Line Mates & Study Dates (CU Hockey Book 4) Read online

  Line Mates & Study Dates

  CU Hockey Book 4

  Eden Finley

  Saxon James

  Line Mates & Study Dates

  Copyright © 2021 by Eden Finley & Saxon James

  Cover Illustration Copyright ©

  Story Styling Cover Designs

  * * *

  Professional beta read by Les Court Services.

  https://www.lescourtauthorservices.com

  Edited by One Love Editing

  https://oneloveediting.com

  * * *

  All rights reserved.

  This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher.

  For information regarding permission, write to:

  Eden Finley - permissions - [email protected]

  or

  Saxon James - permissions - [email protected]

  Disclaimers

  While we stuck as close as we could to the NCAA guidelines and rules in regards to hockey, we took creative freedom with some small details, because fiction is supposed to be fun.

  * * *

  Names, colleges, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the authors’ imaginations or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Contents

  1. Asher

  2. Kole

  3. Asher

  4. Kole

  5. Asher

  6. Kole

  7. Asher

  8. Kole

  9. Asher

  10. Kole

  11. Asher

  12. Kole

  13. Asher

  14. Kole

  15. Asher

  16. Kole

  17. Asher

  18. Kole

  19. Asher

  20. Kole

  21. Asher

  22. Kole

  23. Asher

  24. Kole

  25. Asher

  26. Kole

  27. Asher

  28. Kole

  29. Asher

  30. Kole

  31. Asher

  32. Kole

  33. Asher

  Thank you

  About Eden Finley

  About Saxon James

  1

  Asher

  I’m going to go do something stupid.

  Those were the words I said right before I followed through and overshot it. Because I didn’t do something stupid last night. I did something fundamentally messed up.

  Well done, Asher, you eternal man-child.

  The heavy weight spooning me shifts, and I close my eyes and mutter silently, “There’s no place like home. There’s no place like home.” Except there’s a gigantically big, huge, stupid problem with that. This is my home. It’s Ezra-fucking-Palaszczuk who needs to get out of my bed and this house before any of my little brothers and sisters see him in here with me. Or worse yet, if my older brother sees him.

  I elbow Ezra and whisper, “You need to go.”

  The deep moan in my ear was sexy last night when I was drunk, but now it makes me cringe. Not because he’s a dude but because of who he is. “Come on, I thought we could have some more fun before you kicked me out.”

  “My brother will kill you.”

  “Westly? Please, he never stays mad at me long. He loves me.”

  I know. That’s why I fucked Ezra in the first place.

  Alcohol is an evil mistress. It takes those devious “what ifs” and turns them into reality. Sleeping with my brother’s best friend should have been reserved for when West really pissed me off. Instead, on a drunken whim, I thought fooling around with Boston’s hottest defenseman was a brilliant idea.

  No one has ever accused hockey players of being smart. Even I know this is crossing a line.

  Which yeah, I would have been prepared to do when I really wanted a reaction, but for once, this wasn’t one of those times.

  Why, why, why did Ezra come visit my brother while I was all … I shudder, vulnerable? Eww, that’s gross. Go away, you useless emotion.

  Ezra runs his big hand down my chest, and I elbow him again.

  “Get out,” I mumble.

  “Fine.” He stands and pulls on his sweats, but he only gets them up to his thighs when footsteps thump down the stairs and my bedroom door slides open. I use the term “bedroom” loosely because it’s actually the basement of our parents’ old clapboard house. It’s dark and freezing, and the makeshift sliding door West installed for “my privacy” doesn’t have a lock, but unless I wanted to share with one of my siblings, it was this or camping in the damn yard.

  “Asher, you have to—” West’s voice cuts off when he sees Ezra pulling up his goddamn pants. My brother’s hardened gaze turns to me, ire filling his green eyes that match mine.

  “Knock much?” I snap.

  I don’t even know where my hostility comes from half the time. It could be a number of things. The top of the list would be losing our father and stepmother in a car accident a year ago and West guilting me into giving up my spot in the NHL to help him raise our siblings. He said he needed help and didn’t want to hire a nanny, that he didn’t want to uproot the kids’ lives more than they already had been after losing our parents. West gave me the choice, of course, but it didn’t feel like much of one. I wasn’t going to leave them in the sole hands of Westly Dalton. Yeah, there’s a part of me that wants to escape, but another part has the obligation to stay. If West can give up his career in the NHL for them, I can postpone mine.

  Maybe Buffalo will still want me when I graduate from college, and maybe they won’t, but by then my draft contract with four-year exclusive rights to Buffalo will be over, and I can try my hand as a free agent.

  Until then, my life is no longer just mine but also West’s, Zoe’s, Rhys’s, Hazel’s, Bennett’s, and Emmett’s.

