The Score (Off-Campus #3)(60)
His tears trigger mine, in the way yawns are said to be contagious. Suddenly we’re both crying, Dean burying his face against my breasts as his whole body shudders in silent sobs. I don’t know who kisses who first. Or who undresses who. Or how we wind up tangled together on the bed, naked, gasping, sticking our tongues in each other’s throats and frantically touching each other’s bodies. Megan told me some crazy statistic once about how eighty percent of people who were interviewed for a grief survey admitted to having sex right before, during, or directly after a funeral.
I guess it makes sense if you think about it. Celebrating life in the face of death. Needing someone to hold on to, a tangible connection to another living, breathing person.
We release simultaneous groans when he slides inside me. No condom, but we haven’t been using them since the new semester started. We both got tested before the break, and I was already on the pill.
I welcome his thick, pulsing cock into my body, arching my hips to meet his desperate thrusts. The orgasm that sweeps through me stuns me with its force. I didn’t think it was possible to feel this kind of pleasure, raw, all-consuming, when I’m so overcome with sadness.
Dean makes a deep, tortured noise as he comes, trembling violently as he pulses and spills inside me. His breathing low and shallow, he collapses on top of me, then shifts us over so my sweaty back is plastered to his sweaty chest. I feel moisture on the back of my neck. Not perspiration, but tears. All the tears he would’ve been trying to hold in if he’d gone to Beau’s memorial.
I roll toward him, wrapping my arms around his broad shoulders as he cries for the friend he lost. I don’t know how long we stay in that position, but eventually Dean goes still and falls asleep with his cheek pressed up against mine. For the first time in seven days, I feel a tiny flicker of hope. Hope that the emotional release he’d just experienced will ease some of his grief, lead him closer to the road of acceptance.
The worst thing about hope, though?
More often than not, it leads to disappointment.
31
Allie
Over the next two weeks, all I can do is stand idly by and watch Dean spiral. He has a new routine. He wakes up in the morning. He goes to class. He goes to practice. Then he comes home and drinks or smokes himself into a stupor.
Amazingly enough, he still finishes his course readings and turns in assignments. When I sneak a peek at one of the papers he’s written, I discover that it’s good. It’s like he handed the reins over to the intelligent brain he doesn’t like people knowing about, and is now operating on autopilot. He’s doing it on the ice, too. Just letting his strong, athletic body and his years of training take over and do the job for him. His heart—hell, his consciousness, I’m starting to think—doesn’t play a role.
Neither does his libido. That’s gone, too. Well, no, not quite. It rears up at a certain threshold of his fucked-up-ness, somewhere between buzzed and unconscious. But I turn him down every time, because the guy who’s flashing me those cocky grins? Who’s whispering dirty things in my ear and whose skillful hands are attempting to work under my shirt or into my pants? It’s not my boyfriend.
My boyfriend doesn’t want to fuck me only when he’s drunk, and my boyfriend’s carefree grins aren’t drug or alcohol induced.
Dean Di Laurentis fucks because he loves to fuck, and he smiles because he goddamn loves to smile.
This drunk, stoned Dean is an interloper. He doesn’t even care when I tell him I’m not in the mood, because he isn’t in the mood either—the substances surging through his blood are just making his body think he is.
He’s grieving. I repeat these words to myself a hundred times a day. I remind myself that Beau Maxwell is dead, and that Dean misses him desperately. I chide myself for getting angry over the fact that he’s handling Beau’s death in a different way than I would.
But…damn it, I don’t know how to handle the way he’s handling it. What am I supposed to do, take him to rehab? He’s not an alcoholic. He’s not a drug addict. And the worst part is, the booze and weed have no effect on his academic or hockey life. He just rolls out of bed in the morning and skates like a champion or aces a test.
There’s one thing missing from his routine, however—the Hurricanes. After the news of Beau’s death broke out, time kind of stood still for a week. Dean and Logan were excused from hockey practice because they were close with Beau, and Dean bailed on the middle school practices too. I thought it was a temporary hiatus. Grief leave, if you will. But now three weeks have passed and Dean still refuses to go back. I urged him to reconsider, but all that got me was an emphatic no. He flat out said he doesn’t want to work with the kids anymore.
