The Score
Page 23
“I mean you’re facing a Jacob quandary. You imprinted on her pussy, and now it’s the only pussy you can think about. You exist solely for this pussy. Like Jacob and that weird mutant baby.”
“You fucking asshole. You’ve totally read those books.”
“Nuh-uh,” Beau protests. He gives a sheepish grin. “I’ve seen the movies.”
I decide to save my taunting for later because there are more pressing matters to focus on. “So what’s the cure, Dr. Maxwell? Go on a fuck spree and hope I un-imprint? Or keep working the charm and hope I wear her down?”
My buddy snorts loudly. “How would I know?” He raises his pint glass. “I’m drunk, dude. Nobody should ever listen to me when I’m drunk.” He drains his glass and signals the waitress for another. “Hell, nobody should listen to me when I’m sober.”
8
Dean
The second game of the season is an unmitigated disaster. No. Scratch that. It’s a goddamn bloodbath.
Nobody says a word as we file into the locker room, the humiliation of the loss creeping behind us like a puddle of tar. We may as well have yanked our pants down, stuck our bare asses in the air and cheerfully asked the other team for a spanking. We fucking handed them the win. No, we handed them a shutout.
As I whip off my jersey, I mentally replay every second of the game. Every mistake we made out there tonight is burned into my mind like a cattle brand. Losing sucks. Losing at home sucks harder.
Damn, there are going to be a lot of disappointed fans at Malone’s tonight. I’m not looking forward to seeing them, and I know my teammates are equally upset. None more so than Hunter, who hurriedly strips out of his uniform as if it’s covered with fire ants.
“You got some nice shots on goal tonight,” I tell him, and it’s the truth. Our scoreless game wasn’t for lack of trying. We played hard. The other team just played harder.
“Would’ve been nicer if one of them went in,” he mutters.
I stifle a sigh. “Their goalie was on point tonight. Even G couldn’t get one past him.”
Garrett takes that moment to lumber up to his locker, and he’s quick to reassure the frowning freshman. “Don’t sweat it, kid. There’s plenty more hockey to be played this season. We’ll bounce back.”
“Yeah. Sure.” Hunter is unconvinced. We don’t get the chance to offer more encouragement, because Coach Jensen strides into the locker room, tailed by Frank O’Shea.
Coach wastes no time delivering one of his brief, post-game speeches. As usual, it sounds like he’s talking in point form.
“We lost. It feels shitty. Don’t let it get to you. Just means we work harder during practice and bring it harder for the next game.” He nods at everyone, then stalks out the door.
I’d think he was pissed at us, if not for the fact that his victory speeches more or less go the same way—“We won. It feels great. Don’t let it go to your head. We work just as hard during practice and we win more games.” If any of our freshman players are expecting Coach to deliver epic motivational speeches a la Kurt Russell in Miracle, they’re in for a grave disappointment.
O’Shea lingers in the room. My shoulders instinctively tense when he trudges toward me, but he surprises me by saying, “Good coverage in the defensive zone tonight. That was a solid block in the second.”
“Thanks.” I’m still suspicious of the unexpected compliment, but he’s already moved on to praise Logan for successfully killing the power play in the third period.
I toss my gear in one of the huge laundry bins, then head for the showers and wash the stench of failure off my body. I hate losing, but I don’t allow myself more than ten minutes to dwell on it. My father taught me that trick when I was eight years old, after a particularly demoralizing loss on the lacrosse field.
“You have ten minutes,” he told me. “Ten minutes to think about what you did wrong and how bad you feel right now. Are you ready?”
He’d actually clicked a button on his watch and timed me, and for those ten minutes I brooded and sulked and wallowed in humiliation. I remembered the errors I’d made on the field and corrected them in my head. I imagined punching every player on the opposing team square in the mouth. And then Dad told me my time was up.
“There. It’s over now,” he said. “Now you look forward and figure out how you’re going to get better.”
I fucking love my dad.
By the time I’m out of the shower, the bitterness of tonight’s loss has faded, tucked away in my internal filing cabinet in a folder labeled ‘Shitty Stuff.’
I think Garrett uses the same filing system, because he’s damn near chipper as we meet up with Hannah in the parking lot. He pulls her into his arms and smacks a kiss on her lips. “Hey babe.”
“Hey.” She snuggles closer to him. “It’s getting so cold! I wouldn’t be surprised if it started snowing right now.”
She’s not wrong. It’s freezing out, and every breath we take floats out in a visible white cloud.
“Bar or home?” Logan asks, joining us at our cars.
“Bar,” Garrett says. “Don’t feel like having anyone over tonight. You?”
After a game, we either hit Malone’s or invite our teammates and friends over to the house, but it’s obvious none of us feel like playing hosts tonight.
“Bar,” Logan echoes, and I nod in agreement.
“Are we waiting for Tucker?” I search the lot, but I don’t see our roommate anywhere. “And what about Grace?”
“Tuck already left with Fitzy,” Logan answers. “And Grace isn’t coming tonight. She’s at the station.”
Feigning nonchalance, I glance at Hannah. “What about your other half?”
“I’m right here,” Garrett says smugly.
“I mean her other other half.” I grin at Hannah. “The little blond drama queen you hang out with?”
“She didn’t feel like going out tonight. She’s too busy moping.”
“Moping about what?” But I already know the answer to that. The ex-boyfriend, obvs.
Hannah confirms my thoughts. “Sean. He called her this morning, and I don’t know what he said to her, but she got really quiet afterward and she’s been mopey ever since. I would’ve stayed home tonight but I didn’t want to miss the game.”