  Okay, maybe I do know the source of my hostility, after all, but that doesn’t change anything.

  Acknowledging I’m being an irrational shithead doesn’t make me stop being one. It’s impossible to rein in the asshole inside me. I’ve given up trying.

  West folds his arms across his wide chest and avoids looking at me as he says to Ezra, “Now you’ve gotten what you wanted, you can go back to Boston.” Then he turns in my direction. “You need to take Hazel, Bennett, and Emmett to hockey practice.” He spins on his heel and leaves the room.

  That’s it? That’s all I get for screwing his ex-teammate? I don’t know whether to be pissed off or scared.

  When West is angry, he yells. Our screaming matches over the years have been the definition of sibling rivalry. But ever since Dad died, he doesn’t give a shit about fighting. Either that or he’s holding it all inside and will one day explode.

  I turn to Ezra. “What did he mean you got what you wanted?”

  “Your brother used to be fun, but ever since he moved home, he’s all ‘I can’t go out. I can’t leave the kids. I’m a big boring bore.’”

  I rub my temples. “I’m sure there were more options for you back in Boston.”

  “Yeah, but I was hoping if I made the drive out here, your brother might finally take me up on the offer to go out.”

  I scoff. “Not likely. Don’t know if you’ve noticed, but his life has drastically changed in the last year.”

  “Which is exactly why he deserves a night out.”

  I desperately want to ask Ezra what exactly a night out with the two of them would entail because my brother is … elusive when it comes to his party life.


  The rumors swirling around him in hockey circles are full of wild stories even I wouldn’t be able to keep up with, and I’ve never had the guts to ask if they were true or not. There are some things I just don’t want to know about my brother.

  I roll onto my stomach and throw my pillow over my head. I’m hungover, and Ezra is still rambling.

  “Suddenly West is all Mr. Serious and Responsible. It’s weird. And unnerving. There’s been a cosmic shift in the universe, and that shit’s unnatural.”

  Can’t he take the hint?

  “Why are you still here?”

  “You were a lot nicer last night.”

  “Alcohol makes me nice. Get. Out.”

  “I’m going.”

  I peek under my pillow as Ezra throws my clothes at me.

  “But you need to get up and take the kids to hockey.”

  I’m like a damn taxi service. Although, if I’m honest, I don’t mind driving them around and taking them to hockey. They lost both their parents and now have two fuckboys who don’t know what they’re doing trying to make sure they get through their teen years safely. They’re dealing with enough shit without adding my ruined life plans to their conscience. It’s not their fault our parents died. It was a damn moose in the middle of the road that left them parentless and West out of his element and needing help.

  West may be acting responsible, but he isn’t fooling me.

  Once a fuckboy, always a fuckboy.

  It’s why I don’t fight it anymore.

  I finally get up and dress. It’s the beginning of what is going to be a long-ass summer. West is coaching at CU for their summer camp. Zoe and Rhys are old enough to be left on their own, but I’m responsible for Hazel, Bennett, and Emmett, who are luckily going to their own private day camp. All the while, I get to go to summer classes because my freshman year didn’t go well. I don’t expect my sophomore one to go any better, but if I want to play hockey, I need a C-grade average. At this point, I can only see me reaching that with extra-credit programs. Fun times.

  I just want to play hockey. If the universe wasn’t a cruel bitch, I would be in Buffalo living my NHL dream instead of playing college hockey.

  I pause at my bedroom door. How the hell am I supposed to play this?

  If it’s true that everyone has an angel side and a devil side, my angel side is telling me to apologize, but the darkness inside me won’t allow it. The words I’m sorry don’t fall from my mouth often. Or at all.

  I make my way upstairs and hear West and Ezra in the kitchen.

  “Are you kidding me?” West hisses. “My little brother?”

  I stay hidden around the corner where they can’t see me.

  “It was only sex,” Ezra says. “Who cares?”

  West sighs. “It can’t be like that for me, and it shouldn’t be for him either. Don’t you get it? One wrong step and our siblings end up in foster care.”

  My stomach churns, and I don’t think it has anything to do with my hangover.

  “Okay. I’m sorry. Won’t happen again,” Ezra says.

  “You’re damn right it won’t. Go back to Boston, Ez.”

  “If that’s what you want.” Ezra’s loud footsteps move toward the door, and then he appears in front of me. He gives a cocky smile. “See you round, Little Dalton.”

  I hate, hate, hate being called that. Little Dalton, Mini Dalton … everyone in hockey does it, and it’s annoying. I’m always being compared and always have to live up to the expectations Westly Dalton set.

  Ezra leaves, the door clicking shut behind him.

  When I round the corner, West is packing the kids’ lunches to take to camp. This is where I’m supposed to speak, but I’ve got nothing. I’m surprisingly flat. I usually thrive off tension, but I know I messed up this time.

