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

  “Says the guy who puked during first practice.”

  Insults start getting fired back and forth as I slowly retrace my steps away from there.

  I try to ignore what he said about me, but that familiar disappointment whenever people show their bigoted side kicks in. Bag bitch. It’s not quite an f-bomb or some other slur, but it makes me feel as small. Even if it’s technically true. I am the team’s bag bitch this year—but there are so many other ways to say it. He used that phrasing, knowing I’m … me. The term bitch adds a level of ick.

  I thought he was cool with the gay thing, but maybe he’s not.

  And it doesn’t matter. We’re not friends. He’s perfectly entitled to his opinion. Like I’m perfectly entitled not to have time for people like that.

  Maybe Dad was right and Asher is more trouble than he’s worth.

  I don’t know what Coach Dalton expects, but if Asher’s determined to live up to his reputation, nothing I do will help.

  5

  Asher

  When deciding on a major, I weighed up two different options. Athletic Training or Dietetics, Nutrition, and Food Sciences, but the ultimate plan is still the NHL. On the off chance the NHL doesn’t want me when I graduate though, I need something to fall back on. I figure I could go into coaching or become a dietician for athletes.

  I didn’t want to follow in West’s footsteps, so I ended up choosing nutrition. And I’m regretting it.

  I didn’t know how many health and biochemistry courses I’d have to do.

  And as I get back my weekly assignment from medical terminology class with a big fat D at the top, I realize I might have bitten off more than I can chew.

  These weekly grades don’t count a whole lot toward my final mark, but it’s a hit nonetheless. Maybe I should change majors.

  At first I’m disappointed in the grade, and then I’m pissed because I shouldn’t even be at this damn school. By the time I head for practice, that adrenaline that makes me do stupid shit is already coursing through me. My usual scowl is in place.

  Then I see Kole coming the other way down the hall of the hockey rink, and a smile finds my face for what feels like the first time all day. “Hey.”

  His eyes meet mine for a split second, and he gives me a nod, but he keeps walking.

  And the scowl is back. Along with the dark cloud hanging over me, urging me to be the guy I don’t want to be but can’t seem to help when it comes so easily.

  I thought that night at the park Kole and I were on our way to somewhat being friends. Learning he was gay should have scared me off because I know me, and I’d likely take advantage of that at some point—whether to piss off West or just because Kole is hot and it would be fun, fuck the consequences—but I still decided to be friends anyway. Since then, he’s basically ignored me. It’s very possible I did something, but I have no idea what.

  Doesn’t matter anyway. If I don’t get close to anyone, I can’t hurt them. Or vice versa.

  I enter the locker room, and like always, the rest of the team stares but mostly ignores me. I can’t say I blame them.

  We get suited up and hit the ice, and after a few warm-up drills, we’re put into a scrimmage. Coach is playing with the lines, and he’s moved Simms from second line center to first line winger.

  We’re both not happy about it. He’s not used to playing left, and the freshman, Kaplan, on my other side has amazing raw talent but is still green. Since that first practice, I’m back on top of my game, but it’s obvious everyone else is still on vacation.

  Our line is getting pummeled by Rossi’s, and we’re supposed to be the best. This is really what Coach Hogan thinks will get us the W?

  We’re switched out for another line, and all three of us sit next to each other in the team box, slumped with scowls on our faces.

  Beck skates over to us. Last year this guy was playing with us. Now he’s an assistant coach. “You’re gonna have to do better than that.”

  “Thanks, Captain Obvious,” I mutter.

  “Gelling with new line mates is hard, only made harder if you’re all more stubborn than Jacobs and I ever were. We put our personal shit aside on the ice and still managed to work as a team, even when we hated each other. Put your egos aside and get it done.”

  I liked him better when he wasn’t an authority figure.

  The next time we hit the ice, instead of doing what Beck says, Simms decides to play his own game. Kaplan tries to keep up with me, and I try to work out what the fuck Simms is doing, while our captain, Rossi, fires bullets at our goalie.