“You fucking asshole. You’ve totally read those books.”
“Nuh-uh,” Beau protests. He gives a sheepish grin. “I’ve seen the movies.”
I decide to save my taunting for later because there are more pressing matters to focus on. “So what’s the cure, Dr. Maxwell? Go on a fuck spree and hope I un-imprint? Or keep working the charm and hope I wear her down?”
My buddy snorts loudly. “How would I know?” He raises his pint glass. “I’m drunk, dude. Nobody should ever listen to me when I’m drunk.” He drains his glass and signals the waitress for another. “Hell, nobody should listen to me when I’m sober.”
8
Dean
The second game of the season is an unmitigated disaster. No. Scratch that. It’s a goddamn bloodbath.
Nobody says a word as we file into the locker room, the humiliation of the loss creeping behind us like a puddle of tar. We may as well have yanked our pants down, stuck our bare asses in the air and cheerfully asked the other team for a spanking. We fucking handed them the win. No, we handed them a shutout.
As I whip off my jersey, I mentally replay every second of the game. Every mistake we made out there tonight is burned into my mind like a cattle brand. Losing sucks. Losing at home sucks harder.
Damn, there are going to be a lot of disappointed fans at Malone’s tonight. I’m not looking forward to seeing them, and I know my teammates are equally upset. None more so than Hunter, who hurriedly strips out of his uniform as if it’s covered with fire ants.
“You got some nice shots on goal tonight,” I tell him, and it’s the truth. Our scoreless game wasn’t for lack of trying. We played hard. The other team just played harder.
“Would’ve been nicer if one of them went in,” he mutters.
I stifle a sigh. “Their goalie was on point tonight. Even G couldn’t get one past him.”
Garrett takes that moment to lumber up to his locker, and he’s quick to reassure the frowning freshman. “Don’t sweat it, kid. There’s plenty more hockey to be played this season. We’ll bounce back.”
“Yeah. Sure.” Hunter is unconvinced. We don’t get the chance to offer more encouragement, because Coach Jensen strides into the locker room, tailed by Frank O’Shea.
Coach wastes no time delivering one of his brief, post-game speeches. As usual, it sounds like he’s talking in point form.
“We lost. It feels shitty. Don’t let it get to you. Just means we work harder during practice and bring it harder for the next game.” He nods at everyone, then stalks out the door.
I’d think he was pissed at us, if not for the fact that his victory speeches more or less go the same way—“We won. It feels great. Don’t let it go to your head. We work just as hard during practice and we win more games.” If any of our freshman players are expecting Coach to deliver epic motivational speeches a la Kurt Russell in Miracle, they’re in for a grave disappointment.
O’Shea lingers in the room. My shoulders instinctively tense when he trudges toward me, but he surprises me by saying, “Good coverage in the defensive zone tonight. That was a solid block in the second.”
“Thanks.” I’m still suspicious of the unexpected compliment, but he’s already moved on to praise Logan for successfully killing the power play in the third period.
I toss my gear in one of the huge laundry bins, then head for the showers and wash the stench of failure off my body. I hate losing, but I don’t allow myself more than ten minutes to dwell on it. My father taught me that trick when I was eight years old, after a particularly demoralizing loss on the lacrosse field.
“You have ten minutes,” he told me. “Ten minutes to think about what you did wrong and how bad you feel right now. Are you ready?”
He’d actually clicked a button on his watch and timed me, and for those ten minutes I brooded and sulked and wallowed in humiliation. I remembered the errors I’d made on the field and corrected them in my head. I imagined punching every player on the opposing team square in the mouth. And then Dad told me my time was up.
“There. It’s over now,” he said. “Now you look forward and figure out how you’re going to get better.”
I fucking love my dad.
By the time I’m out of the shower, the bitterness of tonight’s loss has faded, tucked away in my internal filing cabinet in a folder labeled ‘Shitty Stuff.’
I think Garrett uses the same filing system, because he’s damn near chipper as we meet up with Hannah in the parking lot. He pulls her into his arms and smacks a kiss on her lips. “Hey babe.”
“Hey.” She snuggles closer to him. “It’s getting so cold! I wouldn’t be surprised if it started snowing right now.”
She’s not wrong. It’s freezing out, and every breath we take floats out in a visible white cloud.
“Bar or home?” Logan asks, joining us at our cars.
“Bar,” Garrett says. “Don’t feel like having anyone over tonight. You?”
After a game, we either hit Malone’s or invite our teammates and friends over to the house, but it’s obvious none of us feel like playing hosts tonight.
“Bar,” Logan echoes, and I nod in agreement.
“Are we waiting for Tucker?” I search the lot, but I don’t see our roommate anywhere. “And what about Grace?”
“Tuck already left with Fitzy,” Logan answers. “And Grace isn’t coming tonight. She’s at the station.”
Feigning nonchalance, I glance at Hannah. “What about your other half?”
“I’m right here,” Garrett says smugly.
“I mean her other other half.” I grin at Hannah. “The little blond drama queen you hang out with?”
“She didn’t feel like going out tonight. She’s too busy moping.”
“Moping about what?” But I already know the answer to that. The ex-boyfriend, obvs.
Hannah confirms my thoughts. “Sean. He called her this morning, and I don’t know what he said to her, but she got really quiet afterward and she’s been mopey ever since. I would’ve stayed home tonight but I didn’t want to miss the game.”
