The Score

“O’Shea is your assistant coach? The one who forced you to volunteer at the middle school?”

“Defensive coordinator, and yes.”

“Okay, and what picture are we talking about? Wait, a picture from Malone’s? Of us?” Her face goes pale.

“No,” I assure her. “Me and Penelope, the puck bunny who was chewing on my neck. O’Shea is pissed.”

“Why? Are PDAs forbidden?” She quickly adds, “Not that I’m saying you were PDA’ing with her—I know she was the one coming on to you. But for argument’s sake, even if you were reciprocating, how is that a punishable offense?”

“He wasn’t bitching about the PDA. I’m holding a beer in the picture, and O’Shea’s got a stick up his ass about us not drinking.”

“Um. He realizes he’s coaching college players, right? A no-drinking rule is impossible to enforce.”

“I know.”

“And all you’re doing in the picture is holding a beer? What the hell? It’s not like you got caught snorting lines of coke off her tits.”

A smile tickles my lips. “Of course not. If I was going to snort lines off anyone’s tits, it would be yours.”

“Aw, thanks. That’s so romantic.” Still stroking my palm with her fingertips, she leans closer and kisses my cheek. “O’Shea is an idiot, sweetie. Don’t let him get to you, okay? Especially not to the point where you’re so angry you’re punching people and getting thrown out of games.”

She’s right—I need to do a better job of controlling my temper. But Frank O’Shea…fuck. Just the sound of his sharp, condescending voice riles me up.

Allie’s lips brush over my jaw in a fleeting kiss. Then she releases my hand, visibly reluctant. “I should probably go before someone sees me in here. The third period will be over soon.”

“Did you happen to catch the score before you came back here?”

“I think it was tied.”

Shit. Well, hopefully my boys manage to turn the tie into a lead, because I’m sick to death of losing.

And I’m sick of sneaking around, if I’m being honest.

It was exciting at first, sleeping with Allie behind our friends’ backs, but I’m not feeling it anymore. When she showed up at Malone’s the other night looking like that? I wanted to stick my tongue down her throat in front of everyone. It was damn hard pretending to be unaffected by her, and I’m damn tired of furtively texting her for quickies and lying to my friends about where I’m going.

Friends, who, by the way, now think I incorporate dildos in my jerk-off routine. When Tucker handed me a plate of bacon and eggs this morning, he innocently asked if my “little pink buddy” would be joining us for breakfast. Garrett almost broke a rib laughing. Poor Grace still can’t look at me without blushing.

I know Allie doesn’t want our friends to know we’re fooling around, but I wish there was a way we could have a little more freedom. Maybe we could book a hotel room for the weekend, just spend two whole days in bed without worrying about—

Inspiration strikes. “Hey, wait.” I reach for her hand before she can stand up. “Did you book your train ticket for Thanksgiving yet?”

Allie curses. “No, I didn’t. Argh! Why am I so bad at remembering things? I set a reminder!”

“Don’t book it.”

“Why not?”

“Because I have a better idea.” I hesitate. “Why don’t I come to New York with you? We can drive up in my car.”

She looks startled. “Oh. You…uh…want to spend Thanksgiving together? Um. Well. I’m seeing my dad—”

“I’m not inviting myself to dinner or anything,” I cut in. “I figured I’d stay at my place in Manhattan while you’re with your dad, and if you’re free Thursday or Friday night, you can come over.” I wiggle my eyebrows. “We’d have the whole place to ourselves.”

“Well, that’s intriguing,” she says slowly. “When do you need to be back at Briar for the game?”

“I’d have to leave Saturday morning. When were you planning on coming back?”

“Saturday morning.” A tiny smile lifts her lips. “Timing works out…”

“Does that mean you’re down?” I ask hopefully.

“A free ride to New York and wild weekend sex? Of course.”

“Good. I have one favor to ask, though.”

She tips her head, waiting for me to continue.

My mood, which had been lower than low before, is now as bright as the grin I flash her. “Bring Winston.”

*

And that’s how I end up driving to New York with Allie in the passenger seat.

The sun has already set by the time we hit the road, because Allie had rehearsal until six, and then it takes her a whole frickin’ hour to pack. Me, I bring a backpack. Her? She brings an overstuffed suitcase that barely fits in my trunk.

I had left my hockey bag in there because it literally didn’t occur to me that she’d pack so much shit for three short days. Luckily, the parking lot behind Bristol is completely deserted, which means nobody sees us trying to jam the suitcase in the trunk. The campus is eerily silent, almost as if the Rapture sucked everyone up into the sky. Clearly we’re not the only ones who decided to head out the day before Thanksgiving.

Hannah and Garrett flew to Philly this morning, and Grace and Logan were gone a few hours later. They’re visiting Logan’s father in rehab, then hitting up his mother in Boston for the night before coming back to Hastings to spend the holiday with Grace’s dad. Tucker was still home when I left, but he’s driving to Hollis’s place in New Hampshire tomorrow morning. I’m glad, because if he didn’t have anywhere to go, the guilt would’ve suckered me into inviting him to Manhattan.

After Allie and I are finally settled in the front seat, I discover that we have completely different tastes in music. It takes about five minutes of bickering before we reach a compromise—we each get thirty-minute music blocks, during which the other person isn’t allowed to complain. The little brat even sets a timer to ensure we abide by the rules. And of course, she announces she’s going first.

“Why can’t I go first?” I object.

“Because I’m playing the vagina card.”