Page 40 of Face Me Off

“What’s your hurry?” As far as I’m concerned, we could lay here for another hour or so. I’m in no rush to leave.

“That’s none of your business.” She waves her hand between us. “This was just sex, remember?”

My jaw clenches. God, this woman is frustrating. We just had the most incredible sex, and she wants to treat it like a wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am. Or would it be a thank-you-sir since I’m the one being brushed aside?

“Fine.” I push my leg through one of my pants, then the other, and stand. She doesn’t say a word as I finish getting dressed. She just disappears to the outside.

This friends-with-benefits, or more like frenemies-with-benefits, is a perfect setup. Aren’t casual hookups every guy’s dream? I’ve had enough throughout college. But if that’s true, why am I feeling slighted? And why do I fucking care?

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

RYAN

The warm scentof coffee and baked goods greets us as we push inside Auntie B’s. That scent never gets old. My teammates and I beeline for our usual corner booth, nodding at the waitstaff we’ve come to know over countless post-practice hangouts.

“Evening, boys!” Sarah, one of the regular servers, calls from behind the counter. “The usual?”

“You know it,” I reply, sliding into the worn leather seat.

Andrew plops down across from me, his broad shoulders taking up most of the booth. “Man, I’m starving. That practice was brutal.”

Easton and Jonas squeeze in beside us, and I can feel the energy thrumming through all of us, that post-workout high mixed with the comfort of routine. Our quintet is missing a member. Blake headed out right after practice. No doubt to be with Amanda. It’s a little concerning, considering he’s never taken any relationship seriously, but I respect Amanda’s intelligence. She knows what she’s doing.

Doesn’t mean I won’t have her back if needed.

I’ll always be watchful.

Just as I am for Madison.

Shaking those thoughts, I scan the chalkboard menu out of habit, even though I know I’ll get my standard turkey club with rice pilaf and steamed broccoli. Old habits die hard, I guess. Just like my dad’s work ethic, which he drilled into me. No slacking, even when it comes to sandwich choices.

Andrew leans forward, his scowl on full display. “These new rules from our esteemed donor, Dr. Stick-up-his-ass Steinberg, are utter bullshit. Nobody before us had to abide by these strict restrictions.”

“Keep it down.” I smile apologetically to the mother in the nearby booth. Her kids’ faces are glued to their mobile devices, not paying us any attention. Still, the last thing we need is an incident after the administration expressed concern over our behavior.

“Drew has a point,” Easton says. “What all did Blake say?”

Andrew’s scowl deepens. “Apparently, we’re not allowed to have any ‘unseemly gatherings’ at our houses anymore. No parties, no girls past ten. Hell, I wouldn’t be surprised if they start monitoring our shower time.”

Coach told Blake after practice today that we need to be on our best behavior, keeping our heads low and our noses to the grindstone. A big donor is willing to give us a sizable stipend but doesn’t want his pristine image damaged.

Fair enough, but does he know hockey players? Come on.

“There’s no way they can monitor who we have at our house.” I shake my head at this nonsense. We live on jock row in the homes built for athletes. There are four of us assigned to each house. Not having girls over? Get real. Never happening. Especially since we aren’t the only team utilizing campus housing.

Jonas chuckles. “What, is this college or Catholic school?”

“Right?” Andrew throws his hands up. “I swear, it’s like they’re trying to turn us into monks or something. How are we supposed to blow off steam after games?”

“I don’t think it’s that deep,” I say. “Regardless, let’s just keep out of headlines and off the ‘Rumor Has It’ page.”

Everyone grumbles at the mention of the latest addition to the sports section of the campus newspaper—a gossip column. The editor is an asshole for thinking that was a good idea. So far, the only mentions have been about the baseball and football teams. Mel G., the anonymous author, seems to have it out for the baseball team’s captain, Braxton Smith. The poor bastard has been reduced to a speed fucker and heartbreaker.

No one wants to land in that article.

“I say we keep doing as we have and not worry about it,” Jonas says.

“Here you go, boys.” Sarah sets our usual order—turkey club for me, extra fries for Drew—on the table. We thank her and dive in.

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