“We should’ve bribed Simms’ profs to fail him,” Garrett says with a sigh, and I realize I’m not the only one worrying about Simms’ departure.
“We’ll be okay,” I answer, rather unconvincingly.
“No, we won’t,” comes Dean’s voice, and then he enters the kitchen and heads for the coffeemaker. “I doubt we’ll even make it to the post-season. Not without Kenny.”
“Ye of little faith,” Tucker chides, waltzing through the doorway.
“Holy shit,” I blurt out. “You shaved the beard.” I glare at Garrett. “Why didn’t you tell me? I would’ve thrown us a party.”
Dean snickers. “You mean thrown him a party.”
“No, he means us,” Garrett replies for me. “We’re the ones who had to stare at that ghastly thing for half a year.”
I smack Tuck’s ass as he breezes past my stool. “Welcome back, Babyface.”
“Fuck off,” he grumbles.
Yup, it’s good to be home.
An hour later, I rest my forearms on my knees, clasp my hands together, and lean forward to analyze the slap shot of a stocky freshman with curly red hair poking out the back of his helmet.
“That one’s not bad,” I remark.
“Who? Mullet Man?” Hollis calls from the end of the bleacher row we’ve congregated at. “Naah, he hasn’t impressed me yet.”
Down on the ice, Coach is running a simple skate-and-shoot drill with the freshman hopefuls, who are decked out in either black or silver practice jerseys. And yeah, I know it’s only day one, but so far, I’m not too impressed either.
Two at a time, the guys need to skate past the blue line, take a shot at net, then turn up the outer lane and skate hard through the neutral zone, where one of the ACs releases a pass that the skaters need to connect with. It’s not complicated at all, yet I’m seeing way too many dropped passes for my liking.
The goalies are decent, at least. They’re not exuding any of that Simms magic, but they stop more pucks than they let in, which is promising.
Beside me, Garrett whistles softly. “Hell yeah, that’s what I’m talking about.”
The next skater in the line takes off, and sweet mother of God, he’s fast. A dizzying streak of black against a backdrop of white as he tears toward the net. And the shot he releases—perfectly timed, perfectly executed, perfectly perfect.
“He could fluke out,” Tucker warns, but twenty minutes later, the kid is still rocking the practice like Ozzy fucking Osbourne in a packed amphitheater.
“Who is that?” Garrett demands.
Hollis peeks over from the far seat. “No clue.”
Pierre, a Canadian who joined us last season, leans in from the row behind us and taps Garrett’s shoulder. “Hunter something-or-other. He’s a rich kid from Connecticut, big star on his prep school team.”
“If he’s that good, then why wasn’t he recruited?” Tucker asks dubiously. “What’s he doing at open tryouts?”
“Half the colleges in the country tried recruiting him,” Pierre answers. “But apparently he wanted to quit hockey. Coach twisted his arm and convinced him to practice today, but even if he makes the cut, there’s a good chance he won’t wanna join the team.”
“Oh, he’s joining the team,” Dean declares. “I don’t care if I have to suck his dick to get him to agree to it.”
Laughter breaks out all around him.
“Sucking dick now, are we?” I ask pleasantly.
An evil gleam lights his eyes. “You know what? I won’t just suck it,” he says slowly. “I’ll suck him off. You know, give him an orgasm.”
The other guys exchange mystified looks, but Dean’s mocking look tells me exactly where he’s going with this. Jackass.
“I’m not sure if you all know this, but an orgasm is the point of completion in the pleasure process.” Dean gives me an innocent smile. “Men and women achieve it in different ways. For example, when a woman reaches completion, she might moan or gasp or—”
“What the fuck are you talking about?” Garrett interrupts.
Mr. Innocent bats his baby-greens. “I thought you guys might need a refresher course in orgasms.”
“I think we’re good,” Tuck says with a snort.
“You sure? Nobody has any questions?” He’s grinning at me as he voices the question, and when the guys turn their attention back to the ice, I jab him in the ribs. Hard.
“Jeez, John, I’m trying to be helpful. You could learn a lot from me. No woman has ever been able to resist my natural charm.”
“You know who else had natural charm?” I retort. “Ted Bundy.”
