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

  “Why are you smiling?” Katey asks.

  “No reason.”

  “You’d have to be the only person I know who’d be smiling over losing a bet. Do you really wanna play errand boy for a whole year?”

  “Equipment manager, thank you very much.” I fail at forcing a haughty tone. “And of course I don’t. I had to give up my spot on the LGBTQ community committee for this, but I lost, so now I need to make the most of it. There’s always a silver lining.”

  “Ugh. Your optimism is unnatural.”

  “What’s the point of moping? It won’t change anything. Besides, it’s not like I’ll need to talk to anyone, so I’ll put in my earbuds and listen to coursework.”

  “What a riot.”

  “Supportive face, please.”

  She bats her eyelashes, and the sweet smile she uses on our professors appears. “A few things, babe.” She counts on her fingers. “The blue line is not a euphemism for drugs, you can’t pet puck bunnies, and for the love of all that is good on this earth, when it comes to hockey players, remember Momma’s rules: look with your eyes, not with your hands.”

  “Don’t worry, they play hockey. That’s an instant boner-killer right there.” Between my teammates when I was younger and Dad, it’s become clear to me that the only thing hockey players are interested in is hockey. Guys with zero personality instantly lose ten hotness points.

  “See you tomorrow, ball boy,” Katey sings.

  “Even I know hockey doesn’t have balls.”

  “Yeah, but it sounds better than puck boy. Laters.”

  I heft my bag higher as I push my way through the doors. Thankfully there are no jocks around yet, seeing as there’s still a good hour until practice, but Dad wanted me to get here early to meet some of the assistant coaches.

  I walk down a hall filled with trophy cabinets and slow in front of the huge photo of the Frozen Four winning team from a season ago. Even though hockey and I will never get along, it makes me happy to remember Dad’s excitement that night.

  Last season was a different story. They were a mess to begin with, somehow pulled it together to make it to regionals, and then food poisoning and injuries plagued them. It’s actually kind of unfair that they lost because it wasn’t that they played horrible—they were four players down. It’s a shame it didn’t happen a few games earlier, though, because then I wouldn’t be here now.

  I wish I had the same passion for hockey that Dad does, but being on the ice felt like a chore, and seeing how different Dad would treat me when I played made me resent it.

  At home, he’s always been warm and calm. On the ice, he treated me like any of his other players. It’s not like I wanted special treatment, but Dad in coach mode is intense and intimidating and someone I didn’t like very much. It made me resent playing, but Dad could never understand that.

  Note to parents everywhere: don’t judge your kid based on what you like.

  I make it to Dad’s office and push inside without knocking. There are two others there already, and Dad introduces Assistant Coach Dalton and Beck, who I recognize as one of Dad’s players from last season.

  “This is my boy, Kole,” Dad says. “He didn’t think we’d make it to regionals last year, and because of that bad call, he’s our equipment manager this season. Anything you need, just let him know.”

  “I’m happy to serve.”

  Dad sees right through my sarcasm and levels me with a look. “You will take it seriously. This might not be your scene, but I expect things will run smoothly.”

  “You’ve hired a hockey-phobe, not an idiot. I’ve got this.”

  “See that you do.”

  “No offense …” Beck says, sounding exactly like he’s about to be offensive. “But do you even know a thing about hockey?”

  “I know enough.”

  “He played for seven years,” Dad says, and there’s that twinge of disappointment, clear as day. You’d think six years later, he’d be over it. “We’ve been through what I expect. He’ll be fine.”

  “It’s not all about the equipment though, is it?” Dalton asks, eyeing me. “He’s going to be dealing with the team as well. Do you really think you’ll be able to handle testosterone-filled divas?”

