The Score (Off-Campus #3)(11)

Goddamn Allie. I told her I wanted her again, and she’d hung up on me. That doesn’t happen to me—ever. I’m Dean Di Laurentis, for fuck’s sake. I can snap my fingers and a dozen chicks appear, begging to ride my dick. Last time I was at the campus coffeehouse, the hot barista handed me a free coffee and then offered to suck me off in the stock room.

So what the hell is Allie’s problem? I spent way too much time last night wondering if she’s playing hard to get. I mean, it’s not like she hadn’t enjoyed the sex. I’ve never been with anyone who showered my dick with so much glowing praise.

“Oh my gosh, I want to marry your cock!”

“Best. Dick. Ever.”

“Dean, you’re making me come…”

Her throaty cries run through my head on a perverted, boner-inducing loop, and I grip the towel rack with one hand as a groan slips out. The toothbrush in my mouth falls into the sink. My cock tents in my pants and nudges the porcelain, needing to make contact with something, anything.

I wonder if Coach would be pissed if I was late to meet him because I was jerking off.

Probably.

*

Thirty minutes later, I swipe my student ID in the keypad at the hockey facility, sipping on the coffee I grabbed on the way here. The wide corridor is deserted, and my sneakers squeak on the shiny floors as I head to the back of the building. I walk past the row of classrooms and the screening room, bypass the kitchen and weight rooms, then duck through the massive equipment area.

Our facility is state of the art. There are half a dozen big cozy offices that Chad Jensen could’ve parked his ass in, but for some reason he chose this modest office tucked away near the laundry room.

I knock on the door, only opening it when I hear Coach’s gruff, “Get in here.” The last player who waltzed in without knocking got a tongue-lashing that the rest of us could hear all the way from the showers. I like to think Coach uses the office to jack off and that’s why he insists on privacy. Logan hypothesizes that he has a secret office family that’s only allowed to venture out in the wee hours of the night.

Logan is an idiot.

“Hey, Coach. You wanted to see me—” I halt when I realize we’re not alone.

I’m not caught off guard often. I’m a go-with-the-flow kinda guy, which means it takes a helluva lot to shock or surprise me.

Right now, the only flow I’m going with is the rush of anxiety that travels through my blood and seeps into my bones.

Frank O’Shea rises from the visitor’s chair and flicks his cool gaze over me. I haven’t seen him since my senior year of high school, but he looks exactly the same. Dark buzz cut, stocky body, severe mouth.

“Di Laurentis,” he says with a curt nod.

I nod back. “Coach O’Shea.”

Jensen glances between us, then gets right down to business. “Dean, Frank’s coming on board as our new defensive coordinator. He filled me in about your history at Greenwich Prep.” Coach pauses. “I decided it would be prudent if you two aired out your issues before practice tomorrow.”

I can only imagine what O’Shea had to say about our “history.” Whatever it was, I’m positive it was both inaccurate and in no way favorable toward me, because O’Shea’s version of the story is so skewed it makes the stories in the National Enquirer seem like well-researched academic papers.

Coach Jensen steps to the door. “I’ll leave you to it.”

Goddamn it, he’s leaving us alone? Woulda been nice to have a witness around in case O’Shea tries something. After all, this is the man who clocked one of his own players in the empty parking lot of a high school. I was eighteen at the time. I didn’t report it because I understood why he’d done it, but that doesn’t mean I’ve forgotten about it. Or forgiven him for it.

O’Shea doesn’t speak until the door latches firmly behind Coach. “So. Are we going to have a problem here?”

I set my jaw. “You tell me.” I force myself to add, “Sir.”

His dark eyes flash. “I see you’re still the same insolent smartass you were when I coached you.”

“With all due respect, sir, I’ve been in this office for all of five seconds. I don’t think you can make that judgment.” My tone is polite, but inside I’m seething. I loathe this man, which is so fucking ironic because I used to worship him.

“There isn’t a problem on my end,” he says as if I hadn’t even spoken. “The past is in the past. I’m willing to wipe the slate clean if that makes for a more conducive training environment.”

