The Score (Off-Campus #3)(21)

“Is Hannah there?”

I shake my head. “She’s at rehearsal tonight.” Like me, Hannah is also busy preparing for one of her final projects. As a music major, she’s required to perform an original song for the department’s winter showcase.

I guess Megan doesn’t think it’s odd that I’m getting invited to hockey gatherings without Hannah, because she doesn’t comment on it. Instead, she says, “Let’s do it.”

“Are you serious?” After more than thirty minutes debating a dozen options for our girls’ night out, we finally decided to grab a late bite at the diner in Hastings. Malone’s is the only bar in town, so obviously that suggestion had come up early in the conversation, but Meg had been the one to veto it. “I thought you didn’t want to deal with the whole bar scene tonight.”

She pushes her red bangs out of her eyes. “Changed my mind. I think I’m in the mood to be surrounded by cute boys.”

“Really?” I say in surprise. “What about the new boyfriend? Is there trouble in paradise already?” Megan has been so cagey about this new guy she’s dating, but I assumed they were doing okay. Normally she’s a huge chatterbox when it comes to her love life, but not this time. All I know about him is that he lives in Boston and she only sees him on the weekends.

“No, we’re fine.” She pauses. “Well, not really.” Another pause. “It’s complicated.”

“You know, if you actually told me something about him instead of being Ms. Secretive, I might be able to offer some advice…”

Her green eyes stay focused on the road. Even if she wasn’t driving, I know she’d still be avoiding my gaze.

“Okay. Spill. What’s wrong with him?”

“Nothing’s wrong with him.”

“Bullshit. There has to be, otherwise you wouldn’t be hiding him from all of us. So what is it? Does he like to set barns on fire in his spare time? Does he kill squirrels and make little hats out of their fur? Does he have a weird mole that takes up his whole face? Does he—”

“Thirty seven,” she interrupts. “He’s thirty-seven.”

My eyebrows shoot up. “Oh. Wow. That’s…”

Old, I want to say, but I’ve always believed in the age is nothin’ but a number philosophy. Or at least I want to be that open-minded. I mean, I think it’s hella creepy when a sixty-year-old man dates an eighteen-year-old girl. But thirty-seven isn’t exactly geezer status. It’s only fifteen years older than me and Meg.

“See? This is why I didn’t tell you guys.” Accusation colors her tone. “I knew you’d be all judgy.”

I hold up both hands in surrender. “I’m not judging. You surprised me, that’s all.”

Her pretty features relax.

“Tell me more about Mr. Thirty-Seven,” I urge. “I promise there’s no judgment on my end.”

She grudgingly provides a few more details. “His name’s Trevor. He’s a pediatric surgeon at Boston General.”

Okay, I’m impressed.

“He’s divorced, and he has a five-year-old daughter.”

Hmmm. Not so impressed anymore. “And you’re cool with that?” I ask carefully. “You’re only twenty-two, hon. Are you ready to be someone’s stepmother?”

“That’s the problem,” she moans. “I wasn’t even thinking that far ahead. Trevor and I met online. We were chatting all through September, but we didn’t meet in person until a month ago. He’s sweet. Smart, gorgeous, easy to talk to. But we’re still in the early stages of the relationship, you know? More casual than serious.” She taps her polished nails against the steering wheel. “When I saw him last weekend, he said he wants me to meet his daughter.”

Eek.

“Eek,” I say out loud.

“I know, right? So now I’m second-guessing the whole relationship. Meeting his kid is a huge deal. What if she hates me? Or worse, what if she loves me, and then me and her dad break up and this poor kid ends up traumatized?”

“She won’t fall in love with you after one meeting,” I assure her. “But I agree—this is a huge deal.”

Meg stops her little red Toyota at the intersection one block from Hastings’ main stretch. “I don’t know… I told him I’d let him know on Friday when I see him, but I’m super confused. I have no idea what to do.” She goes quiet for a second, then lets out a heavy breath. “If we go to Malone’s, can you DD on the way home? I might want something stronger than soda.”