  That turn of phrase reminds me of the guys I normally sleep with, and I can’t help a quick laugh from slipping out. “Yes, the divas will be fine. The equipment will be fine. I know what all the thing-a-ma-bobs are called, and when I’m counting, I can do this thing called adding and subtracting—it’s wild.” Three jocks stare back at me, not appreciating my teasing. “Fine. I’ve been top of literally all my classes since the seventh grade, and as much as I’ve tried not to, I know hockey and I know what’s needed. I can handle the jocks, because I really don’t give a damn about what a bunch of athletes think of me, and if any of them get too much, I’ll play the daddy card.”

  Dad sighs like he was really hoping I’d be on my best behavior. But despite me being flippant and not wanting to be here, I do plan on taking it seriously. It’s one season, and then I’ll be released into the wild again.

  “Come on, the team will start arriving soon.” Dad stands, and Beck moves to follow him.

  I’m about to head out the door too when Dalton calls me back.

  “Coach Hogan speaks highly of you.”

  “I should hope so. He’s my dad. It would be kinda shitty of him to talk down about me.”

  For some reason that makes Dalton hesitate. “Well, umm, I just want to make sure you really do know the ins and outs of this job.”

  “Lug equipment around, order new equipment, and have twenty-five hockey players treat me like their bellboy. How hard could it be?”

  “There’s other things. Like …” Coach Dalton averts his gaze. “Keeping the players in line. Making sure they’re not sneaking out of the hotel at away games. Telling us if you know of any drug use or rule breaking.”

  My eyes narrow. “I didn’t realize being a snitch was in the job description.” That’s exactly what I need, angry jocks trying to find the guy who ratted them out for having fun.

  “My brother Asher plays on the team. He’s an excellent player but a bit of a loose cannon. The problem is your dad won’t keep him on the roster if he gets into shit.”

  “That’s not my problem. That sounds like yours.”

  “Like he listens to me about anything,” Coach Dalton says. “Look, all I’m asking is you keep an eye on him and tell me if he’s doing anything he shouldn’t be.”

  “I mean this in the kindest way possible, but why would I want to do that?”

  “You said you don’t care what a bunch of hockey players think of you. Did you mean that?”

  “Well, yeah …”

  “Then you’re not going to care about locking him in his room if you have to.”

  “I might not, but last I checked, the law is pretty clear when it comes to holding someone captive.”

  He finally manages a small smile, but even that looks like it takes effort. When I look at Dalton, all I see is bone-deep exhaustion. From his tired eyes to the slump in his shoulders … It makes me feel sorry for the man.

  Sorry enough to do as he asks? I’m not sure if he’s lying about equipment managers taking on that sort of warden role or not, but am I willing to do it anyway?

  “I’m kind of out of options here, and I don’t know what to do anymore when it comes to him.” Dalton’s voice is soft. No, it’s downright defeated.

  One more look into Dalton’s expressive green eyes, and I have my answer.

  “Fine,” I huff. “I’ll attempt to rein in the wayward son. But I’m not making any promises.”

  “No, totally.” He runs a hand back through his hair. “Just knowing there’s one extra set of eyes on him helps.”

  How bad can this guy be?

  I get my answer half an hour later when a younger version of Coach Dalton stomps into the locker room a few minutes late. They both have the same dark hair and green eyes, but
Coach Dalton has a few days’ growth on his jaw and chin. His brother is clean-shaven. He throws his bag into his cubby with a loud thump, then drops onto the bench like he doesn’t care that every person in the room is staring at him.

  He’d probably be good-looking if he wasn’t scowling, but with a single, menacing look, one thing is clear:

  Asher Dalton is trouble.

  Already I can tell that I’m not going to be looking out for the guy—I’m going to be babysitting him.

  And let’s face it, probably failing.

  3

  Asher

  “Sloppy!” my brother yells when my attempt to make a pass fails to hit my teammate’s blade.

  Hey, it’s more words than he’s spoken to me all summer, so there’s that.

  Apparently it took a couple of hours for the shock of seeing me and Ezra together to register, and then he hit a whole new level of angry. Silent treatment: achievement unlocked.

  And shit, maybe it worked, because all summer, I did what he’d told me to do. I studied my ass off. I dropped the kids off at hockey. I went to school. I kept my head down. And I still only scraped by with a C in all my classes.

