The Score (Off-Campus #3)(19)

“Let me guess,” she says dryly “You volunteer as sexual tribute?”

“Nope. For once, I’m not talking about sex.”

“What do you suggest then?”

I grin. “I think you need to live the Life of Dean.”

“Huh. Okay. So I should throw on some hockey pads, let a bunch of behemoths smash me into the boards every night, and reward myself with a never-ending string of casual sexual encounters. Got it.”

I lean in and tug a strand of her hair. “Don’t be an ass.”

“My apologies.” She smiles. “Please, tell me more about the Life of Dean.”

My hand travels across her smooth cheek to grasp her chin. “Look at me, Allie-Cat. Does it look like I have many problems? Are you ever going to find me moping in my room or stressing out about trivial bullshit?”

“No,” she says slowly.

“I’m an overall happy person, right?”

Her suspicious gaze locks with mine. “Yes. But how is that even possible? Nobody is happy all the time.”

“It’s absolutely possible.” I rub my thumb over her lower lip. Her lips are so fucking soft. I’m dying to kiss them again. “You want to know my secret?”

“Mmmm?” She sounds distracted. I stroke her lips again, and I’m gratified when her breath hitches.

“I do what I want, when I want it. And I don’t give a shit what other people think about me.”

That gets her attention. “Sounds nice, being able to do what you want all the time. Sadly, that’s not how life works.”

“You make life work for you, babe.” My fingers travel down her slender throat, skimming over her pulse point. “What do you want, Allie? Tell me one thing you’ve been dying to do but haven’t gotten around to doing.”

Her forehead furrows as she thinks it over. “Well. I’ve been wanting to start a new cleanse, but I keep putting it off.”

“I have no idea what that means.”

“I go on these juice cleanses a couple times a year,” she explains. “It sucks, because you’re stuck on a liquid diet for two whole weeks, but you feel so much better afterward.”

“You’re a fucking weirdo. Pick something else. Something normal.”

She pauses, deep in thought again, and then her expression brightens. “I’ve always wanted to learn how to salsa dance.”

Fuck. That’s such a chick thing to say. “Then do it,” I tell her.

She chews on her lip again. “I don’t know… I mentioned it to Sean once but he didn’t want to take lessons with me, and I was too embarrassed to go alone. I looked into it and found out that if you show up alone, they pair you up with a random partner.”

“So what? It’s an opportunity to make some new friends.” I shrug. “I think you should sign up.”

“Are you offering to take salsa dancing lessons with me?” Her expression is hopeful.

I snort. “No way. I only do what I want, remember? And I do not want to salsa dance. But I think you should.”

“Maybe I will,” she says thoughtfully.

“That’s the spirit.” I give her chin a teasing pinch. “Stick with me, kid, and your entire life will change for the better. That’s the Di Laurentis guarantee.”

Allie heaves out a sigh.

“What?” I demand.

“I can’t decide if you’re being sincere or if you’re trying to get in my pants again.”

I waggle my eyebrows. “Who says it can’t be both?” When that gets me another sigh, my voice becomes gruff. “I’m being sincere.”

“Wow. I think you actually mean that.”

For some reason, her careful scrutiny has me shifting uneasily. And I’m suddenly wholly aware of the fact that I’m not wearing a shirt. She is too, because those big blue eyes drift lower, focusing on my abs before she wrenches her gaze away. The air between us seems to crackle. Allie’s pupils are dilated, and there’s no mistaking the rapid flutter of her pulse in the center of her throat.

I know arousal when I see it. Little Dean knows it too, and he promptly thickens behind my zipper.

“Allie…” My voice comes out hoarse.

She’s off the couch before I can blink. “Annnnd it’s time for you to go.”

She sounds overly cheerful, and I can tell she’s struggling to control the same waves of desire that are practically swallowing me whole.

When I remain seated, she frowns deeply. “Shirt up and go home, Dean.”

“Allie.” Slowly, I rise to my feet. My mouth is full of gravel as I say, “I want—”

She whips up her hand. “Don’t you dare finish that sentence. I mean it, it’s time to go.”

I want to ask her how long she’s going to keep fighting this, but since I know it’ll only piss her off further, I keep my mouth shut and do what the lady asked—I leave.

