Page 23 of The Score

“Nah, she went home. She’s having a girl day with Allie.”

I’m glad my back is turned, because the moment he says Allie’s name, my dick actually goes half-mast. Wonderful. I’m turned on by the sound of hernamenow?

“You didn’t do anything stupid when she was here, did you?” Garrett’s tone is lined with suspicion.

I fucked her twice. So…yes?

I bite my tongue and throw on a T-shirt, followed by a navy-blue Briar hoodie. “I was a perfect gentleman.”

Logan snorts. “Well, that’s a first.”

“Fuck you very much. I happen to be skilled in the art of gentlemanry.”

“That’s not an art. Or a word.” Logan rolls his eyes and disappears from the room, but Garrett stays behind.

He studies my face for so long I shift in discomfort. “What?” I mutter.

“Nothing,” he says, but he still wears a suspicious expression as he ducks out of my bedroom.

When I pop into the bathroom to brush my teeth, I realize that the purple hickey on my neck is still very, very noticeable. Had Garrett seen it?

But so what if he had? Anyone could’ve sucked on my neck this weekend. There’s no reason for him to suspect it was Allie.

Goddamn Allie. I told her I wanted her again, and she’dhung upon me. That doesn’t happen to me—ever. I’m Dean Di Laurentis, for fuck’s sake. I can snap my fingers and a dozen chicks appear, begging to ride my dick. Last time I was at the campuscoffeehouse, the hot barista handed me a free coffee and then offered to suck me off in the stock room.

So what the hell is Allie’s problem? I spent way too much time last night wondering if she’s playing hard to get. I mean, it’s not like she hadn’t enjoyed the sex. I’ve never been with anyone who showered my dick with so much glowing praise.

“Oh my gosh, I want to marry your cock!”

“Best. Dick. Ever.”

“Dean, you’re making me come…”

Her throaty cries run through my head on a perverted, boner-inducing loop, and I grip the towel rack with one hand as a groan slips out. The toothbrush in my mouth falls into the sink. My cock tents in my pants and nudges the porcelain, needing to make contact with something, anything.

I wonder if Coach would be pissed if I was late to meet him because I was jerking off.

Probably.

Thirty minutes later,I swipe my student ID in the keypad at the hockey facility, sipping on the coffee I grabbed on the way here. The wide corridor is deserted, and my sneakers squeak on the shiny floors as I head to the back of the building. I walk past the row of classrooms and the screening room, bypass the kitchen and weight rooms, then duck through the massive equipment area.

Our facility is state of the art. There are half a dozen big cozy offices that Chad Jensen could’ve parked his ass in, but for some reason he chose this modest office tucked away near the laundry room.

I knock on the door, only opening it when I hear Coach’s gruff, “Get in here.” The last playerwho waltzed in without knocking got a tongue-lashing that the rest of us could hear all the way from the showers. I like to think Coach uses the office to jack off and that’s why he insists on privacy. Logan hypothesizes that he has a secret office family that’s only allowed to venture out in the wee hours of the night.

Logan is an idiot.

“Hey, Coach. You wanted to see me—” I halt when I realize we’re not alone.

I’m not caught off guard often. I’m a go-with-the-flow kinda guy, which means it takes a helluva lot to shock or surprise me.

Right now, the only flow I’m going with is the rush of anxiety that travels through my blood and seeps into my bones.

Frank O’Shea rises from the visitor’s chair and flicks his cool gaze over me. I haven’t seen him since my senior year of high school, but he looks exactly the same. Dark buzz cut, stocky body, severe mouth.

“Di Laurentis,” he says with a curt nod.

I nod back. “Coach O’Shea.”

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