Goal Lines & First Times (CU Hockey Book 3) Read online

  He’s quiet for a moment, and I wonder if that was too much for him to take in. He definitely seems to be thinking about it intently. “You know, I don’t think I’ve ever had that before.”

  “What?”

  “Sex. With the right person. I mean, there have been the right-for-the-night people, but never the right person. Does that make sense?”

  To me, nope, not really. Sex with anyone other than someone I really care about always winds up being too stressful and anxiety-inducing. But I get the sentiment of what he’s saying. “It does, but there’s no hurry, right? I mean, hookups have their place too.”

  Apparently. Ask Foster. Then again, I’ve never had to ask and he’s given me all the details anyway. So glad that little habit came to an end.

  “True. Hookups are awesome.” He says that, but it doesn’t feel genuine. He’s probably humoring me at this point, because I have somehow landed in his arms, and he is guiding me toward the curbside. That’s enough sex talk for one night, thanks. Especially considering sex is usually a topic I try to avoid, but my brain seems stuck on a loop of Cohen, Witcher, Richie’s dick, cum-splashed abs.

  Mmm … and those are some abs.

  I used to wish I could be as sex-obsessed as everyone else, but now I’m thinking it’s more trouble than it’s worth. Especially considering I want to sneak away and watch that video one more time. To hear Richie’s tone right on the edge as he gasps out my nickname.

  And I really hate that somehow my brain is making links between Cohen and what I did with Richie.

  It might have only been a dick pic and jerk-off video, but there was nothing sleazy about the experience. If anything, it made me feel closer to Richie and enhanced what we have.

  Cohen takes out my phone from my pants. “Passcode.”

  I mock gasp. “You’re not s’posed to give strangers your passcode. Did your parents teach you nothing?”

  “Guess not,” he says solemnly.

  “Oh, shit, are you, like, an orphan, and I rubbed your parents’ violent murders in your face?”

  “Violent murders? Your imagination is …”

  “Amazing.”

  “No, I’m not an orphan, but I’m trying to order you an Uber.”

  “Oh, then my passcode is my birthday. Good luuuck working that—”

  He punches it in.

  “Hey, how did you—”

  “Your twin brother is one of my best friends, dumbass.” He orders me an Uber and then slides my phone back into my pocket again.

  He’s still holding on to me, and he sighs. Loudly. Or maybe it seems loud because he’s right by my ear.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask.

  He screws up his face before letting his expression relax again. “I was really hoping to spend tonight with someone.”

  I spread my arms and almost fall. He holds on tighter. “I’m someone,” I point out.

  “You are.” He smirks. “And it’s actually been a lot of fun. Drunk Seth is a pretty funny guy.”

  “I’m funny always. Only my bestest friends get to see that though.”

  “Aww, we just became besties.”

  I gasp for real this time. “Zach is going to kill me.”

  “Nah, I have full confidence that when tomorrow comes, you won’t even remember any of this.”

  “Here’s hoping. Worst Thanksgiving ever.”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

  My face falls. “Oh, shit. That’s rude. I’m sorry.”

  His lips quirk. “No problem. No offense, but I thought I’d be with someone else too. This though … “ He tilts his head to the side. “Not the company I was expecting, but you’re not half-bad.”

  “Stop, you’ll make me blush,” I deadpan, not entirely sure I didn’t slur my words.

  “This is where you tell me you’ve liked my company too.”

  I think about that. “I guess I’d say your company was adequate.”

  “Adequate? If I had Google reviews, you can bet your ass I’d be gold standard. Five stars out of five. A pure fucking delight.”

  “Tonight’s an off night for you, then?”

  “Oh, no you didn’t.”

  “Oh, yes I didded.”

  “Fuck,” he rasps and blows into his other hand. “It’s cold out here. How are you not freezing your balls off?”

  I miss the rest of his sentence, because that one word makes me stop. Because I know that voice. I want to ask him to say fuck again, but that would be weird, right?

