The Goal (Off-Campus #4)(9)

“No time. My next class is all the way across campus, so—hey!” I exclaim when he takes my arm and drags me away from the path. “What are you doing?”

Ignoring my protests, he leads me to one of the wrought-iron benches on the lawn. It hasn’t snowed yet this winter, but the grass is covered with a silver layer of frost. Tucker forces me to sit, then drops down beside me and plants one hand on my knee, as if he’s afraid I might bolt. Which I was totally considering doing before that big hand made contact. The heat of it sears through my tights and warms my core.

“Eat,” he says gently. “You’re allowed to give yourself two minutes to recharge, darlin’.”

I find myself obeying, same way I obeyed the other night when he told me to ride his face, when he ordered me to come. A shiver shimmies up my spine. God, why can’t I get this guy out of my head?

“What did you text me?” I blurt out.

He gives a mysterious smile. “Guess you’ll never know.”

Despite myself, I smile back. “It was something sexy, wasn’t it?”

He whistles innocently.

“It was!” I accuse, and then experience a jolt of self-directed recrimination, because, damn it, I bet it was filthy and delicious and wonderful.

“Listen, I’m not going to take up much of your time,” he says. “I know you’re busy. I know you commute from Boston. I know you have a few jobs—”

“Two,” I correct. My head tips in challenge. “And how would you know that?”

He shrugs. “I’ve been asking around.”

He has? Crap. As flattering as that is, I’m kind of scared to know who he’s been asking and what they’ve been telling him. Aside from Hope and Carin, I don’t spend much time with my peers. I know I come off as aloof at times—

Fine, bitchy. Aloof is just a nice word for bitchy. And while I’m not thrilled that my classmates think I’m a bitch, there’s not much I can do about that. I don’t have the time or energy to make small talk, or to grab coffee after class, or to pretend that I have anything in common with the wealthy, elitist kids that comprise most of this college.

“The point,” he finishes, “is that I get it, okay? You’re swamped, and I’m not asking you to wear my varsity jacket and my class ring and be my steady girl.”

I have to laugh at the Pleasantville picture he’s painted. “Then what are you asking me?”

“For a date,” he says simply. “One date. Maybe it’ll end with us fucking again—”

My body sings in delight.

“—or maybe it won’t. Either way, I wanna see you again.”

I watch as he rakes a hand through his reddish hair. Damn, who would’ve thought that gingers could be so hot?

“I don’t care when. You want to grab a bite late at night, fine. Early in the morning, cool, as long as I don’t have practice. I’m willing to play by your rules, adapt to your schedule.”

Pleasure and suspicion war inside me, but the latter wins out. “Why? I mean, I know we rocked each other’s worlds, but why are you so hard up on seeing me again?”

I gulp when he fixes me with a steady, intense gaze. Then he freaks me out even more by asking, “Do you believe in love at first sight?”

Oh my fucking God.

I start to shoot to my feet.

He tugs me back onto the bench with a deep chuckle. “Chill, Sabrina. I’m not saying I’m in love with you.”

He’d better not be! Taking a calming breath, I set my half-eaten sandwich on my lap and try to muster up a tone that doesn’t convey the scared-shitless feeling racing through me. “Then what are you saying?”

“I’d seen you around campus before the night at Malone’s,” he admits. “And yeah, I thought you were hot, but it’s not like I was desperate to find out who you were.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“Make up your mind, darlin’. Do you want me to be infatuated with you, or do you want me to not give a shit?”

Both! I want both, and that’s the problem, damn it.

“Anyway, I’d seen you before. But the night at the bar, when we made eye contact from across the room? Something magical happened,” he says bluntly. “I know you felt it too.”

I pick up my sandwich and take a small bite, chewing extra slow in order to delay having to respond. He’s freaking me out again, with his confident gaze and his matter-of-fact tone. I’ve never met a guy who can throw out phrases like “love at first sight” and “something magical happened” without at least having the decency to blush or look mortified.

