Puck Drills & Quick Thrills (CU Hockey Book 5) Read online

  “He will, because he was already offered a contract with Buffalo, and that kid’s talent isn’t going anywhere. Know why he turned it down?”

  “College hockey was his dream?” I throw out glibly. None of this has to do with my class.

  “Because their parents died. Asher came home to help West raise their five siblings.”

  Oh.

  Shit.

  “So yeah,” he continues, “maybe playing Dad is affecting his classes, but he’s going to give zero fucks about failing a math class when he’s skating in the NHL.”

  My moral high ground has disappeared from under my feet, and I’m scrambling to keep my point. “He’s not going to get to the NHL if he’s off your team for not keeping up his grades.”

  Paul chuckles. “Is math that big a deal? What does a professional hockey player need to know numbers for?”

  “Well, how else will they count all that money?” My tone is dry, and I don’t know what I’m more annoyed about. The fact I didn’t know. The fact I feel sorry for him. Or that now I do know I can already tell I’m going to have to relax my rule. This is why I don’t get involved in my students’ lives.

  I slump back in my seat as Paul links his fingers on his desk.

  “So. About that extra credit …”

  I huff and shove away from the desk, leaving before I answer him. My annoyance doesn’t even last until the end of the corridor, where I almost run headfirst into Westly Dalton.

  His eyes immediately narrow. “What are you doing here?”

  “Leaving.” I step around him but can’t help glancing back as I walk away. He’s … what? Late twenties? And already he’s had to go through giving up his dream job and losing his parents.

  No, no, no … I’m not going down that path.

  Yes, I can feel bad for their situation, because no one deserves that. But I won’t feel bad for them specifically. Because if there’s one thing I know, people like Westly and Asher will always bounce back, while the rest of us are left behind.

  My mood is heavy when I finally climb into my car and notice a stream of notifications on my screen. I swipe them away without bothering to check and go to remove myself from the group yet again. But like the last times I’ve tried, I can’t do it.

  I’m not sure who added me, but I doubt anyone would notice if I left.

  There are a few hundred people in the group for our twenty-year high school reunion, and only a few of those names stand out. Not for a good reason.

  Thomas Harvey … Clayton Reez …

  I imagine for the billionth time showing up and proving to those losers that I’ve made it. I have a great job and a nice house. I’ve fixed my teeth and my eyesight, and I’m no longer scrawny and weak. I can’t fix being gay and wouldn’t want to anyway. In my dreams I take a date so smoking hot and charming that those assholes question their sexuality a little too.

  It doesn’t matter though.

  Because while I’m quick-witted and above it all in my head, seeing their names makes my chest tight and my blood pressure start to rise.

  I lock my phone without leaving the group—again—and try not to sigh as I turn on my car. It’s not like I don’t have more pressing headaches to deal with.

  Like Asher Dalton.

  And how the hell I’m going to put extra credit on the table.

  3

  Westly

  “West, Rhys broke my laptop!” Hazel yells from the dining table, where she usually sits her ass from the moment she gets home from school until I tell her to go to bed. If she’s not doing homework, she’s online with her friends.

  “I didn’t break it. I unplugged it,” Rhys says with all the energy of an emo thirteen-year-old. “I needed to charge my tablet.”

  “The battery on my laptop is all messed up, and if you let it run flat, it’s dead, dead. Like super dead,” Hazel says.

  “Rhys, fix it,” I say, turning back to the stove.

  I’m trying to cook dinner after having to make the embarrassing call to tell my boss I couldn’t come in for practice because our babysitter is sick. Skipping work only adds to my ever-present guilt. I feel guilty for not being at work, but when I’m with the team, I feel guilty for not being at home with the kids.

  Technically, I didn’t have to take the job at CU. Between the NHL money I earned, minus a considerable chunk for reckless living and spending, and life insurance from our parents, we’re not suffering. But that money won’t last forever, and Coach Hogan offered me the coaching job when he found out I was back.

  Maybe I should’ve declined the position until the kids were older, but coaching at the collegiate level isn’t given to you every day, and positions rarely come up. If I hadn’t taken it, it might have ruined my chance of getting in the game at a later date.

  Paul is a great boss and so lenient when it comes to my home life.

  “It’s not turning back on!” Hazel screeches.

  I sigh, put down the pan, and leave the kitchen to find her pressing the power button every couple of seconds, harder and harder each time. “Hazel.”

  She keeps pressing it, more frantically now.

  I reach for her hand. “Hazel. I’ll buy you a new one.”

  Tears fill her blue eyes. “Forget it.” As she stands, the chair behind her topples over, and she storms up the stairs. The behavior is so unlike her, I stand there staring, unsure what to do.

  “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck,” Rhys chants and runs his hands through his messy, dark blond hair.

  “Language,” I scold.

  “You don’t get it, do you?” Rhys takes over trying to turn the computer on. “All the photos Hazel has of Mom and Dad are on this laptop.”

  Oh fuck.

  “I forgot. I forgot about the stupid don’t unplug her laptop rule, okay? I wasn’t thinking. And now … Shit, what have I done?”

  See, this is the type of thing I’m not equipped to handle. I can’t throw money at it to make it all better.