  I manage to get the puck off a rebound from Schofield’s pads, and I pass to Kaplan. We make some ground, and Kaplan passes back to me, but before it hits my blade, Simms cuts across me, comes into my goddamn zone, and takes the puck … from me. His teammate.

  And even though Coach blows his whistle to get us to stop. Even though he, my brother, and Beck will handle it, my inner asshole comes flying out.

  I shove him. “What the fuck was that?”

  “It was reflex,” Simms yells. “I’m not used to being a winger yet.”

  “Where’d you learn to play? At the school of narcissism?”

  “That’s rich coming from you. I’m surprised you even know the word ‘narcissism.’ Wouldn’t have picked it with your … grades.”

  Ooh, hitting me where it really hurts. My intellect. Joke’s on him, because I don’t give a shit about grades.

  “At least I’m not a pigeon.”

  Simms’s eyes fill with the kind of ire I thrive on. The kind that leads to getting exactly what I want.

  It urges me to keep going. “Hope you can find your girlfriend’s G-spot better than you can the net.”

  The team’s collective “Oooh” and Coach’s “That’s enough” is drowned out as Simms tackles me to the ice.

  My head hits the cold surface, but I don’t feel it. Stupid helmet saving my life and whatever. Simms manages to land a punch to the left side of my face, and I’m thankful my helmet at least doesn’t have a cage because I can feel the entire force of his fist.

  It hurts.

  It burns.

  Most importantly, it reminds me I can actually feel pain.

  He gets another punch in, but it lands on my pads, and then he’s hauled off me.

  Beck helps me up, and I smirk at Simms.

  “You hit like my eleven-year-old sister.”

  It sounds like an insult, but it’s really not. Don’t piss off Hazel. She’s fucking fierce.

  Either way, the taunt works. Simms launches for me again, and I’m disappointed when he’s held back.

  Coach Hogan’s face is beet red as he yells at both of us to get off his ice.

  Gladly.

  “Kole,” Coach Hogan calls. Kole gets up from where he’s sitting in the stands. I didn’t even know he was watching. “Make sure they don’t kill each other in the locker room.”

  Kole mock salutes his dad.

  “Everyone else, get back to work. We have first line spots to fill.”

  Okay, now that hurts. A tip for anyone wanting to piss me off: you can say shit about my parents dying, you can say shit about me being a dumb jock with shitty grades, you can even dissect my sexuality and call me any slur under the sun because screw your opinions of who I sleep with. What you can’t do is take hockey away from me.

  We trudge down the chute and into the locker room, both Simms and I still full of adrenaline and the urge to fight.

  Simms throws his helmet across the room and glares at me, while I cock my brow, just daring him to come at me again.

  But then Kole steps between us, and I deflate. I deflate so fast I have to wonder if he’s an antidote to adrenaline.

  His hazel eyes bore into me, his lips pulled into a thin line, and I suddenly feel about two feet tall.

  Simms undresses quickly and heads for the showers, leaving us alone.

  “Have fun out there?”

  Yes. “Being punched isn’t supposed to be
fun.”

  “That didn’t answer my question.”

  “You heard Simms. I’m barely keeping my grades up to stay on the team. I’m not very smart. Why would picking a fight be fun?” Yes, Asher, why would it be?

  “Do you feel any better?” Kole taunts.

  I don’t like his tone. “Better than what?”

  “I get it. You play the dumb card or the asshole card to get out of expressing any kind of emotion.”

  Bam. Direct hit.

  Apparently, calling me on my shit is also on the list of things that can hurt me. I just didn’t know until this very minute because no one ever fucking does it. They call me out for my bad behavior. Not the cause of it.

  I swallow hard. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “So, instead of being thrown off the team for not keeping your grades up, you’d rather be kicked off the team for fighting. Got it.”

  “They won’t kick me off the team. This school needs me.”

  “Funny. They won the Frozen Four without you two seasons ago. What did you guys place last year again? Oh, wait … you were knocked out at regionals.”