Finally, I force myself to answer him. “The only magical thing that happened was that we liked what we saw. Pheromones, Tucker. Nothing more.”

“That was part of it,” he agrees. “But there was more to it than that, and you know it. There was a connection the moment we looked at each other.”

I raise my Diet Coke to my lips and chug nearly half of it.

“I want to explore it. I think we’d be stupid not to.”

“And I think…” I struggle for words. “I think…”

I think you’re the most fascinating guy I’ve ever met.

I think you’re amazing in bed and I want to fuck you again.

I think if I was capable of having my heart broken, you’d have the power to break it.

“I think I made myself clear that night,” I finish. “I’m not in the market for a relationship, or even a fuck buddy. I wanted sex. You gave it to me. That’s all it was.”

I don’t miss the disappointment that floods his eyes. It brings a pang of regret and makes my stomach twist painfully, but I’ve already set this course and now I need to see it through. I’m very good at staying the course.

“I know you athletes are stubborn as hell and that you don’t give up when you want something, but…” I take a breath. “I’m asking you to give up.”

His jaw tightens. “Sabrina—”

“Please.” I cringe at the desperate note in my voice. “Just give up, all right? I don’t want to start anything up. I don’t want to go on a date. I want…” I rise on wobbly legs. “I want to get to class, that’s all.”

After an interminably long silence, he gets up too. “Sure, darlin’. If that’s what you want.”

It’s not a taunt, nor does it contain even a hint of promise, as in sure, darlin’, I’ll give up—for now. But expect me to keep chasing you until I wear you down.

No, there’s a finality to his words that makes me sad. John Tucker is clearly a man of his word, and while I ought to admire that, I’ve suddenly become a hypocrite, because now I’m the one feeling disappointed.

“I’ll see you around,” he says gruffly.

And then he strides off without another word, leaving me to stare after him in dismay.

I did the right thing. I know I did. Even if I had oodles of free time to pursue something with him, there’s no room in my life for someone like Tucker. He’s sweet and earnest and clearly has money, whereas I’m bitchy and stressed and live in the gutter. He can talk all he wants about connections at first sight, but that doesn’t change the reality of this.

I’m not the girl for John Tucker, and I never will be.





6




Tucker


Practice is shit. The team’s just not clicking this season, and Coach Jensen is riding us mercilessly now that we’ve got a few losses tarnishing our record. Yesterday’s loss bummed us out pretty hard—we were up against a Division II team who should not have wiped our asses all over the ice like that.

The new defensive coach, Frank O’Shea, is only making things worse. I’ve been thanking my lucky stars that I’m not a defenseman. O’Shea seems to have a vendetta against Dean, constantly calling him out and harping on his mistakes.

Dean’s cheeks go redder than apples every time O’Shea opens his mouth. According to Logan, the man used to be the head coach at Dean’s prep school. They obviously have a past, but whatever it is, Dean’s not sharing. But he’s not happy, either. Not only are the d-men constantly ordered to stay late, but apparently Dean got forced into coaching the kiddie team at the elementary school in town.

I skate to the bench after my shift and heave myself over the wall, then squirt some water in my mouth and watch Garrett’s line fly across the blue line. Today’s scrimmage is non-scoring so far. Seriously, that’s how bad we suck. We can’t even score on each other during practice, and it’s not because our goalies are in top form—none of the forwards can get their shit together, myself included.

A whistle blows. Coach starts screaming at one of our junior d-men for icing the puck.

“What the hell was that, Kelvin! You had four passing opportunities and you decide to ice the fucking thing!” Coach looks ready to pull his hair out.

I don’t blame him.

“I could’ve made that pass if I was out there,” Dean grumbles beside me.

I glance over in sympathy. One of O’Shea’s first orders of business had been to rearrange the lines. He’d paired Dean up with Brodowski, and Logan with Kelvin, when we all know that Logan and Dean are unstoppable together.