  His stormy eyes meet mine, and his mouth opens, but then Bennett drags his ass past me to get to the fridge.

  In an epic brother stare down West and I have perfected over the years, words are said without actually speaking.

  Bennett picks up the OJ and leaves again with the whole carton. I swear that kid is half orange juice. And thank fuck nine-year-olds can’t pick up on tension in a room. Or, maybe they can and he’s smart enough to get out of here as fast as possible.

  “Why are you the way that you are?” West starts.

  That’s a good question. I go to answer that maybe it’s because I’ve already lost too much in my twenty-one years and that everyone and everything else can go fuck itself, but he holds up his hand.

  “Never mind. I know why you do the shit you do.” His whole body slumps in defeat.

  “It didn’t mean anything.” Like that makes it any better. Teammate code. Don’t date siblings. Not that Ezra and I have ever or will ever date in the conventional meaning of the word. Like he said, it was only sex.

  “There you go missing the bigger picture again.” West plants his hands on the countertop of the kitchen island. “What’s it going to take for you to put your head down this summer, study your ass off, and help me around here without all your attention-seeking behavior?”

  “Fuck you.” Even if he has a point. Just … fuck him.

  “You almost flunked out freshman year. Get your shit together and stop testing me. Your life for the next eight weeks is kids, study, and more studying. Got it?”

  “Yay. How fun for me.” Though it’s not like I have anything better to do. The only friend I made this last year is moving to Montreal.

  Without Cohen, my social life is pretty much nonexistent.

  “I need to go,” West says. “Finish packing these, and then get on the road. They can’t be late for morning warm-up.”

  I know that, I want to bite at him but don’t have the energy.

  West pushes past me, and it takes all my strength not to throw the kids’ lunches at the wall.

  Even though our mom died when I was too young to remember, I do remember being told my whole life I need to find healthier coping mechanisms than my “outbursts.” It used to be hockey. Now it’s sex. And adrenaline. That feeling of pissing someone off so much to the point where I don’t know if they’re going to hit me or not. I long for that.

  “Are you and West fighting again?” The small voice of my eleven-year-old sister, Hazel, makes me flinch.

  “Not at all,” I lie. I turn to her.

  Where West and I look like brothers, dark hair, green eyes, Hazel and our other half siblings take after our stepmom. Lighter hair, blue eyes.

  I soften my gaze. Of everyone in this world, my younger siblings are the only people I can honestly say I love. “I slept in, and West is pissed you’re going to be late for practice.”

  “Is that all?” She doesn’t believe me, but I’m not dragging her or any of the others into our shit.

  “Promise.”

  “Are we ready to go?” she asks.

  “Yep. Just need to finish these lunches.”

  “I’ll help.”

  We get on the road five minutes later, and as soon as I drop them off, I resist the urge to ditch school. It’s hard, but I do manage to drag my ass to campus. If I want to keep playing for Colchester, I need to take these classes.

  I regret it as soon as my first class starts because all the information goes over my head.

  It’s definitely going to be a long summer.

  2

  Kole

  Summer went way too quickly.

  I spent most of it interning for the Stem Cell Foundation in New York, and then like every year, I flew to Miami for the last two weeks with Mom and Dad. It’s the only two weeks of the year we get away from Dad talking nonstop about the love of his life. No, not my mom. Hockey. As head coach of the Colchester University hockey team, it takes up most of his time. Dad and I never get along better than when we’re in Miami.

  It sucks because we used to be great, right up until I turned fourteen and realized that playing a sport I hated wasn’t enough to gain Dad’s approval. When I told my paren
ts I was gay, they hugged me and said they love and support me. When I told them I was quitting hockey? Dad barely spoke to me for a month.

  So heading for the hockey arena instead of study group right now feels like a giant waste of time.

  “I still can’t believe you made that dumb bet,” Katey says. Her hair is bubble-gum pink this year, and she’s recently had her nose pierced, but her face is delicate and doe-eyed, so she pulls the look off like some kind of cartoon, jerk-off fantasy. If you’re into that sort of thing. I’m not, which is why we’re best friends.

  “In my defense, without Foster Grant, I really didn’t think Dad’s team would make it to regionals last year.”

  “Defending Frozen Four champs? Not make it to regionals? Do you need a head check?”

  Okay, so maybe literally everyone in my life is more focused on hockey than I am. Mom occasionally drags me to the home games out of support for Dad, and I put up with it because the three of us go out for dinner afterward. It may not seem like it, but Coach Hogan is a family man, and it’s amazing to see that not only are he and Mom still together, but they actually like each other.

  That’s what I want one day. Not so much the traditional marriage and kids, but someone who’ll be there for me the way my parents are there for each other.

  Until then, there are a lot of queer men on campus I haven’t had fun with yet.