Logan’s head falls in the crook of my neck and he lets out a low grunt. Breathing hard against my skin as his entire body trembles.
“Fuck. That was so hot,” he groans a few seconds later.
His arms wrap around me, holding me tight to his rock-hard chest as we both recover, our breathing labored and our heartbeats hammering in unison. A full minute passes before he releases me and takes a step away.
My eyes have adjusted to the darkness, and I see him reach for a stack of paper napkins on a nearby shelf. His hand dips inside his pants before crumpling the napkin and tossing it in the wastebasket by the door.
Then he’s back, his voice husky as he brings his mouth to my ear. “Happy birthday.”
I start to laugh. I have no idea why, but this entire hook-up was so surreal that I find myself quaking in amusement, which elicits a deep chuckle from him.
“Thank you,” I answer between giggles.
His lips graze mine for one fleeting moment, and then he takes my hand and leads me to the door. He pauses in front of it, bowing gallantly before holding it open for me. “After you, gorgeous.”
Aw hell. Those three words turn my heart from a solid to a liquid. A warm, gooey pile of mush in my chest.
Well, at least I’ve figured out how I feel about him.
I think I might be crushing on the guy. Hard.
*
Logan
The next evening, I’m battling Tucker to the death in an intense game of Ice Pro when Dean wanders into the living room, shirtless and barefoot. He rakes a hand through his spiky blond hair before settling on the armchair next to the couch.
“Listen, I need to talk to you about the freshman.”
“What freshman?” Tucker voices the question even as his eyes stay glued to the screen.
Mine do too. “You mean Grace?” I say absently.
My team is kicking Tuck’s ass, probably because the idiot refuses to play as anyone other than Dallas, who’s been eliminated from playoff contention, what, a million years in a row? I, of course, play exclusively as Boston, because that’s the team I grew up cheering for and the one I envisioned myself playing for someday.
“Yes, I mean Grace. Unless there’s another freshman you took to the movies and sucked face with the whole time?” Dean’s remark oozes sarcasm.
I pause the game to take a sip of my Coke. Yup, Coke. I’m still making an effort to dial down the partying. Well, that and my first exam is tomorrow, and I don’t want to show up hung-over.
“I didn’t take her to the movies,” I answer. “We ran into them there, remember?”
“Oh, I remember. I also remember the sucking face part. Seriously, bro, every time I turned around, you were going at it like porn stars.”
It’s a good thing I haven’t told him what we did in the closet. He’d probably have a field day with that one.
“Wait—you’re going out with a freshman?” Tuck’s expression is unreadable, but I’m pretty sure I hear a chord of relief in his voice.
“Naah, we’re not going out.”
“Good,” Dean says, nodding briskly. “Those younger chicks bring way too much drama to the table.”
Tucker snickers. “Drama? Is that what we’re calling the Bethany incident now? Because that wasn’t drama, dude. It was stalking.”
“It was a pain in the ass, that’s what it was,” Dean mutters. “And thanks so much for reminding me of it. Now I’m going to have nightmares tonight. Jerk.”
I roll my eyes. “Don’t worry, Grace isn’t like that. No drama whatsoever with her.”
Which is one of the reasons I’m so drawn to her. She’s the most uncomplicated girl I’ve ever met. Plus, when I’m with her, I don’t think about Hannah at all, which is—
So you’re using her to not think about Hannah?
The accusation flies into my head like a hockey team on the offensive.
No. Of course I’m not using her.
Am I?
No. That’s crazy. I genuinely like Grace, and I fucking love hooking up with her.
But…she does happen to be a great distraction from all this Hannah bullshit.
A great distraction?
Jesus Christ. I’m such a fucking bastard.
As guilt floods my stomach, I suddenly comprehend the irrefutable shittiness of what I’ve done. And in that moment, I realize I can’t see Grace again. How can I when a part of me views her as a distraction? When I still experience that awful clench in my gut every time I see Garrett and Wellsy together? When I’m still consumed with envy and anxiety and so much self-loathing?