  Then again, this whole night has been weird.

  I tilt my head back to look at him properly, but he’s not paying me attention. There’s something niggling at the back of my mind, prodding my consciousness, but I can’t put my finger on it.

  Fuck, fuck, fuck … It loops through my mind, and I’ve almost pinpointed the tickle of familiarity when a wave of nausea makes me slap my hand to my mouth.

  Cohen groans. “Do not be one of those guys.”

  “I don’t feel so … so …”

  It passes. For now.

  When the Uber pulls up, Cohen helps me get in, and something I’m doing with my face must make him laugh. “You really can’t hold your alcohol, man.”

  “Totally can … man.”

  “Sure thing. Move over, I’m getting in … “

  “You’re coming home … with me?”

  “I’m making sure you get your drunk ass home. Then I’ll Uber back with …” He turns to the driver. “Bill. Hi, we’re Cohen and Seth.”

  “If he pukes in my car—”

  “I’ll pay for the cleaning,” Cohen says. His eyes lock with mine. “Don’t throw up. I have no money.”

  The car jolts as the driver slams on his brakes.

  “That probably doesn’t help,” Cohen says. “And I’m kidding. I have money.” He looks down at me and mouths, “I don’t, but shh.”

  The car ride is smooth after that, but the farther away from the bar we get, the alcohol really starts to hit me hard. Which is saying something because I was drunk off my fucking face before. Cohen talks, but his words dip in and out of focus, and I swear I must fall asleep at one point because his thigh is against my cheek as I come to.

  I’m aware of the car stopping and Cohen asking me if I’m okay, before I blindly crawl over him and fall out of the car.

  “Yep. Good. I’m fine.” I have no idea if those words were out loud or all in my head, but the next thing I know I’m up the stairs, in my apartment, and falling facedown on my bed.

  I can only guess I flew here because I don’t remember walking.

  Alcohol gives me superpowers.

  10

  Cohen

  When I didn’t get an invite to hang out with Einstein on Thanksgiving, I did my usual thing of going to a bar. My plans to get blind drunk were ruined when I saw how wasted Grant’s brother was.

  He was like this cute little wounded animal, and I couldn’t help feeling responsible for him. I was half expecting a message on social media or for him to ask his brother for my number to say thank you, but he’s either embarrassed or, like I suspect, doesn’t remember a thing, which is a shame because it was fun hanging out with him. I wonder if it was because he was drunk or if he’s always that fun.

  I’m still impatient about meeting Einstein, but I’m trying to keep that to myself. I can’t make him feel guilty about Thanksgiving when we didn’t have solid plans, and messaging him is the highlight of my days.

  I don’t get like this over people. I’m not a giddy type of guy. I definitely don’t stay up half the night texting about random shit, sleep in, miss my first class of the day, and turn up to hockey practice late in the afternoon because I’m too busy asking Einstein how his day was.

  But apparently, I’m that person now.

  I walk into a quiet locker room, and I think everyone’s hit the ice, but when I turn the corner with a spring in my step and a happy whistle on my lips, my team turns to me, and I pause.

  Everyone looks
angry.

  “I’m barely five minutes late. Calm down.”

  Coach sends a glare my way. “Sorry to inform you the world doesn’t revolve around you, Cohen. Get suited up.”

  I still have no idea what’s going on, but as I get dressed, the whining starts.

  “Coach, this is unfair,” Simms says.

  I didn’t notice the new guys standing next to Coach until now.

  Holy shit, is that Westly Dalton? He used to go here before being drafted to Boston about five years ago. He’s wearing a CU coach’s uniform, and … damn, I’m never coming to practice late again.

  What the hell did I miss?

  “You want to be on first line, Simms?” Coach Hogan says. “Prove you’re the person for the job. Until then, Asher Dalton is the new center on our first line.”

  Oh, damn.

  My gaze flies to Rossi, who looks as pissed as Simms but isn’t as vocal about it. They’ve both been switching out on our line, neither one of them getting the spot officially yet.