  What do I have to show for it? A weakened body and slack playing. Hell, I’m slower than a lot of the freshmen out here. This is what happens when you spend all your time indoors and not working out. I don’t know how nerds do it.

  After my brother’s torture, then comes Coach Hogan with skating drills.

  “Blue Red Crossover, go.”

  We don’t get a break before he’s calling out the next one.

  “Dot Drill.”

  Over and over again, drill to drill, Coach Hogan doesn’t let up.

  My lungs burn, and my muscles are starting to cramp. I am so unfit compared to a mere eight weeks ago. Note to self: learn to read while running on a treadmill or something.

  Coach Hogan blows his whistle. “Box skate!”

  We all groan.

  He’s never like this. He’s a hardass but never this sadistic during training. Some of the guys in the locker room said he goes all out for the first practice of the year, but I wouldn’t know—I was a late recruit last season.

  A few newbies ask under their breaths how I was drafted to the NHL when I skate slower than a turtle in mud, but they’re not as quiet as they think they are.

  I’d like to tell them all to fuck off, but I can’t even breathe, let alone speak.

  And then the worst thing that could possibly happen does. My gut churns, and my lunch tries to make its way back up. It’s a sprint to the sidelines so I can throw myself into the team box and hurl into a trash can.

  “That might be a new record,” Coach says. I turn my head to find him looking at his watch. “All right. Practice over. Someone make sure Dalton is hydrated.”

  Rossi, this year’s captain, helps me off the ice.

  Kill me now. I’ll never live this down.

  The familiar need to fight someone flares up. At least if they’re distracted by my being an asshole, they won’t focus on how weak I am. I’d rather people hate me than think I’m a joke.

  And yep, even though I hold my head up high as I walk into the locker room, I’m met with snickers all round.

  Great. Just great. Maybe I should’ve spent last year getting closer to Rossi or Simms, but instead I made friends with a guy who was graduating. Then again, that would’ve been difficult considering I took first line center—a position both Rossi and Simms were gunning for.

  I start stripping down at my cubby and ignore everyone around me. I’m down to my jockstrap when a bottle of Gatorade is thrust in front of my face.

  “Thanks,” I murmur.

  “No problem. I know from experience how hard Coach can push.” He says that, but when I turn my head, it’s not any of my teammates standing there.

  It’s a guy maybe an inch or two shorter than my six-one frame with dirty-blond hair, warm hazel eyes, and a cute smile. He looks too thin to be a hockey player.

  He leans in. “He always goes too far on day one. Likes to pretend to be tough for all the new kids, but I’ll let you in on a little secret.” He lowers his voice. “He’s a big teddy bear underneath all that.”

  Coach Hogan a teddy bear? Is this guy high?

  “If you say so.”

  “I’m Kole.” That killer smile widens. “Kole Hogan.”

  My face falls. “Coach is …”

  “My dad. And this year I’m your equipment manager, so if you need anything, let me know, and I’ll give it to you.”

  My cock twitches. What he said wasn’t supposed to sound sexual, but apparently my body is going to take it that way. I mentally tell it to calm the hell down because having sex with a cactus would be less dangerous than fooling around with Coach’s son, even if that destructive part inside me is already reveling in the fallout that tryst would bring.

  As I watch Kole’s gaze move over my almost naked form, I have to wonder if there was sexual innuendo implied after all.

  I clear my throat. “Thanks for the drink.”

  Move away, Asher. Move away before you do or say something Asher-like.

  “No problem.”

  I step away from him and head for the showers, realizing I still have the bottle of Gatorade in my hand and not my towel.

  Fucking hell. Kole’s still standing by my cubby when I march back in there and trade them out. He chuckles as I walk away again.

  Only, now I realize I still have a jockstrap on. I strip that off and throw it across the room so I don’t have to go back another time.

  West beats me home because we took separate cars, and as soon as I step inside the house, it’s obvious pandemonium has broken out.

