The Score

Weird.

On a whim, I open Twitter on my phone and search for the profile I was following earlier. Maybe @BriarBryan38 tweeted some updates when I was walking over. I skim the most recent posts until one catches my eye.

My heart promptly lurches to my throat.

Dean was thrown out of the game.

20

Dean

I sit in the empty locker room, head down, shoulders hunched. Valiantly trying not to grab the nearest item—which happens to be my helmet—and hurl it at the wall. The knuckles of my right hand are cracked and bleeding thanks to the violent uppercut I unleashed at the St. Anthony’s forward, but I press my palms against my thighs and let the blood soak into my hockey pants.

I despise those fuckers from St. Anthony’s. Our teams are long-time rivals, so whenever we play each other, tension and smack talk are to be expected. But the hostility has gotten worse over the past two years. And a couple weeks ago, a bunch of St. A’s guys had messed with one of Grace’s friends, taking away her phone and refusing to let her leave their seedy motel room.

Tonight, I’m the one at fault. There was the usual trash talk in the face-offs, aggressive skating, overly physical hits on both sides. But I was already hot-tempered going into this game, and when that asshole goaded me into taking a swing, I just lost it.

They tossed me out for unsportsmanlike conduct. Yeah right. If the refs heard even half the filth Connelly was spewing about our mothers, they’d throw that fucker out too.

As is stands, I’m the only ousted player. One punch thrown in an already heated game probably won’t get me a suspension from the team, but now I’m stuck in the locker room, prohibited from leaving until I get the obligatory tongue-lashing from Coach Jensen.

Or maybe he’ll delegate again and let O’Shea deliver the lecture. Lucky me. That would mean two lectures from that bastard in the span of twenty-four hours. He’d called me into his office last night when I was driving home from the Hurricanes game. Add to that Allie’s admission that she was with her ex, and it’s no surprise I ended up getting trashed with Beau.

I swear to God, if Allie got back together with that undeserving ass, I’m going to…what? Lose it again? “Break up” with her? All I’ve done so far is avoid her, big talker that I am. Truthfully, I’m afraid of what she might say.

Footsteps echo beyond the door. I instantly tense. Wait, it’s the wrong door, I realize. Not the one leading out to the ice, but the one that opens to the main hallway.

“Dean?” Allie’s voice has my head snapping up.

How the hell did she get back here? We have security guards manning the facility during home games to prevent people from stealing into the locker rooms and messing with the equipment. That actually happened a couple years ago—a rabid fan of our opponents’ snuck in and spray-painted LOSER on our lockers. I hadn’t realized some colleges let in five-year-olds.

There’s a soft knock. “Dean, are you in there?”

I answer on a ragged breath, “Yeah.”

Allie pokes her blond head in the room. She spots me on the bench and makes a beeline toward me. She’s in jeans and a red sweater, with her hair up in a messy bun, and either I’m imagining it or her eyes are rimmed with red. Has she been crying?

“How’d you get past security?” I ask gruffly.

“I told the guard I’m your girlfriend and that I desperately needed to check on my man. There may have been some crocodile tears involved.” She grins wryly. “The ability to cry on command really comes in handy sometimes.”

“And he bought it?”

“Yep. I’m very convincing. But I did have to show him my Briar ID to prove I wasn’t a saboteur.” She sits beside me. “Why did you get kicked out of the game?”

I stare straight ahead. “I sucker punched someone. Damn foolish on my part. I deserve to be in here.”

“Maybe. But it still sucks.” She goes quiet for a moment. I can feel her blue eyes boring into the side of my face. “You’re avoiding me.”

I glance over. “Just a bit.”

“A bit? There aren’t degrees of avoidance, Dean. You’re either avoiding someone, or you aren’t.”

“Not true. Sometimes there’re extenuating circumstances. Unexpected variables.”

“Like what?”

I shrug. “Doesn’t matter.”

“It does matter,” she corrects, “but we can put a pin in that for the moment.” She presses one hand against my cheek, then slides it to my chin to twist my head toward her. Forcing eye contact. “I know you’re pissed at me for seeing Sean.”

“I’m not pissed. You can see whoever you want.” I put on an indifferent tone, when inside, I’m bristling. “But let me just point out the hypocrisy of that. Weren’t we supposed to give each other a head’s up before we hooked up with anyone else?”

“I didn’t hook up with him.”

“No?”

“No,” she says in a firm voice. “And if your silent treatment also has to do with you thinking Sean and I got back together, I can assure you, we did not. He wanted to, but I said no.”

I can’t explain the gust of relief that slams into my chest. “Good to know,” I say lightly, but the knowing gleam in her eyes reveals she is absolutely aware of how pleased I am.

She takes my hand and twines our fingers together. “Sean and I are over. I don’t want to be with him, and that’s exactly what I told him yesterday.”

“Bet he wasn’t thrilled to hear it.”

“Nope, but it’s something he’ll need to accept.” She rubs her thumb over my tender knuckles. They’re not bleeding anymore, but the way she gasps, you’d think my hand had been amputated. “You shouldn’t be fighting,” she says sternly.

“Hockey players are hot-blooded, babe. We fight sometimes. Not the end of the world.”

“What did the jerk say to get you to punch him?”

“I don’t even remember,” I admit. “It was all a blur, and I was already in a shitty mood to begin with.”

Guilt fills her expression. “Because of me?”

“Naah.” My fingers tighten through hers. “O’Shea is on my case again because another goddamn picture showed up on Instagram.” I chuckle harshly. “I really need to start paying more attention when I’m at Malone’s.”