“No prob.” I wasn’t planning on drinking tonight, anyway. I have rehearsal at seven a.m., and a pounding hangover will make it hard for me to cry on command. In the opening scene alone, my character wails like a newborn three times. “Should we go to another bar, though?” I ask hopefully. “Maybe the one in Munsen?”

“Why would we do that?”

I shrug. “The hockey crowd can get kinda rowdy.”

“I could use a little rowdy,” she admits. “Trevor is great, but he’s not much into partying anymore. He’s in bed by ten o’clock every night. Even on weekends.” Her bottom lip sticks out. “Maybe that’s another reason I should end it, huh?”

“Look, I’d never dream of telling you what to do,” I say gently. “And I’m not saying you should break up with someone just because their party days are behind them. But you’re in your senior year of college, hon. You shouldn’t be going to bed at ten if you don’t want to. You should enjoy this last year of freedom, in this weird place where you’re an adult but not an adult, know what I mean? Save the early bedtimes for next year when you become a card-carrying member of the real world.”

A pensive look crosses her expression. I can tell she’s absorbing the advice, and I hope she reaches a decision that makes her happy. God knows I’ve been dealing with tough decisions lately too. Breaking up with Sean. Figuring out where I want to take my acting career.

Walking into a bar to willingly spend time with the guy I had a one-night stand with…

Shit, what am I doing coming to the bar? Nothing good can be gained from seeing Dean tonight. Worse case, he’ll accidentally let something slip, and everyone will know that we hooked up. Best case, he’ll flirt shamelessly with me and just be plain annoying.

Since Malone’s is the only alcohol game in town, it’s the go-to place for both locals and Briar students every day of the week. If you show up after nine, you’re looking at standing room only. Meg and I waltz in at ten-thirty, and it’s like stepping into a sauna crammed with hundreds of sweaty bodies. The main room is jam-packed. I can barely see the counter because too many bodies are swarming in front of it, and the row of booths in the raised sections on either side of the main area are all occupied.

“I want to order a drink!” Megan shouts over the music. Some rock song I don’t recognize is blasting from the speakers. If Garrett Graham were here, he could probably tell me the name of the song, who’s singing it, and what year it was released. Hannah’s boyfriend has a hard-on for classic rock. I wouldn’t be surprised to find out he makes Hannah play Lynyrd Skynyrd role-playing games in bed.

We’re about to head for the bar when a familiar voice rises above the music. “Allie-Cat! Over here!”

I shift my head to see Dean waving at me from a large booth to my right. I don’t know how he spotted me in the throng of people. I hadn’t even texted him to say I was coming, so he’s either got exceptional Spidey senses or he’s been monitoring the door like a creeper.

Megan and I link arms to avoid getting separated and make our way through the sea of bodies. I inhale a gust of perfume from a platinum blonde in a short skirt. I manage to survive the perfume assault only to breathe in a cloud of something more potent from the guy beside her. My eyes start to water, and I almost turn around to tell him to go easy on the Axe body spray before he kills someone.

“Look, Fitzy, girls!” Dean announces when Megan and I reach the booth. He rapidly addresses the other guys. “Quick, make room for them before they disappear.”

Laughter breaks out, and I notice most of the players are grinning at one guy in particular, who I’ve seen before at some of the hockey parties Hannah dragged me to. I think his name is Colin, but I usually hear him being referred to as either Fitz or Fitzy. He’s a big guy with messy brown hair, dark scruff on his face, and what looks like a tattoo peeking from the collar of his shirt. I suspect he’s definitely rocking a chest tat, because I’ve seen him in a T-shirt, and I remember him having full sleeves on both arms.

The boys shuffle around to accommodate us. Megan slides in next to a guy with a buzz cut. He introduces himself as Hollis. I squeeze in between Tucker, who’s engrossed on his phone, and Pierre, one of the French-Canadians on the team. He greets me with a smile, and a pair of adorable dimples pop out. Rounding out the group are two players I’ve never met. In his heavy accent, Pierre introduces them as Wilkes and Ekberg.

Dean, who is across from me on the other side of Hollis, winks when our eyes lock. “You made it. Didn’t think you would.”