Dean dons a blank look. “Who?”
“The serial killer.” Oh Jesus, I’ve jumped on the Bundy bandwagon. I’m turning into Grace.
Great. And now I’m thinking about Grace. I’ve been forcing myself not to since she shot me down last week, but no matter how hard I try, I can’t get her out of my head.
Is it an ego thing? I keep asking myself whether it is, because I honestly can’t remember the last time I obsessed this hard over a chick. Am I only interested in her because she’s not interested in me? I like to think I’m not that arrogant, but I can’t deny the rejection stings.
I want another chance. I want to show her I’m not some heartless asshole who was just using her for a little B&B, but I have no idea how to change her mind. Flowers maybe? A big public groveling?
“Hey, ass-hats!”
We bolt to our feet when Coach Jensen’s commanding voice snaps toward the bleachers. Our fearless leader—the only Briar faculty member who can get away with calling students “ass-hats”—glares at us from the ice.
“Is there a reason your lazy asses are up in those seats when you should all be in the weight room?” he booms. “Quit stalking my practice!” Then he turns to scowl at the trio of freshmen who are snickering behind their gloves. “What’re you ladies laughing at? Hustle!”
The players speed forward as if the ice behind them is cracking to pieces.
Up in the stands, the guys and I hustle just as fast.
20
Grace
As the first week of the semester comes to an end, I finally hear from Ramona again. And after months of ignoring her, I finally pick up the phone.
It’s time to see her in person. I’m not particularly enthusiastic about meeting for coffee, but I can’t freeze her out forever. There’s too much history between us, too many good memories I can’t pretend aren’t there. But this meet-up is for clearing-the-air purposes only, I assure myself as I walk across campus. We’re not going to be best buds again. I’m not sure we can be after what she did.
It’s not about her sext to Logan. It’s about what the sext indicates—her blatant disregard for my feelings and her coldhearted dismissal of our friendship. A real friend doesn’t proposition the guy who hurt her best friend. A real friend puts her own selfish desires aside and offers her support.
Thirty minutes after we get off the phone, I enter the Coffee Hut and join Ramona at a table near the window.
“Hi.” She greets me shyly. Fearfully, almost. She looks exactly the same as the last time I saw her, black hair loose around her shoulders, curvy body wrapped in tight clothing. When she notices my hair, her eyes widen. “You went blonde,” she squeaks.
“Yeah. My mom talked me into it.” I sink into the chair across from hers. A part of me is tempted to hug her, but I fight the urge.
“That’s for you.” She gestures to one of the coffees on the table. “I just got here, so it’s still hot.”
“Thanks.” I curl both hands around the cup, the heat of the Styrofoam rippling into my palms. I just hiked across campus in eighty-degree weather, but suddenly I feel cold. Nervous.
An awkward silence stretches between us.
“Grace…” Her throat dips with a visible gulp. “I’m sorry.”
I sigh. “I know.”
A sliver of hope peeks through the cloud of despair in her eyes. “Does that mean you forgive me?”
“No, it means I know you’re sorry.” I pop open the plastic lid and take a sip of the coffee, then make a face. She forgot the sugar. It shouldn’t bother me as much as it does, and yet it’s simply another sign that my best friend is attuned to nothing about me. Not my feelings, not even my coffee preferences.
I grab two sugar packets from the little plastic tray, tear them open, and dump their contents into the cup. As I use the skinny wooden stick to stir the hot liquid, I watch Ramona’s expression change from slightly hopeful to decidedly upset.
“I’m a shitty friend,” she whispers.
I offer no argument.
“I shouldn’t have sent him that message. I don’t even know why I did—” She stops abruptly, shame reddening her cheeks. “No, I do know why. Because I’m a jealous, insecure bitch.”
Again, no argument there.
“You really don’t get it, do you?” she blurts out when I remain silent. “Everything comes so easy for you. You get straight A’s without even trying, you land the hottest guy on campus without—”
“Easy?” I interrupt, an edge to my voice. “Yeah, I have the grades, but that’s because I study my ass off. And guys? Remember high school, Ramona? It’s not like I had a booming social calendar back then. Or now, for that matter.”