The Deal

“Hockey is my entire life,” I say gruffly. “I practice six days a week, play twenty games a year—more if we make it to the post-season. I don’t have time for a girlfriend, Kendall. And you deserve a helluva lot more than I can give you.”


Unhappiness clouds her eyes. “I don’t want a casual fling anymore. I want to be your girlfriend.”

Another why almost flies out of my mouth, but I bite my tongue. If she’d shown any interest in me outside the carnal sense, I might believe her, but the fact that she hasn’t makes me wonder if the only reason she wants a relationship with me is because I’m some kind of status symbol to her.

I swallow my frustration and offer another awkward apology. “I’m sorry. But that’s where I’m at right now.”

As I zip up my jeans, she refocuses her attention on getting her clothes on. Though clothes is a bit of a stretch—all she’s sporting is lingerie and a trench coat. Which explains why Logan and Tucker were grinning like idiots when I got home. Because when a girl shows up at your door in a trench coat, you know damn well there’s not much else underneath it.

“I can’t see you anymore,” she finally says, her gaze finding mine. “If we keep doing…this…I’ll only get more attached.”

I can’t argue with that, so I don’t. “We had fun, though, right?”

After a beat, she smiles. “Yeah, we had fun.”

She bridges the distance between us and leans up on her tiptoes to kiss me. I kiss her back, but not with the same degree of passion as before. I keep it light. Polite. The fling has run its course, and I’m not about to lead her on again.

“With that said…” Her eyes twinkle mischievously. “Let me know if you change your mind about the girlfriend thing.”

“You’ll be the first person I call,” I promise.

“Good.”

She smacks a kiss on my cheek and walks out the door, leaving me to marvel over how easy that went. I’d been steeling myself for a fight, but aside from that initial burst of anger, Kendall had accepted the situation like a pro.

If only all women were as agreeable as her.

Yup, totally a jab at Hannah there.

Sex always stirs up my appetite, so I head downstairs in search of nourishment, and I’m happy to find there’s still leftover rice and fried chicken courtesy of Tuck, who is our resident chef because the rest of us can’t boil water without burning it. Tuck, on the other hand, grew up in Texas with a single mom who taught him to cook when he was still in diapers.

I settle at the eat-in counter, shoving a piece of chicken in my mouth just as Logan strolls in wearing nothing but plaid boxers.

He raises a brow when he spots me. “Hey. I didn’t think I’d see you again tonight. Figured you’d be VBF.”

“VBF?” I ask between mouthfuls. Logan likes to make up acronyms in the hopes that we’ll start to use them as slang, but half the time I have no idea what he’s babbling about.

He grins. “Very busy fucking.”

I roll my eyes and eat a forkful of wild rice.

“Seriously, Blondie’s gone already?”

“Yup.” I chew before continuing. “She knows the score.” The score being, no girlfriends and definitely no sleepovers.

Logan rests his forearms on the counter, his blue eyes gleaming as he changes the subject. “I can’t fucking wait for the St. Anthony’s game this weekend. Did you hear? Braxton’s suspension is over.”

That gets my attention. “No shit. He’s playing on Saturday?”

“Sure is.” Logan’s expression turns downright gleeful. “I’m gonna enjoy smashing that asshole’s face into the boards.”

Greg Braxton is St. Anthony’s star left wing and a complete piece of shit human being. The guy’s got a sadistic streak that he’s not afraid to unleash on the ice, and when our teams faced off in the pre-season, he sent one of our sophomore D-men to the emergency room with a broken arm. Hence his three game suspension, though if it were up to me, the psycho would’ve been slapped with a lifetime ban from college hockey.

“You need to throw down, I’ll be right there with you,” I promise.

“I’m holding you to that. Oh, and next week we’ve got Eastwood heading our way.”

I really should pay more attention to our schedule. Eastwood College is number two in our conference (second to us, of course) and our matchups are always nail-biters.

And shit, it suddenly dawns on me that if I don’t ace the Ethics redo, I won’t be on the ice for the Eastwood game.

“Fuck,” I mumble.

Logan swipes a piece of chicken off my plate and pops it in his mouth. “What?”

I haven’t told my teammates about my grade situation yet because I’d been hoping my midterm grade wouldn’t hurt me too bad, but now it looks like fessing up is unavoidable.

So with a sigh, I tell Logan about my F in Ethics and what it could mean for the team.

“Drop the course,” he says instantly.

“Can’t. I missed the deadline.”

“Crap.”

“Yup.”