The Score

“You already gave me a birthday surprise,” I remind him. He totally had too—a call from St. Bart’s and the hottest phone sex I’ve ever had in my life. I made so much noise when I was coming I had to thank my lucky stars that my dad is a heavy sleeper.

“This one is even better,” Dean promises, and then he plants a quick kiss on my lips and pulls away from the curb. “I missed you.”

I can’t fight a goofy smile. “I missed you.”

Winking, he reaches for my hand and places it directly on his crotch. Which is sporting a noticeable semi. “Little Dean missed you too.”

“I can see that.”

I rub the growing bulge, and he groans. “Keep doing that and I’ll shoot in my pants,” he warns.

My smile widens. “Is that a challenge?”

I drag down his zipper and slide my hand inside, curling my fingers around his hard, pulsing shaft. Jeez, he wasn’t kidding. Less than a minute of stroking, and he groans again, clutching the steering wheel in a death grip as he chokes out one word. “Coming.”

I don’t let him ruin his pants, because they’re probably more expensive than my college tuition. Instead, I lower my head and swallow up his release, moaning as his salty, masculine flavor coats my tongue.

“Sweet Jesus,” he mumbles, then reaches out to tenderly stroke my cheek. “I fucking love you, baby.”

“Naah, you just love road head.”

“You.” He stubbornly shakes his head. “I love you.”

Damned if my heart doesn’t soar. I settle back in my seat, gazing out the window as we cross the bridge toward New Jersey. I don’t know where the heck he’s taking me, but I’m happy to let him. I’d follow Dean Di Laurentis to the ends of the earth. To the bowels of a volcano, if he asked me to be the Meg Ryan to his Tom Hanks. To fucking Mordor, if he asked me to be the Sam to his Frodo. To—

“We’re here,” he announces.

I’m jolted out of the most ridiculous train of thought I’ve ever ridden. Dean parks the BMW in front of a small building in what seems to be an industrial area in Newark. I peer through the windshield to read the sign. Then I gasp.

My head whirls toward him. He’s grinning.

“Oh my God. Really?!”

“Yup.” He hops out of the car and rounds the front bumper to open my door. I take the hand he holds out, and I’m practically skipping all the way to the glass double doors. Excitement bubbles inside me. My chest feels hot and gooey, and the thick layer of emotion clinging to my throat makes it difficult to get a single word out.

I look around the front lobby of the dance studio, then meet Dean’s twinkling eyes. “I thought you said you didn’t want to salsa dance. And Dean Di Laurentis only does what he wants, remember?”

He shrugs. “I am doing what I want.”

My eyebrows knit together as I wait for him to clarify.

“I’m making you happy.”

Squish. That’s the noise my heart makes. Because it’s so fucking full of love it can no longer contain it all.

*

Dean

Real life is beckoning. I want to shoo it away and tell it to bother me later, but that’s not the way the world works. As much as I loved lying on the beach with my folks, and catching up with my siblings, and putting a smile on my girlfriend’s face by surprising her with dance lessons, it’s time to snap out of holiday mode and into life mode.

My first week back at campus is busier than ever, as hockey practice, classes, and coaching the Hurricanes eat up most of my time. Luckily, Allie is busy with rehearsals again, so she doesn’t complain that our sex life is pretty much a series of quickies this week.

On Saturday, the team loses another home game. Nobody is even saying the word “playoffs” anymore, because we all know it ain’t happening. Despite that, I keep working one-on-one with Hunter. No matter what happens this season (spoiler alert: nothing will happen), Hunter will still be playing for Briar next year, and hopefully serving as a team leader for the others.

Coach O’Shea, who’s been shockingly pleasant lately, signs off on an hour of extra ice time for us on Sunday night, which Hunter and I make good use of. The solo session goes well, and I drive home from the arena in a good mood. Since I don’t have an early practice tomorrow, Allie’s spending the night and I can’t wait to fuck my girlfriend. Really fuck her. I’m talking three straight hours of balls deep heaven, instead of the hurried trips to the bone zone we’ve been taking all week.

My head is down as I wander into the kitchen. I’m so focused on the task of checking if Allie texted that it takes a second to register that my roommates are sitting around the table. Even Tucker, who’s been AWOL since the new semester started. I don’t even bother teasing him about it anymore. It’s obvious he has a girlfriend. Or maybe a boyfriend? Fuck, he’s so secretive these days that nothing would surprise me.

“What’s up?” I ask absently.

Nobody says a word.

I tuck my phone in my pocket and glance around the table. Their stricken expressions make my heart beat faster.

The moisture I glimpse in Logan’s eyes makes it stop beating altogether.

“What’s going on?” I demand.

The eerie silence drags on. Logan scrubs his fist over his eyes.

Fucking hell. Now I’m worried. No, now I’m scared.

“Seriously, if someone doesn’t tell me what’s going on right this fucking second—”

“Coach called,” Garrett interrupts. His voice is low. Somber.

I wait for him to continue. My hands feel like two blocks of ice. And now they’re starting to shake.

“He just got off the phone with Patrick Deluca, and, uh…”

Okay, this is moving in a direction I didn’t expect. Pat Deluca is the coach of the football team. What the hell would he have to say to Coach Jensen?

Garrett sees my confusion and keeps talking. “I guess Deluca called him because he knows we’re friends with Beau—”

Beau? “This is about Maxwell?” I cut in. “What about him?”

Logan averts his gaze.

So does Tucker.

The only one with the balls to meet my eyes is Garrett, who exhales in a slow, unsteady rush before speaking.

“He…ah…died.”

30

Dean