On the drive home, I resign myself to another night of getting up close and personal with my right hand.





10




Dean


The next day, I have the misfortune of leaving the International Relations lecture hall at the same time as Sabrina. I tense up, waiting for the inevitable bitchy barb.

“You looked a little lost in there, Richie. Was Professor Burke not speaking slowly enough for you?”

Yep, there it is.

I roll my eyes. “Right, because I’m dumb. Good one.” I don’t bother asking her not to call me Richie. I can’t stop her from doing it any more than I can stop Summer from ditching my old childhood nickname. Sabrina decided I was a stupid, spoiled Richie-Rich type from the moment we met.

Of course, that didn’t stop her from banging me, now did it?

“So which poor freshman will be writing your paper for you?” she asks sweetly. “You have a whole slew of them on speed dial, right? I assume one of them wrote the LSATS for you, too.”

I halt at the top step of the front entrance. I tolerate her taunts because they’re not worth defending myself against, but every now and then I have to draw the line. “It just kills you that I scored two points higher than you, huh?” When her nostrils flare, I know I’ve hit my mark.

She recovers quickly. “Again, probably because you paid someone else to take the test for you.”

“Keep telling yourself that, sweetheart. Whatever helps you sleep at night, right?”

Sabrina tosses her long dark hair over her shoulder. “I sleep just fine, thank you. Knowing I’ve actually earned my grades leads to a very restful existence. You should try it sometime.”

This time she hits her mark. A frown tightens my mouth, but I don’t take the bait because that’s exactly what she wants me to do. She’s been holding this bullshit over my head since sophomore year, and I’m damn tired of it.

“Enjoy the rest of your day, Sabrina.” With a shrug of indifference, I make my way down the steps and wonder if she plans on keeping this feud going when we’re at law school next year. I fucking hope not. The hostility she dishes out is getting old, not to mention annoying.

Speaking of annoying, I’m supposed to be at Hastings Elementary in twenty minutes for my first practice with the rugrat team. Go Hurricanes.

As I make the ten-minute drive into town, I curse O’Shea for forcing this volunteer gig on me and ponder the authenticity of voodoo dolls. Eventually I decide it doesn’t matter if they’re real or not. It’d still be fun to poke needles into a teeny doll version of Frank O’Shea. Once it starts falling apart from all the holes, I can use the head as a stress ball.

At a red light, I shoot a quick text to my teammate Fitzy—Hey, do u know how 2 make a voodoo doll?

His response doesn’t come until I reach the small arena across the street from the school.

Him: I’d think u were fcking with me, but the question is stupid enuff to feel legit. No idea how to make v-doll. Can prolly use any old doll? Challenge will be finding a voodoo witch to link it to your target.

Me: That makes sense.

Him: Does it??

Me: Voodoo implies magic, hexes, etc. I don’t think any doll would work. Otherwise every doll is a v-doll, right?

Him: Right.

Me: Anyway. Thx. Thought u might know.

Him: Why the fuck would *I* know?

Me: Ur into all those fantasy role-play games. U know magic.

Him: I’m not Harry Potter, ffs.

Me: HP is a nerd. Ur a nerd. Ergo, ur a boy wizard.

He sends a middle-finger emoji, then says, Bday beers at Malone’s 2nite. U still down?

Me: Yup.

Him: C U ltr.

I tuck my phone in my jacket pocket and hop out of the car. At least I have something to look forward to after this. Celebratory beers for Fitzy’s twenty-first birthday will be my reward for spending the afternoon coaching children against my will.

The rink is empty when I stride through the double doors. The cold air greets me like an old friend and I breathe it in, shifting my duffel to my other shoulder and making my way to the home team bench, where a tall man in a red sweater and scuffed black hockey skates is peering at a clipboard. The whistle around his neck tells me he’s the coach of the Hurricanes.

“Di Laurentis?” When I nod, he extends a hand. “Doug Ellis. Nice to meet you, kid. I watched your Frozen Four game on TV in April. You played well.”

“Thanks.” I gesture to the deserted ice. I’m ten minutes early, just like O’Shea ordered me to be. “Where’re the kids?”