Power Plays & Straight A's Read online

  “You know what it looks like though, right?” Seth’s voice isn’t exactly unfriendly, but there’s something hard there.

  “What?”

  “You. Wearing his number.”

  “I’m going to assume it’s some egotistical athlete thing.”

  “You look like his boyfriend.”

  I start. “I’m sure that’s … not at all—”

  “Yep. Family and partners can order special jerseys with the number so people know which player they belong to.”

  “What … is your point?” Damn, why is my voice coming out so soft.

  Seth hesitates. “I’m worried he’s playing you.”

  Ouch. Why does that hit me right in the chest? “He wouldn’t …”

  “I don’t want you to get hurt. That’s all. My brother’s known for being cocky and sleeping around, and he’s headed for the NHL. He doesn’t do serious. Obviously, I love him, but this sounds exactly like one of his games. He sees it as harmless fun, but I know you—”

  “Maybe harmless fun is what I need.”

  Seth’s face falls. “What?”

  “It seems to me like the more time I spend with people, the more they confuse me. I thought I’d studied and learned what I needed to in order to relate, but I’m still lost.” I think of Ray as I take a sip of my coffee. “People are weird.”

  “What the fuck does that have to do with you sleeping with my brother?”

  I splutter, choking on my drink. “Excuse me?”

  “You know that’s what I was talking about with the harmless fun thing, right?”

  “No, I most certainly didn’t.”

  “Aw, Zach.” The tension between us disappears. “Even hanging out with my brother hasn’t cured your naivete.”

  I frown but let it slide.

  Seth fills me in on his classes and a girl he’s met as we finish up and head for the … arena? Stadium? As we walk, I can’t stop running my thumb over the silver trim of the jersey. It’s calming.

  Seth shoots me another look. “I guess I should be glad he didn’t give you one of his.”

  I’m not sure why it makes a difference. Possibly because while Seth’s jersey is large on me, it’s nothing like it would have been if I’d borrowed one of Foster’s. I’m tempted to hug it to me. “You’re right, that would have looked ridiculous.”

  “More ridiculous.”

  I laugh. “Yes, more.”

  We pause by the doors, and Seth pulls me aside. “You sure you’re okay with this? You’re not doing it because of pride or something?”

  “That’s a ridiculous concept.”

  “Well … then to impress Foster. I don’t know. This so isn’t like you.”

  I eye the crowd making its way into the building. “It’s hardly impressive when he won’t even know I’m here.”

  “Do you want him to?”

  “I want him to know I followed through.”

  Seth gets that crease between his eyebrows that always happens when he’s worried.

  “It’s a matter of dignity,” I explain.

  “I’m only going to ask this once …” He looks pained as he turns back to me. “Do you have a thing for my brother?”

  “He’s … fine.” My words try to stick in my throat.

  “Come on, Zach, you know what I’m asking.”

  I do. My shaking hands make it very clear. “I don’t know him well enough to answer that question.” I look away. “But I do find him very, uh, attractive. Obviously. I’m not the only one though. Half of campus clearly—no, a third, wait, I mean … What’s between a quarter and a third?”

  Seth stares at me for a moment. “You sure you’re okay to go in?”

  “Why wouldn’t I be?” My cheeks feel hot.

  “Morris.”

  “Oh.” Morris. The flood of whatever it was that tied my brain into knots, ebbs. Whenever I think of Morris, I think of complete loss of control. I never knew when I saw him coming toward me whether I’d be allowed to keep walking or find myself on the ground, but I did know whichever option he chose, I’d be powerless to stop it. All I could do was let it happen, and after a while, I’d tricked myself into thinking that letting him have his way was my choice. “He’ll be too busy with the game to even remember my existence.”

  “Yes, but he’s a hockey player, and you’re about to walk into an arena full of them. After last year, doesn’t that make you, I don’t know, nervous or something?”

  “Why would it?”

  “You were bullied by hockey players.”

  “No, I was bullied by Morris. Are you saying I should be stereotyping all hockey players as bullies? Because your brother plays hockey, and he’s never been anything but nice to me.”

  Seth shakes his head like he doesn’t know what to do with me. “Okay, let’s go.”

  We go inside and take our seats, waiting for things to start. It’s apparent there are clear sides among the spectators, and Seth joins me on the CU side where I can blend in with the other jerseys.

  “Mom and Dad are here somewhere,” Seth says.

  “Pity we can’t see them.” Now that we’ve found our seats, I’m determined not to move again until the game is over.

  The atmosphere is unlike anything I’ve ever experienced, and as it gets closer to the start time, the crowd gets louder. A fight breaks out a little down from us, and security escorts the delinquents out.

  “Isn’t the fighting supposed to happen on the ice?” I muse, watching them go.

  “Not with this game. The rivalry is next level. Just you wait.”

  The lights go out and then commentary takes over, announcing the teams as they skate out.

  They do a quick skate around the rink, each team sticking to their side of the ice, but it’s as if you can feel the animosity and anger between them.

  We have to endure a pitchy rendition of the national anthem, and then it’s game on.