  I’m still trying to figure out a solution when the blaring sound of the smoke alarm in the kitchen goes off.

  Double fuck.

  I run in there and throw the pan right into the sink and douse it with water. With the amount of food Asher and I burn, it would probably be more cost-efficient to get takeout every night.

  Doubt seeps in that I can do this at all, but then Asher waltzes through the door after practice, whistling, like he doesn’t have a care in the world. It’s the first time in a long time I’ve seen him look remotely happy.

  His dark hair that matches mine is still wet from the showers in the locker room, but that’s definitely a smile on his lips.

  “Who are you, and what have you done with Asher Dalton?” I ask.

  “Ha, funny. Sooo funny. Why’s Rhys freaking out? And …” He pauses. “Can I hear crying? Wait, is that smoke? Burn dinner again?”

  I slump. “Rhys unplugged Hazel’s laptop, and the battery died, and now she’s freaking out that she’s lost all her photos of Dad and June.” June was Asher’s and my stepmom. Our mother died when Asher was just a baby. This family has suffered way too much death, and all I want to do is make it easier on my siblings, and I’m failing.

  “Can we take it to a tech store?” Asher asks. “They’re good with recovering stuff like that, right? We should probably get her an external hard drive too. Or sync her computer to the cloud so it doesn’t happen again.”

  And this is exactly why I asked my brother to help out with the kids. We’re the same yet so different. There’s a balance between us—one of us stormy, the other calm at any given time. Though in those moments where we’ve both got dark clouds rolling above us, the world needs to watch out because all hell is about to break loose. But in times like this, where I’m lost, he has an uncanny knack of bringing me down and helping me to think rationally.

  We have issues, and I’ll never deny that. Asher has been lashing out at everyone and everything since that fateful car crash, except at our younger siblings. Li
ke me, he can’t deal with the thought of them thinking their grief has ruined our futures, so he always plasters on a smile for them and pretends he’s not dying inside. The same way I pretend I’m handling everything and am not drowning every single day.

  I can tell when Asher’s faking his smile for them, but there’s nothing fake about the smile he has right now. “Why are you so happy?”

  “Oh, no big deal or anything. Just Professor Fuckstain—”

  Genuine fear slices through me. Fear for my job and Asher’s future. “Please don’t tell me you vandalized his car or TP’d his office.” I rub my temples. “Please tell me you didn’t kill him.”

  Asher snorts. “You’re funny today. You get laid recently?” He holds up his hand. “Actually, on second thought, don’t answer that. Don’t want or need to know.”

  I don’t tell him I’m not trying to be funny. With Asher, any of the above could be a legitimate concern. Sure, murder might be a stretch but not a far one.

  “It’s something better,” he says. “He ate his words. Whatever you said to him the other day worked. He offered me a take-home, open-book test to earn the extra credit I need to stay in his class and get a C.”

  Okay, that I was not expecting. At all. “Really?”

  “I was as shocked as you. I’d already decided I wasn’t going to drop the class. Kole’s been tutoring me, and he says I know the material enough to pass it. But now it’ll be that little bit easier.”

  I replay the conversation I had with Eckstein and have no idea how any of it could lead to him changing his mind.

  Aww, shit. Does this mean I have to, like, thank him?

  Fuck my life.

  For the second time since being back at CU, I walk the halls of the math building. Only, this time I’m trying to swallow my pride and do the right thing.

  I don’t know what made Eckstein change his mind, but I don’t want him to think he’s right about jocks only caring about themselves. The least the guy deserves is some gratitude.

  I’m calm enough to use my manners this time and knock.

  “Office hours are stated on the door.” His voice is muffled but clear, and I throw my head back. This guy is an ass.

  I walk in anyway. What was that about manners? “I’m not here about my grades, sir.”

  His head snaps up. “What do you want now? Want me to give Asher an A just for the hell of it?”

  I put my hands up like a busted perp. “I wanted to say thank you for reconsidering. I … we really appreciate it.”

  I don’t need him to respond, and I don’t want to get into another heated argument with him, so I turn on my heel to leave.

  “I didn’t know,” he says softly.

  I glance at him over my shoulder. “Didn’t know what?”

  “When Asher said he had extenuating circumstances, I didn’t know what he meant.”

  I turn to face him. “Did you ask?”

  He huffs. “Look, I’m sorry I jumped to the wrong conclusion, but after everything I’ve seen, it was the easiest and most logical jump to make.”

  “Why do you hate athletes so much? You have to know what’s said about you on campus. What happened? Hockey player break your heart?”

  For a split second, I realize he hasn’t told me his sexuality, and I worry that other things I’ve heard about him on campus aren’t true. But what he says is even worse than hearing the disappointing words I’m straight.

  “They broke my face, actually. And not just one hockey player. A whole team of them.”

  My eyes widen. “W-what?”

  “But hey, maybe I should thank them? Their parents paid to fix my teeth, which is good because mine couldn’t afford the braces I needed to straighten them.”