  Welcome to my life.

  The twins are yelling at each other over whatever Xbox game they’re playing, Zoe’s yelling at West about being too young to look after four kids while he and I play stupid hockey, and Hazel’s at the dining table, noise-canceling headphones on with her laptop open in front of her.

  Okay then.

  I turn to Bennett and Emmett. “Find a way to problem solve between yourselves, or guess what? Neither of you get to play the Xbox.”

  That shuts them up fast.

  Now, Zoe’s turn. “Why are you too young to look after the others?”

  “Because they don’t listen,” she screeches. “Rhys went out. I don’t know where. I’ve been trying to call you. He just … left.”

  “He left,” I say. “He’s thirteen.” Why in the fuck did he think it was okay to go out this late at night?

  “Yes! What was I supposed to do? Leave the others here and go after him? This is too much pressure. This is unfair.”

  Oh, honey, you want to talk to me about unfair?

  I give her my “Are you fucking kidding me?” glare, but then her blue eyes fill with tears, and I remind myself she’s fifteen. I’m twenty-one and can barely handle all the chaos three preteens and a thirteen-year-old bring.

  Last year, our system worked. Zoe was with the kids in the afternoons until West and I got home from practice, and West would stay home while the team was at away games. But I guess all the kids have had a hormonal surge, or maybe last year they were all too depressed to act out. Maybe Zoe’s tired, which I understand. Either way, it’s obvious it’s not working anymore, and we shouldn’t be putting that much pressure on Zoe.

  I soften my voice. “Okay, here’s what’s going to happen. Zoe, go … have a bath or whatever you womenfolk do to relax. West, you make some calls to Rhys’s friends’ parents, and I’ll go for a walk and see if I can find him close by. He can’t get far on foot.”

  West nods at me and moves into the kitchen to find the school binder with parents’ names and contact numbers in it. “Wait, who are Rhys’s friends?”

  It speaks! Though, I don’t know if it was directly to me or everyone in general.

  “There’s Tom, Harrison—actually, try Harrison’s first,” I say. “He lives close by, and they’ve been besties
since they hung out all summer.”

  West blinks at me as if to ask how I know this, but it’s not hard. I pay actual attention, unlike him, who seems to be checked out most of the time. He’s here, but he’s not really here.

  “Okay.” He looks down at the binder.

  “Last name Ford,” I say.

  He lifts his head. “There’s a kid named Harrison Ford in Rhys’s class?”

  I laugh. “No, but you should see your face. Real last name is Greer.”

  West flips me off, and I actually welcome it. Yes, a sense of normalcy for once! He finds the number and dials, but while he does that, I turn to Hazel and give her my best “I know you know things” stare.

  I can communicate with all my siblings with one single look. “Where is he?” I ask her.

  She points at her headphones and shakes her head.

  “Where. Is. He?”

  Hazel sighs and moves one side of the headphone away from her ear. “He was going to meet a girl. At the park.”

  “A girl? From school?”

  She shrugs. “Online, I think.”

  “He’s meeting a girl from online?” I screech. “Which park?”

  “The one with the dog park in it. I think. I dunno, he said something about her walking a dog. I thought he was being gross, so I stopped listening.”

  That thing where I said I love my siblings? They make it really hard sometimes.

  “West, I’m going out to look for him.” Even though I’m dead tired after that grueling practice and it’s pitch-black outside, I run to the park. It’s only a block and a half away.

  I swear to God, if my little brother has been trapped into some sex trafficking ring, I’m going to go full Liam Neeson on their asses.

  I reach the park, breathless and sweating, but I can’t see anyone anywhere. The streetlights illuminate the area to a certain degree, but not completely.

  The only person I can see is a dude with a dog in the fenced-off play area beside me. Other than the occasional bark or growl, the whole place is silent.

  I pant, sucking in sharp breaths, but I’m not sure if I’m winded because of the running or that I have no control over where Rhys is.