  My gaze follows Foster as he skates to the middle of the ice.

  I understand the game completely.

  Right up until they start playing.

  From there, I’m lost. Not only because it’s a game I know nothing about—except the puck, I’ve got that terminology down pat—but because of Foster. He skates like he owns the ice, and I can’t look away. Because … chemicals. Buzzy, twitchy, consuming chemicals that make everything but him disappear.

  Players are constantly switching out, and it makes my brain hurt. One minute Foster’s on the ice, and the next he’s not.

  It’s a scoreless game and quite boring if I’m honest. The only time I get remotely interested is when Foster’s out there.

  I can hardly be blamed for it either with the way he skates. He’s everywhere on the ice. Fast, strong, and—

  Slam!

  Foster shoves someone into the, umm, boards so hard it makes me jump. This wasn’t a warning knock like at training. This was … I’m not sure.

  After that, it’s like a switch flips and they’re all out for blood. Welcome to the Hunger Games. Foster’s not the only one working out some aggression. I can hardly believe most of these moves are legal. Surely, it’s only a matter of time before someone is badly injured. My attention has been successfully pulled from Foster until a few minutes later when he slams his hockey stick into someone’s legs.

  “What is he …” Seth laughs. “Oh no.”

  “Oh no, what?”

  The UVM player gets to his feet, shouting something I can’t hear. His helmet comes off, and Foster’s joins the ice a second later. Foster’s hair is plastered to his face with sweat, and he’s never looked so … angry.

  Then I realize who he’s yelling at. “Is that Morris?”

  “I might have fucked up,” Seth says as one of Foster’s teammates grabs his chest to hold him back.

  “You? What’s he doing out there? Please tell me this isn’t typical?” My pulse has kicked up a notch, probably from adrenaline as more players start to get involved in the scuffle.

  �
�Not completely typical,” Seth says. “I might have told him about Morris. And you. And clearly that was a dumb thing to do right before this game.”

  “What do you—”

  Foster’s gloves come off and he lunges at Morris, tackling him to the ice. The crowd explodes. I can’t see much around the pads except swinging arms and then the teams converge, and they’re swallowed from sight.

  Somehow the team breaks it up, but now there’s men yelling and Foster’s laughing in a way that is not at all humorous. I’m right on the edge of my seat, trying to figure out what in the damn hell is happening.

  “Fucking dumb shit.” Seth kicks the seat in front of us.

  Foster is bleeding.

  “What is happening?” I ask weakly, as Morris staggers back up onto his skates.

  Seth doesn’t answer. He doesn’t need to. Was this a completely random coincidence, or was that … because of me?

  I watch as Foster is sent off the ice. He skates over to retrieve his helmet then disappears out of the rink to god knows where.

  “Where’s he going?”

  “Locker room. He got kicked out of the game.”

  “One more question.”

  “Yeah?”

  I turn to Seth. “How do I get there?”

  13

  Foster

  I throw my helmet against the wall, and it crashes to the ground with a loud thunk.

  The anger, adrenaline, and urge to fight still boil under my skin. I didn’t get a long enough shot at Morris.

  I should be pissed I’m out of the game, but I’m not. I don’t regret doing what I did one bit. I only regret letting him get a punch in.

  What are his knuckles made of? Diamonds?

  I run my finger along my eyebrow, and it comes away sticky with blood. Not a lot, but it stings like a bitch.

  I need to get my skates off. I need to jump around and pace the room and try to get all this extra energy out.

  All I was picturing while I was out there was the Zach I spent the entire day with last week—the one who smiles and jokes and isn’t so tense—being bullied by that dickhead, and I lost it.

  As I sit on the bench to undo my laces, the door opens, and I prepare for one of the coaches to yell obscenities at me for the next five minutes while the rest of the period plays out.

  I don’t even acknowledge whoever it is. I keep my head down and continue to unlace my skates.

  “F-foster?”

  My head darts up at the unsure voice.

  There stands Zach, looking sexy as fuck in my jersey. His hair is messy like he’s been running his hand through it, and his nerdy glasses frame his green eyes in a way that drives me crazy.

  “How … how did you get in here?”

  “Seth. He said we’re your brothers and wanted to check on you.”

  Thinking of Zach as my brother makes me feel skeevy and gross, but I ignore it because I don’t really care how he got into the locker room. It means a lot that he’s here. “Is that what you’re doing? Checking on me?”

  He takes two tentative steps closer, and then, as if all at once, he decides to go for it.

  Zach approaches and drops to his knees in front of me.

  My breath catches at the sight.

  Long, thin fingers run along the top of my brow and down my cheek. “You’re hurt.”

  I huff. “I’ll live.” I might not live if he doesn’t keep touching me; it feels so good.

  I want to lean into his hand, but I hold strong. I don’t want to scare him off.

  “W-why did you do that?” he asks.

  I could lie. I could tell him it’s the sport and fights happen. But everyone out there knows that wasn’t a typical fight. I targeted Morris from the start, and even though we were hardly on the ice at the same time, the second I got my chance to go for him, I did.