I’d texted Grace my number earlier and was planning on asking her if she wanted to hang out tomorrow night, but there’s no fucking way I can do that now. I might be an asshole for unintentionally using her as a diversion, but now that I’m conscious of my asshole-ness, I refuse to let it continue. It wouldn’t be fair to Grace.
“No drama?” Dean echoes, jolting me from my troubled thoughts. “Yeah, sorry to break it to you, but the drama train has already left the station. That’s what I came down here to tell you.”
I frown. “What are you talking about?”
“You know Piper?”
Tucker snorts. “Did you really just ask that? We all know Piper.”
My frown deepens, because if Piper Stevens is involved in whatever Dean’s about to tell me, then it sure as hell ain’t gonna be good. Piper is the puck bunny of all puck bunnies. She’s also hot as fuck, which is why half the guys on the team have slept with her. Which, by the way, is an accomplishment she’s incredibly proud of and happy to advertise.
I have no problem with that, though. Every time I hear someone refer to her as a slut, I threaten a beat-down, because what the fuck? Most of the dudes I know have screwed their way through college, and nobody bats an eye when they do it. So no, I’m not about to judge Piper for her very active sex life.
Nope, what I have a problem with is the fact that she’s a total bitch who spreads nasty rumors and gossips more than a Hollywood tabloid.
“I was chilling with Niko this afternoon and he told me Piper’s been saying shit about your freshman,” Dean says flatly.
My spine stiffens. “What?”
“Yeah, apparently Piper’s little sister is friends with Grace, and I guess Grace told her about the two of you hooking up? Except for some reason, the little sister thinks she’s making it up?”
“Are you asking me or telling?” I grumble.
“Both? I don’t know. I’ve given up on trying to understand the complexities of women.”
“Preaching to the choir,” Tuck says solemnly.
Dean makes an exasperated noise in the back of his throat. “All I know is that Piper’s spreading it around that some pathetic freshman is lying about doing you, which is obviously bullshit since I had a front row seat to your hook-up last night—you know, when your tongue was bobbing for apples in the back of her throat?”
“The theater was packed with Briar students. If you saw us, then I’m sure other people did too.”
“Oh, they saw you, dude.”
“Then why is anyone even buying Piper’s bullshit? I wasn’t trying to hide that we were going at it.”
“Hey, if you say shit with confidence, people are going to believe it.” He shrugs. “Anyway, figured you should know that Piper’s being Piper again. She’s tweeting about it too, Niko said. She made up some catty hashtag about your girl.”
What? I snatch my phone off the coffee table and launch the Twitter app. “What’s the hashtag?”
“No idea. I’m sure you can find it if you go on Piper’s account.”
I quickly type Piper’s name in the search box, click on her profile, and proceed to skim the first dozen or so tweets on the page. Each one causes the anger in my gut to burn and bubble and simmer, until finally it boils over and sends me stumbling to my feet in pure outrage.
Oh hell no.
11
Grace
You know those anxiety dreams where you’re walking down the hall in high school, or getting up on the stage of an auditorium to give a big speech—and you suddenly realize you’re buck naked and everyone is staring at you? And then all those pairs of eyes get bigger and bigger and it feels like hot lasers boring into your skin?
I am currently living that dream. Sure, I’m fully clothed, but despite Ramona’s numerous assurances that nobody is staring at me, I know I’m not imagining the curious looks and knowing smirks from my fellow students.
Damn Maya Stevens to hell. That bitch did the impossible—she made me afraid of walking into Carver Hall, my favorite place on campus.
It’s actually rather impressive that even limited by one hundred and forty characters, Maya’s sister managed to spin a beautiful tale of a pitiful, woe-is-me heroine whose fierce yearning for a certain hockey player leads her to fabricate a grand love affair filled with burning loins and endless passion.
In other words, Piper’s calling me a fucking liar.
“This is so humiliating,” I mutter as I pick at the chicken stir-fry on my plate. “Can we please just go?”
Ramona’s chin sticks out in an obstinate pose. “No. You need to show people that you don’t give a rat’s ass about what Piper is saying.”
Easier said than done. My brain knows that I shouldn’t care about some asinine Twitter bash fest, but my stomach hasn’t received the memo. Every time the words #GracelessLiar flash in my head, my insides twist into a mortified pretzel.