  “Get out on the ice. Assistant Coach Dalton is going to take you through some drills.”

  The locker room begins to file out, and with my cubby being right next to Beck’s, I hold my arm out to stop him from leaving just yet.

  “New coach and a new player? What the hell is going on?”

  Beck shakes his head. “I have no idea, but honestly, with the shitty preseason we had, I hope Asher is as good as his big brother so we can start putting some wins away.”

  Technically, we’re at about a fifty percent win to loss ratio, so we’re not completely out of this, but we need to up our game if we want to come anywhere close to the Frozen Four this year.

  To be defending champs and not even make the college playoffs will fucking suck.

  “Why were you late?” Beck asks.

  I stare toward the door. “What’s that, Coach? You need alternate captain Beck right now?” I turn to him. “Better get out there.”

  Beck narrows his eyes. “There’s something going on with you.”

  “If you say so.”

  “You’re never late.”

  “I’m having an off day, that’s all. I was up late studying, so I haven’t had much sleep, and—”

  “Enough said.” Beck puts on his helmet. “This semester is kicking my ass.”

  “Funny what actual studying does.”

  “Right? See you out there.”

  I rush to get dressed and out on the ice.

  West—Coach Dalton is out to show us he’s boss and runs drills like it’s the first day of practice all over again.

  He’s hard on everyone. Hard on our technique, hard on our speed, and he’s basically an asshole.

  Great recruit, Coach Hogan.

  Dalton’s hard on everyone except Mini Dalton, who looks about as happy as Rossi and Simms are to have him here.

  When we begin a practice game and Mini Dalton’s put on our line, honestly, it’s a shitshow. Asher’s good, there’s no doubt about that, but his style of play is nothing like we’re used to. He’s so fast he’s able to cover a lot of the ice. He’s where we don’t expect him to be. We need to match his speed, get in his head, and there’s no … cohesion.

  We get on a breakaway, and we still can’t find each other.

  I share a look across the ice with Beck, and his mind I can read clearly. We’re fucking screwed.

  By the time we’re done, I’m more than exhausted. After our showers, I’m ready to go back to the dorms and sleep, though I know I probably won’t. Not if Einstein’s online.

  “Hey, Dalton. You twenty-one?” Beck asks.

  “Yeah. But if you don’t want my brother answering, call me Asher.” That’s probably easier than Big Dalton and Mini Dalton.

  “Senior?” Jacobs asks.

  “Umm … Freshman.”

  I smile. “Juniors?”

  He nods, and I hold out my hand for a fist bump. “Same, man. Drafted?”

  Asher’s eyes lose some glimmer. “Nah.”

  “Also same.”

  “Oh no, there’s two of them,” Beck cries dramatically. “Asher will now be known as Cohen 2.0.”

  Jacobs shoves him.

  “He’s joking,” I reassure Asher.

  “Coming out for drinks?” Jacobs asks.

  Ugh, I do not want to go out.

  Asher’s gaze darts toward the coach’s office. “Can’t. Thanks though.”

  “Thank fuck,” I say under my breath, but I must not be as quiet as I’d hoped.

  The three of them stare at me.

  “I’m exhausted. Your brother might be tougher than Coach Hogan, and I didn’t think that was possible. I’m going home to bed.”

  Asher smiles. “Trust me, that was him messing with you. He can be a lot worse.”

  “How did he end up being an assistant coach for a college hockey team?” Beck asks. “Did I miss where Boston didn’t renew his contract?”

  Jacobs slashes at his throat.

  “Google it” is all Asher says and walks off.

  “I said something insensitive again, didn’t I?” Beck asks.

  “Yep, you’re still a doofus,” I say.

  “What am I missing?”

  Jacobs turns to his boyfriend. “Their parents fucking died, man. Car crash. Now Westly is a father to all his brothers and sisters. And Asher? He was drafted to Buffalo in the sixth round but turned it down.”

  “Oh, shit.”