  “I had food poisoning and couldn’t play.”

  “All I’m saying is, if you want my dad to keep you on this team, you might want to think about becoming a team player. No one is irreplaceable. I’ve seen him cut more talented guys with less shitty attitudes.”

  Here comes the guilt again. The high I get from hurting never lasts long. It’s always replaced quickly with Why the hell did I think that was a good idea?

  Kole sighs. “I’ll go get ice for your face. Your eye is starting to swell.”

  Ooh, fun.

  6

  Kole

  When I get back with an ice pack, Asher’s exactly where I left him, except now he’s stripped right down to his jock.

  Because of course.

  I guess I should thank my lucky gay gods that he’s still wearing that because Asher’s body is … well, you don’t train every day and wind up looking like me.

  It’s a damn tragedy that athletes have to look so good.

  I throw the ice pack his way and sit down on the bench opposite him. “So what was the fight about?”

  “What do you mean? You saw it.”

  “I saw him cut you off, sure, but it’s not like it’s the first time it’s happened today. Or all week. And he’s not the only one who’s done it out there.”

  “Why do you care?”

  “I don’t.” I lean forward. “Dad sent me, remember?”

  “Always do what daddy says?”

  “When I’m working and he’s the boss, sure.”

  Asher doesn’t have a comeback for that. It’s sort of fun, watching him struggle to hang on to his scowl when he’s clearly not feeling it anymore. “Some of the guys think you’re here this year to spy for him.”

  “Do they?”

  “Yeah, so it probably won’t work.”

  “Noted.” I don’t point out that his brother is the one who asked me to spy because I get the feeling that will set Asher off. “Did you have a plan out there at least?”

  “For?”

  “Oh, are we pretending you’re dumb again? Fine. A plan for after you got your lights punched out and Dad screams himself hoarse. What happens then?”

  “I shower and go home.”

  “Well, I’m glad you have it all thought through.”

  This time his scowl is genuine. “If you want to call me an idiot, do it. You’d be right. Then I can go shower and put this shithole of a day behind me.”

  “If only it worked like that.” I eye him and the way his muscles are coiled, wanting another fight. His hand is tight around the ice pack in his lap. “You realize that can’t help your eye unless you actually, you know, put it on there.”

  He tosses it onto the bench beside him. “Fuck my eye.”

  Pleasant. I stand and cross toward him to pick it up and do it myself.

  “What are you doing?”

  “My job is to make sure the players have what they need.” I step forward. My finger gently rests under his chin as I tilt his head up before pressing the ice pack over his injury.

  Asher cringes for a moment, from the cold or the pain, but it sort of serves him right.

  “You want to be careful.” I nod in the direction of his helmet sitting next to him. “Those things aren’t foolproof. You can still get hurt.”

  “Maybe that’s what I want.”

  My eyebrows jump up. With the ice pack still pressed to his face, he’s uncomfortably close. His body heat is coming off him in waves and matches the way he’s studying me. He wants a reaction from me, and I’m confused about whether he’s telling the truth or whether he’s trying to shock me. I get the feeling with Asher it could go either way.

  But then I replay the fight in my head. His anger, the taunting, and then as soon as Simms was on him, he went limp.

  “That’s why you didn’t fight back.” Finally, I look down at him.

  His glare is more intense than I’m ready for, and I almost want to look away again. “I’m surprised you noticed.”

  “I do have eyes.”

  “Yeah, but most people see what they want to see.” He tries to play it off like he doesn’t care, but there’s something in his tone that makes me think it’s all bullshit.

  “Why have you been ignoring me all week?” he suddenly asks.

  “I haven’t. We talked on Monday.”

  “Yeah, four days ago.”

  “Technically three if you don’t count today, which I don’t, because look—we’re talking.”

  “Now who’s playing dumb?”

  That makes me laugh, but I quickly cut it off when I remember why I’ve been keeping my distance. “I didn’t think you’d notice. I’m just the bag bitch, after all.”