How generous of him.

“All I ask in return is that you treat me with respect and listen to me when we’re on the ice. I won’t tolerate any insubordination.” His mouth pinches in a frown. “And I won’t condone any shenanigans. Jensen said you have quite the reputation as a party boy. Which doesn’t surprise me—” he makes an unflattering noise “—but if you want to keep your roster slot, I expect you to be on your best behavior. No booze, no drugs, no brawling. Understood?”

I jerk my head in assent.

“As for our former issues, they will not be discussed.” O’Shea levels me with another cold glare. “Not between us, and not among you and your teammates. The past is in the past,” he repeats.

I shove my hands in my pockets. “Can I go now?”

“Not yet.” He moves toward the desk and picks up a thin folder. Either I’m imagining it, or there’s a smug gleam in his eyes. “Two more things. And rest assured, Coach Jensen is in complete agreement about this.”

Uneasiness tickles my stomach.

“First, we’re moving you to the second line with Brodowski—”

“What?” I balk.

O’Shea holds up his hand. “Let me finish.”

I slam my mouth shut, fighting to control my rising temper. I’m no longer seething. I’m fucking enraged.

There isn’t a problem on his end, my ass. I’ve always played on the first line with Logan. We’re the two best defensemen on the roster. A dynamic duo, for chrissake. Brodowski is a junior who needs so much work I’m surprised he’s still on the team.

“Jensen trusts me to work with this defense and make decisions as I see fit,” my old coach barks at me. “The second line is weak. Kelvin and Brodowski aren’t gelling, and each of them will benefit from being paired up with players of your and John Logan’s caliber.”

“Did Coach happen to mention that he tried this already during pre-season?” I can’t help but say, snidely enough to make him frown. “I was paired up with Kelvin for the St. Anthony’s game. It was a disaster.”

“Well, you won’t be with Kelvin this time, will you?” he counters in an equally snide tone. “I’m putting you with Brodowski. And the decision is final—I’m doing what’s best for the team.”

Bullshit. He’s doing this to punish me, and we both know it.

“What’s the second thing?”

He blinks. “Pardon me?”

“You said there were two things.” It’s a struggle to keep my voice calm. “You’re rearranging the lines—that’s number one. What’s number two?”

He slants his head as if trying to decide if I’m being disrespectful again. Dude doesn’t even know how badly I want to slam my fist in his jaw right now. It’s taking all my willpower not to.

O’Shea flips open the folder and extracts a single piece of paper. The satisfied gleam returns as he passes it to me.

I scan the page. It’s a photocopy of what looks like a practice and game schedule, but it’s not for our team. “What’s this?” I mutter.

“Starting this week, you’ll generously be volunteering your time to the Hastings Hurricanes—”

“The what?”

“The Hastings Hurricanes. That’s the hockey team at Hastings Elementary. Middle school league, seventh and eighth graders. Briar has a community outreach program in which our student athletes volunteer to coach or act as assistant coaches with local sports teams. The senior who’s been working with the Hurricanes—she’s the left wing for the Briar’s ladies team. She came down with mono, so we need to replace her. Jensen and I think you’d be the perfect candidate to take over.”

I try to mask my horror. I don’t think I’m successful, because O’Shea is openly smirking at me now.

“It’s two afternoon practices a week, and game day is Friday at six. I went ahead and peeked at your class schedule and it doesn’t interfere with the Hurricanes’ schedule. So we’re all set.” He tips his head. “Unless you have an objection…?”

Damn right I do. I don’t want to spend three days a week coaching a bunch of middle-schoolers. This is my senior year, for chrissake. My course workload is massive. And I’m already practicing six days a week with my own team and playing my own games, which doesn’t leave a lot of downtime.

But if I object to this, O’Shea will no doubt make my life miserable. Same way he did back in high school.

“Nope, it sounds like fun.” I force the words out and resist from giving him the finger.

He nods in approval. “Well, look at that. Maybe you have changed. The Dean Di Laurentis I knew only cared about one person—himself.”