Page 66 of The Bro-code

Just in case anyone was wondering what’s been haunting my thoughts, it isn’t hard to guess.

My mind has been replaying every encounter, every brush in—no matter how insignificant—with Bay.

Living in the same house doesn’t help matters and I find myself wishing that the Zeta house hadn’t been condemned for the hundredth time since Bay moved in.

It isn’t just that fucking kiss that’s playing in my head on repeat. It’s every smile, every time she plays with the ends of her blonde ponytail almost absentmindedly. The way she moves, laughs and eats.

This morning I bumped into her in the kitchen after practice. She was sitting at the kitchen table eating a plate of scrambled eggs.

Don’t start me off on how hard I got staring at the way that fork traveled from the plate to her luscious mouth. The way she chewed and swallowed her food was sexy, downright sinful.

No one should have any fucking business looking like a wet dream while eating breakfast.

That’s without even mentioning those tiny pink sleep shorts. I’ve been jacking off to the memory of the way they hugged her hips and rode up a little between her inner thighs the night we bumped into each other in the kitchen.

Thank fuck for lube and lotion or both my dick and hands would be as chafed as hell.

Even now, I’ve been thinking about Bay Woods for the best part of an hour and it’s almost time for that team meeting.

If she hadn’t ended up living here because there’s no free accommodation on campus and in town, I’d consider moving. I don’t even recognize myself these days. I’ve always liked women but that’s the keyword here, women. Fucking plural. This sudden, crazy obsession with just one specimen of the female species is unlike me and so concerning that maybe I should go to therapy.

And for those who know me, my family are old fashioned, snobby WASPS and the Connellys don’t go to therapy. We just shove our issues under the rug and drink our way to a very dignified numbness.

I step into the living room like an inmate walking to the gallows. I feel responsible for the shit show of our last two games. But it’s imperative that I keep my mouth shut about my part in the bad juju that seems to have caused our two crippling defeats.

As Cole addresses the team and plays the videos of the most cringeworthy mistakes of the first two games of the season, my mind inevitably drifts away.

There’s no need to fess up on the object of my thoughts, but anything is better than watching how pathetic our performance has been.

After we sit through the torture of the highlights of both games, my teammates discuss at length everything that went wrong on the ice, which was… everything.

My name is mentioned more than I’m comfortable with, but I know I’ve never played this badly ever since I laced up my first pair of skates.

“Jagger isn’t the only one who made mistakes,” Cole defends me. “We were off our game, all of us.”

I’m surprised when Ryker agrees with him. “Cole is right. I, for one, admit that I was out of sync. I’ve never been offside more often than since I arrived here. And the funny thing is that the more I pay attention, and make an effort to play the way I should, the worse it gets. Yesterday I felt like I had two fucking left feet.”

His assessment of his own performance is brutal but honest. I’ve always known that Ryker was fair, but he has definitely matured since we played together in high school.

Someone who definitely hasn’t matured or learned that he shouldn’t air every thought that comes to his mind is our frat president.

“You’re right, Moore,” Topher snorts. “Hopefully your poor performance will open Coach’s eyes and he’ll realize what a huge mistake he made when he asked you to come here. Maybe he’ll remember who played flawlessly last season until some of the players who left to go pro managed to turn him against me.”

Fuck.

This guy is either a sociopath or he has no dignity. He makes it sound like he didn’t decide on that ridiculous dare and blackmailed all of us into letting him continue with his hazing and bullying.

Ryker however has never backed down from a fight on or off the ice and today is no exception. “Shut the fuck up, Mumford. You could talk if you had played decently when Coach put you on the ice. But you were just as bad as all of us. Or did I dream the few times you completely missed the puck? You also lost every single face-off you were involved in. So do us all a favor and get off your high horse.”

There are murmurs of agreement around the room, but in typical Topher fashion, he won’t admit defeat and he goes on the offensive.

“That might be the case, but does anyone care to explain what the fuck is wrong with us? We look like a different team during practice. It’s on game night that we turn into a low tier division three team.”

I hate it when he’s right, but Topher has nailed the situation.

“That’s exactly how Coach and I feel,” Cole agrees. “We’re at a loss as of what’s the matter with us. This is why I wanted to discuss it with all of you. If you have any clue, please share your opinion. No idea is a bad idea at this point, if we want to rescue our season.”

Several hypotheses are put forward.

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