  “Morris is a dick.”

  Zach tries to pull his hand from my face, but I don’t let him. My hand covers his, holding it to my cheek.

  He averts his gaze. “Seth told me you know … about him. And me.”

  “You and him. Wait, there was a you and him? Like, together?”

  “No. He … I don’t know if he’s a special kind of asshole or what, but he …”

  “You don’t need to tell me. Seth told me enough.”

  His hand finally drops, and I let it. “So out there … on the ice …”

  “It was for you.”

  “I didn’t ask you to do that.” His voice is so soft. So him.

  “You never would,” I murmur. “Morris has to learn karma’s a bitch. He had no right to treat you like that.”

  “Will you get in trouble?”

  “No doubt.”

  “You shouldn’t have—”

  “Zach?”

  His eyes meet mine.

  “It was worth it.”

  He stares at me like he doesn’t understand, but there’s appreciation there too.

  I honestly don’t know what I’m doing when I lean forward and press my lips to his.

  Blame it on excess energy. Blame it on adrenaline. Blame it on my lack of control.

  I don’t know what’s at fault here. All I know is now that I’m doing this, I’m all in.

  Zach doesn’t react at first, and while I want to push and try to coax him into kissing me back, I don’t want to overstep boundaries.

  I pull back.

  His eyes are dazed, his lips still pouted.

  “Sorry, I’m all gross and sweaty, and—”

  He’s the one who closes the gap this time. His mouth crashes into mine, maybe a little overeager.

  His lithe body pushes closer, pressing against my hockey pads. My hand wraps around his back, and I curse my hockey gear right now.

  I want to be closer. I want to feel him against me.

  His lips are parted but not enough. I flick my tongue along the seam of his mouth, and he opens that little bit more.

  I take the opportunity to dive in.

  The strained noise he makes at the back of his throat goes straight to my cock.

  My hand cups the back of his head as I move my tongue along his.

  He lets me take the lead, my head swimming at the way he becomes pliant in my hands.

  A moan escapes me.

  He pulls back, but he doesn’t move out of my arms.

  His lips are swollen, his eyes wide.

  His mouth opens and closes like he’s trying to say something, but no noise comes out.

  “Zach?”

  The crowd’s cheers and screams from the arena filter down the hallway and into the dressing room.

  He flinches. “What was that?”

  “Period’s over. You better go. This locker room is about to be filled with a bunch of angry hockey players and coaches wanting to yell at me.”

  If possible, his eyes widen more. He gets to his feet, a little wobbly on his legs, and rushes out of the room before my team barges their way in.

  He’s gone so fast I can barely even process what happened.

  I kissed Zach.

  Zach.

  “You can’t hit on him.” Seth’s words replay in my head.

  My brother is going to kill me … if my team doesn’t do the job first.

  Equipment is dropped to the floor, and the guys are sullen and scowly as they throw themselves onto the bench seats around me.

  Coach comes in like a storm on a path of destruction. Like those tornados that seem to only target one house.

  I’d make a joke about feeling like Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz right now, but I know I’m in serious trouble and joking will only make things worse.

  “Want to tell me what the hell that was about?” Coach yells.

  “The best defense is a good offense?”

  I think the vein on Coach’s forehead might pop.

  “We don’t play dirty,” Coach says. “That was either personal or you’ve suddenly forgotten the rules of checking. So are you a selfish asshole who put your personal shit before the
team, or are you a dumbass?”

  Those are my only options?

  I feel like this is a trick question. “Selfish?” That’s better than being a dumbass, right?

  Coach isn’t having it. “You’re the captain! The team comes first!”

  There are a million things I could say.

  Morris deserved it.

  Morris is an asshole.

  This game doesn’t count for standings.

  All of them would be the truth, but the only truth Coach cares about is much simpler.

  “I lost my head.” I’d planned to target Morris, I won’t deny that, but it was supposed to be with legal moves. Then I got out on the ice and thought about how he had tormented Zach for whatever fucked-up reason, and all rules of engagement went out the window. I did lose my head, and I lost my cool.

  “And now your team might lose the game because of it. Go shower. I’ll get the team trainer to look at the cut on your face.” He turns to the rest of the team. “Let this be a lesson about what not to do if you want to be on the first line on this team.”

  Wait, what?

  Coach turns back to me. “You’re sitting out the first game of the season.”

  What the fuck?

  The air gets sucked out of the room as the other guys gasp. If I were any other player, I’d get yelled at and that’s it.

  Apparently, I’m being held to a higher standard because I’m the team captain.

  It doesn’t matter that I’ll have scouts keeping an eye on me this year and need to play as many games as I can. It doesn’t matter that I want to play for the NHL after I graduate.

  I messed up. End of story.

  When the team goes back on the ice, I hit the showers.

  The hot water beats down on me and stings the shit out of my forehead. It’s enough to bring me back down to earth completely, making me realize my mom was right when she told us over and over again that there are always consequences for your actions.

  I was under the delusion that because this game didn’t count for standings it wouldn’t affect my season. Now I’m going to be one game down, and it hasn’t even started.