, Tuck would have been a fantastic rebound candidate.
“I’m going to run down and get my clothes,” I mutter awkwardly.
He calls out after me. “What are you going to tell Wellsy about bailing mid-weekend? You know she’ll ask questions.”
Damn it. He’s right. “I’ll tell her I decided to put on my big girl pants and deal with my breakup at home.”
I’m halfway to the door when his voice stops me again. “Allie.”
“Yeah?” I turn around.
His green eyes flicker unhappily. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
Nope, I’m not sure at all. “I’m fine,” I lie, then duck out of the bedroom.
As far as walks of shame go, this one isn’t so bad because at least there’s nobody around to witness it.
4
Dean
I’ve always been popular. Doesn’t matter how far back I go in my memory bank, I always see myself surrounded by friends. And girls. Lots and lots of girls. The giggling ones in grade school who slipped me Do you like me??? notes when the teacher was facing the blackboard. The ones in high school who’d fight for my attention and line up to make out with me on the lacrosse field after hours.
And college, don’t get me started on college. I thought I knew the meaning of chick magnet before I came to Briar, but these past three years have exceeded even my own expectations about my desirability. The older I get, the more the ladies dig me.
So yeah, I’m not surprised that Allie threw herself at me last night. It was an inevitability the moment she informed me I have “perfect nipples.”
But the sheer disgust on her face this morning when we woke up in bed together? That’s a new one.
“Fuckin’ Corsen wouldn’t be able to stop a puck if it was moving two miles an hour in a straight path toward him.”
My teammate’s grumbled complaint draws me from my thoughts and makes me stifle a groan. My boy Hunter doesn’t seem to understand bar etiquette. You don’t go to bars to gripe and moan about a hockey game. You go to bars to score. Period.
But the kid’s only eighteen. He’ll wise up one day.
“Dude, the game was two days ago,” I tell the freshman. “Get over it.”
I scan the bar for Tucker, but my roommate hasn’t shown up yet. It’s mostly the hockey crowd that fills up the bar tonight. Several of my teammates, tons of fans, and a parade of scantily clad puck bunnies. More than a few appreciative female gazes flit in our direction, but Hunter doesn’t seem to notice a single one.
His features are tight, and he’s barely touched his drink. “This is your fault, you know.” Accusation rings in his tone. “I didn’t even want to play this year, but you just had to talk me into it. I could have ended my career as the star forward on the number one ranked prep school team in the country. And now I’m the nobody left wing on a team that’s going down the shitter.”
I sip my beer. “Anyone ever tell you you’re a sore loser?”
“Oh fuck off. Like you enjoy losing.”
“Of course I don’t. But I also know that winning isn’t everything. Oh, and by the way? Glass houses, throwing stones, et cetera et cetera.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“It means that instead of blaming Corsen for letting in three goals, you should be concentrating on the fact that you didn’t score a single one. This ain’t prep school, Superstar. College D-men aren’t as easy to deke out.”
Harsh, but true. And Hunter Davenport needs to hear it. Coach has been going easy on Hunter in practice, because other than Garrett, he’s the only forward on the roster who’s capable of greatness. But unlike Garrett, Hunter has one major weakness: overconfidence. The kid thinks he’s the next Sidney Crosby.
“You’re saying I’m not good enough to play at this level?” Rather than anger, Hunter’s expression conveys distress, which only highlights his major strength: he’s always striving to get better.
“I’m saying you need work. You made some amateur mistakes the other night. Like when Fitzy was in trouble after that power play? You went to bail him out—that’s not your job, bro. You don’t skate into another winger’s corner. You’ve gotta trust your center to help the other guy out.”