  “Damn,” I say. “I didn’t know about Buffalo, just the rest.”

  The whole walk to the dorms, all I can think about is how quickly Asher’s and Coach Dalton’s lives changed. An NHL star, another drafted, their future ahead of them, and now …

  I take out my phone and send off a message.

  Richie: If I died tomorrow, would you regret never knowing who I am?

  Einstein: I … don’t know how to answer that or why you’re asking such deep questions for a Monday evening.

  Richie: Don’t mind me. Rough day. Just got some smack you in the face perspective, and I don’t like it.

  Einstein: Are you ok?

  Richie: Tired.

  Einstein: Is that all it is?

  Of course it isn’t. I blame my tired brain for even starting this conversation in the first place, because after Thanksgiving, I’ve told myself to keep being patient. I’ve given Einstein his space.

  But is it really so unbelievable to him that I want to know him for real?

  Richie: I think I would regret it. Never meeting you. But you don’t need to worry, I’m not going anywhere.

  Einstein: Is this your way of asking to meet face to face?

  Richie: Yes? No? You said this whole online thing is to figure out if you feel a connection in person, and the only way to do that is to actually meet me. It feels like the next step here, right?

  Einstein: I know …

  Richie: But you’re still not ready. Got it.

  The disappointment sucks, but if I’m honest, I was expecting that. If he didn’t want to meet on Thanksgiving, he’s not going to want to meet now.

  Maybe he doesn’t want to meet at all … Ever.

  I don’t know what I’d do if that was the case.

  Einstein: It’s not that I don’t want to. I do. I really, really do. Probably too much. Which is why it terrifies me. What if I’m not attracted to you in person?

  Richie: I’m very hot, so …

  I immediately regret typing that.

  Richie: Sorry, bad joke. I know looks isn’t a factor for you.

  Einstein: What if you’re not attracted to me? You’ve never been with a guy, and you are a visual person. You might not like that I’m not some blond puck bunny.

  Richie: *Gasp* You said a dirty word that has to do with another word that starts with H.

  Einstein: Still doesn’t answer me. What if we do meet and I feel something for you in person, and then you don’t like the look of me?

  Richie: I like the look of your cock. Does that count? Wha
t did I tell you the first time we ever chatted? Paper bags are useful for so many things.

  Einstein: I’m not ready.

  I can’t even be mad. This needs to happen on his time. He’s worth it, but it’s getting hard.

  Richie: Okay.

  Einstein: I’m sorry.

  For the first time since we started talking online, I fall asleep at a reasonable hour because the usual thrill I get from talking to him is drowned out by disappointment and doubt.

  After being so sure this morning, I’m now wondering if we’re destined to only know each other online.

  December

  Einstein: How’s your day been?

  Richie: Busy, actually. Just on the way out.

  Einstein: Okay, talk later?

  Richie: Sure thing.

  11

  Seth

  Something’s changed. After I told Richie I wasn’t sure about meeting up, he’d seemed disappointed but fine. We messaged every day, we sexted a few times, but in the few weeks since, I’ve realized I’m always the one texting first.

  We still speak nearly every day, but there’s no more all night messages or flirty suggestions, and so now, I’m starting to panic.

  Maybe I should have just done it at Thanksgiving instead of getting blackout drunk.

  He keeps telling me he’s happy to wait for me to be ready, and I want to believe it, but I can’t expect him to be patient forever. I’m also getting these gross feelings that he’s been talking to other people.

  Can you be possessive over someone you’ve never met?

  Apparently I can.

  I’m tempted to message him constantly, reminding him I’m still here and nothing has changed, but I think it might be past that.

  When it became sexual, expectations shifted.

  I’m also trying not to follow my usual MO where I find a possibility of a connection with someone and hold on so tight I become suffocating.

  It’s not fair of him to rush this, but it’s also not fair for me to string him along.

  That’s not my intention. I want to meet him more than anything, but what happens if I see his face, and there’s … nothing?