I suspect it’s because working with them brings him joy. And right now, he doesn’t want to feel joy. He doesn’t want to feel anything.
Me, I’m feeling plenty of things. Sorrow. Frustration. Anger, which then leads to guilt, because he lost his best friend, for fuck’s sake. I’m not allowed to be angry with him.
Today, I’m feeling determined. I’ve decided that Dean can’t wallow in grief forever. At some point, he’ll find a way to pull out of this tailspin he’s caught in, and when that happens, I don’t want him looking around and discovering that he lost something important to him.
The Hurricanes are important to him.
I park Dean’s car in front of the arena and kill the engine. He was already on his fourth beer when I left the house, where I’ve been staying ever since Beau died. I told him I needed to borrow his car so I could buy tampons. Life hack: if you don’t want someone asking you questions, say the word tampon¸ and the conversation ends.
I enter the small building and walk down the hall, past the vending machines and toward the double doors leading to the rink. A chill hits my face as I push through the doors. On the ice, the boys are in the middle of a fast-paced drill that involves skating super fast and then stopping super hard. I don’t really get it, but sure.
Turning my head, I catch sight of a lone figure in the bleachers. Dakota. Her face lights up when she spots me. I wave at her, then hold up one finger to indicate I’ll be a minute.
I approach the low wall near the home team bench just as Doug Ellis skates up. “Allie. Hi.” He peers at the entrance. “Dean with you?”
I shake my head, and he looks disappointed. So do the boys, who clearly recognize me from the handful of times I met Dean here so we could go for dinner. I think they associate my face with the assistant coach they’d idolized.
Ellis tells the kids they have five minutes of free skate, then turns to me and listens without comment as I apologize for Dean’s absence and assure him that Dean will be coming back soon. “He’s going through a rough patch right now,” I say quietly.
Ellis nods. “He told me about his buddy. It was all over the local papers too. The football quarterback, huh?”
I nod back. “Beau Maxwell. He…” I picture Beau’s sparkling blue eyes and rogue grin, and my heart clenches. “He was a really great guy.” I swallow a lump of sadness. “He and Dean were close, and…yeah…it’s been hard. But Dean wanted me to tell you he’ll be back to work with the kids very soon.”
“No, he didn’t,” Ellis says.
I avoid his shrewd gaze.
“He didn’t send you here to talk to me, honey. And he didn’t say he was coming back.” Ellis shrugs. “But you want him to.”
My throat closes up. “Yes, I want him to.” I gulp again. “I wanted to make sure you’ll still have him if—when the time comes.”
“Of course I will.” He nods toward the ice. “Question is, will they? Kids don’t take well to being abandoned.”
“But they’re also quicker to forgive,” I point out.
Although maybe not all of them. When I join Dakota on the bleachers a few minutes later, it’s evident that forgiveness is the last thing on her mind.
“Dean doesn’t like me anymore,” she tells me in a flat voice. “And I don’t like him.”
I stifle a sigh. “That’s not true, sweetie. You both like each other just fine.”
“We do not. If he likes me, then why isn’t he teaching me skating anymore? And he doesn’t help Robbie anymore too! He hasn’t been here in years.”
Three weeks. But I guess to a ten-year-old that might feel like an eternity.
“Is he mad because I didn’t want to wear the boy skates?” Her bottom lip quivers. “My mom said it was rude for me to make him buy me girl skates. Is that why he hates me? Because he paid money for girl skates?”
And then she starts to cry.
Oh God. I don’t know what to do in this situation. I’m not related to her and I’m not one of her teachers—am I allowed to hug her? Will I get in trouble if I do?
Fuck it. I don’t care if it’s inappropriate. Dakota is bawling in earnest now, and she needs comfort.
I wrap one arm around her and hug her tightly. And then, as my heart throbs uncontrollably, I spend the next twenty minutes reassuring a sad little girl that my boyfriend doesn’t hate her.
*