  I blink at him. And then blink again. “Fuck, I’m sor—”

  “I don’t need your sympathy. I’m sorry for assuming your brother was a slacker and looking for an easy pass when there’s obviously a lot more going on than that. But we don’t need to do this. It’s done. I’ll give him a break, and you can go back to acting like a caveman. Just … not around me.”

  “I’m sorry,” I manage. “For barging in here. And thank you. Again. For giving Asher a chance. If there’s any way I can repay you—”

  “There isn’t.”

  “Not even taking you to lunch?”

  “I’d prefer you didn’t.”

  I huff a small laugh. “Okay then. If you can think of anything, don’t hesitate.”

  He nods, and I leave, but as I walk out, I can’t help hoping he takes me up on the offer.

  I’m kind of … intrigued by him? He’s jaded and strict, but I’m sure he has his reasons. My interest has nothing to do with how hot I find him.

  Well, not completely to do with how hot I find him.

  4

  Jasper

  The end of the day cannot come fast enough. As soon as class is over and the final students trickle from the room, I hook my bag over my shoulder and head for the next building.

  Despite the reputation I have for being a hardass, I get along with most people, and out of everyone on campus, Dave and I clicked immediately.

  He’s a six-foot-four, bearded, gay man who teaches fine arts, and when we first met, I was disappointed he was married.

  Now, I’m grateful to have a friend to catch up with every week.

  He’s in his classroom packing away supplies when I arrive.

  “Almost done?” I ask by way of greeting.

  He chuckles. “Rough day?”

  “I need a drink.”

  “Me too, but because I want one, not because I have any sorrows to drown.” He points at a sculpture to one side of the room. “I mean, would you look at this? She’s talented as hell, Jas. And I get to teach that. Damn, we have the greatest jobs, am I right?”

  I give him a blank look that sets off more gut-quivering laughter in him. Do I love my job? Of course. It’s fulfilling to know that what I teach has purpose and provides the building blocks for students to go on and do great things—even if it goes completely unappreciated. But I’ll never be anyone’s favorite professor. I’ll never see the excited passion that exists in a classroom like this. “Simply thrilled to come to work each day,” I say.

  “Okay, grumpy pants, let’s get some alcohol in you.” Dave locks up the supplies, and we leave.

  Most Wednesday afternoons we head to McIntyre’s, a bar just off campus. Being midweek, there are barely any students there yet, but when they start piling through the doors later, we take it as the sign it’s time to get our old asses home.

  I might only be thirty-eight, and Dave is almost fifty, but he acts younger than I do most of the time.

  He goes to get the first round, and when he comes back and slides a beer toward me, he pins me with a look. “What’s going on with this frown?”

  “I’ve had one too many run-ins with hockey players this week.”

  “Ah …” Dave is one of the few people who knows what high school was like for me. When I get drunk, I get chatty, apparently. “One of your students?”

  “Yes. And his older brother, the assistant coach, and Paul.” I shake my head. “Three times the amount of hockey players I want to deal with.”

  “So, what was the problem?”

  “Wanting extra credit, which you know I don’t do.”

  Dave snickers.

  “Don’t start. You know why I don’t.”

  “I’m only saying”—he holds out his hands—“it wouldn’t kill you to cut some slack. You know what people call you.”

  “Fuckstain,” I mutter. “You’d think they’d come up with something original, like I didn’t hear that a million times since junior high.” It doesn’t bother me. Well, it shouldn’t. I’m a grown-ass man. “It sounds nothing like my name.”

  “Sure it doesn’t.”

  “Ek-steen. Ek-steen. Not stain.”

  “Your argument is compelling. After all, when people are coming up with shitty nicknames, accuracy is thei
r number one priority.”

  “Fair point.” I smile despite myself. “When did I become my father?”

  “Don’t beat yourself up. We all go through it. One day you look up and you’re getting old, and you can either choose to complete the metamorphosis … or join me on my level.”

  “How about somewhere in between?”

  “Your loss.”

  “I’ll take your word for it.”

  Dave drains his glass. “Tell me more about these sexy hockey players.”

  “New topic.”

  “Fine. Tell me more about your high school reunion—”

  “So, about the hockey players …”

  He looks proud of himself, knowing he’s won.

  “What do you want me to say? Westly came barging into my office wanting me to cut his brother a break, I said no, then when I went to fill Paul in on what his coach was up to, he informed me the Daltons had lost their parents and have about a hundred kids to look after.”

  “Well, that’s an exaggeration.”

  “Five. One hundred.” I shrug. “Seems the same to me.”

  “Lucky you don’t need to be good with numbers … oh, wait.”

  I pretend to wind up my middle finger.

  “How didn’t you know? About the parents?” he asks.

  “You mean you did? Thanks for filling me in.”

  “I wouldn’t need to fill you in if you’d cut those kids a break.”

  “Again, not kids. We teach adults, and they need to be treated that way.”

  Dave smiles indulgently. “You know what happens when one of my adults tells me they need extra credit to pass? I believe them. Then it’s on them if they put in the effort or not.”

  “Can we not get into this again?” I rub my temples. “You’re supposed to be helping me destress.”

  “Fine, back to the hockey players.”

  “There’s nothing else. I gave the extra credit, then Westly stopped by again to thank me and drop an IOU.”