  Understanding slowly takes over. “You know I was saying that to get them to shut up about you, right?”

  “Yeah, but it’s the word you chose. Gay men get called bitch to make them sound weak and feminine. And yeah, I’m not some tough jock like the rest of you, but—”

  “It’s only a word. I didn’t mean anything by it.”

  “Words have meaning though.”

  “I call people bitch all the time. It has nothing to do with their sexuality.”

  “In that case, I’m surprised you don’t get punched more often.”

  He looks like he wants to argue back but stops himself. For one wild moment, I think he’s going to apologize. “Fine. I won’t call you a bitch again.” That’s close, I suppose.

  Asher stands suddenly, and I’m so shocked I forget to step back. His body presses against mine as a slow smile takes over his face. “So you know, I don’t give a shit about the gay thing.” He drops his voice. “The last person I had sex with was a guy.”

  Nerves shoot through my gut, but I force myself not to react. He’s playing with me. It’s what Asher does. “Is your whole starting lineup queer?”

  “Only last year. Besides, I don’t consider myself queer. Not really. More … whatever floats my boat if you get what I’m saying. Whoever gets the sails going. Whoever pops my … tent.”

  I hold up my hand. “I get it.”

  “For instance, the last guy was one of West’s old teammates. He was hot and had a wicked mouth, but he was a means to an end. He served a purpose. That’s all.”

  My skin flushes because while I don’t know if he’s trying to tease me or turn me on or make me uncomfortable, his rumbly voice near my ear has my body auto responding.

  I force myself to step back and put distance between us. “You slept with Ezra Palaszczuk? Intimidating much?”

  “You know Ezra?”

  “You don’t think every time an NHL player has come out, Dad hasn’t been all ‘Look, you can be gay and play professional hockey’ like that was why I quit?” I roll my eyes.

  “Oh. Umm, well, yeah, he and West are best friends, so …”

  “Ah, so you
slept with him to make your brother angry. Were you hoping he’d hit you too?”

  “Westly doesn’t hit. Believe me, I’ve tried.”

  I can’t work out whether Asher wants me to like him or to push me away. Sleeping with people to hurt others isn’t a stand-up quality in a guy, but with Asher, I get the impression it goes so much deeper than that.

  He turns to grab his towel from his cubby, and my stare immediately drops to his bare ass.

  “Are you checking me out?”

  I jump at being caught, but he’s smiling again. “Just objectifying you.”

  “And that’s better because …”

  “It’s not personal. You have a nice butt.” It might be my imagination, but I swear he flexes.

  “This is hockey. Literally everyone here has a nice butt.”

  “And I’ll objectify them too.”

  I won’t, because I have better self-preservation skills than that. I’m not Asher. But now I know the thought of being with a guy—or having a guy check him out—doesn’t bother Asher, I’m not worried about admiring all that lean muscle.

  Katey said to look but don’t touch, after all.

  That I can do.

  “Careful,” he says. “I can’t imagine your dad being cool with you checking out his players.”

  I pretend to draw a halo over my head. “I am a sweet, innocent angel.”

  “You were eye fucking my ass.”

  I shrug. “Again, it’s a nice ass.”

  “You’re lucky I know better than to think you’re flirting with me.”

  I don’t answer, because yes, I am flirting, just a bit, but I don’t actually want it to go anywhere. First, because hockey players are a solid no, and second, he’s right. Dad would hate it if I hooked up with one of his players. Especially when he’s already warned me away from this player in particular.

  Asher starts for the showers and then turns back to me. “Hey, do you wanna be friends?”

  “What is this, grade school?”

  “Forget it.”

  “Asher.” I can’t help laughing at how ridiculous he is. “Yes. We can be friends.”

  The sound of the running shower suddenly cuts off, and Simms walks back into the locker room. He’s glaring at Asher, so I wait until Asher’s disappeared into the showers before I check Simms is okay and leave.