The Play: Chapter 22

“Where is he?” Demi asks impatiently. “I thought you said he lived ten minutes away.”

“He does. And it’s literally only been one minute since I called.” Rolling my eyes, I rejoin her on the uncomfortable metal bench. Our cellmate remains fast asleep, now snoring softly. His foot keeps twitching, and there’s no mistaking the odor of stale booze that wafts our way.

Demi presses her lips together, as if trying not to laugh. “This is the best date I’ve ever been on,” she says sarcastically. “I mean, the romantic ambience alone…”

A snort slips out. “Only thing missing is the Whitney Houston ballad. Oh, and your actual date—you know, the dude who ditched you for his girlfriend. Or maybe the gym. I honestly can’t be sure. It was such an impossible choice.”

It’s her turn to snort. “Meh. Whatever. You’re a way better date.”

Grinning, I sling one arm around her and tug her closer, and she rests her head on my shoulder. The sweet scent of her hair floats up into my nostrils. I breathe deeply, trying to pinpoint the scent. Jasmine, I think. She feels nice and warm pressed up beside me. I wonder what she’s thinking about right now. If her thoughts align with mine.

I almost groan in disappointment when she lifts her head. “I really mean it,” she informs me.

“Mean what?” Shit, my voice sounds way too husky. I promptly clear the gravel from my throat.

“You’re a fun date.”

“This isn’t a date.”

She tips her head in challenge. “Then why are you giving me the Penis Eyes?”

“I’m not.”

“I know Penis Eyes when I see ’em.”

A laugh tickles my throat. This girl is something else. She cracks me up. And she’s so fucking beautiful. Her skin always looks so soft and luminous that my fingers itch to stroke it. Her hair looks silky to the touch too. It falls in a straight, shiny curtain over her shoulder, the one that’s bared by her loose sweater. A few dark strands fall over her left eye.

My lips feel dry. I lick them, and heat flares in Demi’s expression.

“You’ve got hair in your eyes,” I say roughly.

I reach out to gently brush it away. My thumb lingers on her cheekbone as I tuck the hair behind her ear, the one that’s normal-sized.

She gives a sharp intake of breath. “Oh my God. Was that it?”

My eyebrows crash together. “Was what it?”

“Was that your move?” Delight dances in her eyes. “Licking the lips, brushing hair off my face, that little thumb rub. That’s totally the move. Right?”

I flash a cocky smile. “Depends. Did it work?”

“Yes,” she says frankly, and now it’s my breath that hitches.

Her honesty is such a turn-on. And although I didn’t plan on busting it out tonight, that was my move. It just happened naturally.

“Davenport,” booms a loud voice.

My head snaps toward the bars. Footsteps thud down a hallway and then Coach’s thunderous face appears in the doorway. Officer Jenk tails him.

“Unlock that door.” Coach issues the order to the desk jockey, who jumps to his feet at the arrival of Coach and his colleague.

Weirdly enough, the younger deputy actually reaches for his heavy key ring before remembering that Coach is not his superior, nor a cop. “Jeff?” he says, glancing at Officer Jenk.

His name is Jeff? Jeff Jenk?

Poor bastard. Maybe that’s why he’s in such a bad mood.

“Do it,” Jenk says curtly.

Coach gives me and Demi a brisk once-over as we emerge from the cell. “You all right?” he says curtly. “Did anybody manhandle you?”

“No,” I assure him, touched that he’d asked. “Nobody knocked us around at all, but thanks for worrying.”

“I’m not worried about you, you idiot. I’m worried about your fucking shooting hand. We have a game in four days.” His accusatory eyes shift toward the officers. “If his slapshot is even a tenth of a second slower than usual, I’m going to hold you personally responsible, Albertson.”

“Sorry, Coach,” the desk jockey mumbles.

I stare at them both. “You two know each other?”

“Yeah, kid used to play for me. Sammy Albertson, class of 2012.”

Damn, now I really wish Albertson was the one who pulled us over. I could’ve just name-dropped and gone on my merry way. Just my luck that I got the cop with the chip on his shoulder.

“And you,” Coach says, turning to a sour-faced Jenk. “Unless the kid’s dick is out and inside someone’s mouth, it ain’t considered lewd conduct. Make wiser choices next time.”

“Tell your player that,” Jenk says snidely. “He can’t be swerving all over the road.”

“I was stuck,” Demi pipes up. “Hunter was trying to—”

Coach raises a hand to silence her, and, like all of his players, Demi falls in line. “Any paperwork we need to sign?” he barks at Jenk. “Any fines to pay?”

“No, I’m letting them off with a warning as a courtesy to—”

“Good, let’s go,” Coach interrupts. He nods his head, and Demi and I scamper after him like baby geese following their mommy.

Outside the tiny station, Coach zips up his coat. It still hasn’t snowed once this winter, but the temperature is finally turning frigid. Coach’s breath escapes in white puffs as he says, “Your Land Rover wasn’t impounded because the tow truck’s ETA was a couple of hours, so it’s still on Ninth Line. I’ll drive you over to it.”

“Thanks, Coach.”

“And I want you to go straight home, you hear me?”

“Demi lives on campus,” I say, shaking my head. “I need to drop her off first.”

“I’ll do it,” he snaps before stalking toward the curb, where his Jeep is parked.

Demi turns to me in alarm. “Should I be worried he might murder me on the drive home?” She pauses. “I can’t remember if my show has an episode called Coaches Who Kill.”

“You’re probably okay.”

“Probably?”

I shrug. “He’s more pissed at me than you. I’m the one who dragged him out of bed.”

“True.” She flips up the fur-lined hood of her parka, and plants one hand on her hip. “And for the record, none of this would have happened if you’d agreed to rebound me.”

“It still would’ve happened.” I smirk at her. “Only difference is, you would’ve actually been blowing me.” I instantly regret saying that, because the thought of my dick stuffed in her mouth is so torturously enticing I almost groan out loud.

“No,” she counters, “we wouldn’t have been anywhere near your car. We would’ve been warm and cozy in my bedroom, with no Tinder profiles and no distractions. Just you and me and a big comfy bed and my mouth on your penis. I want you to think about that!” she taunts as she flounces off to Coach’s vehicle.

Right. As if now I’ll be able to think of anything but.

And think about it I do. All week long.

Normally I’d be pumped and focused on the upcoming game, but by the time Friday rolls around, I can’t even remember who we’re playing against. My concentration is shot, not only because Demi’s gotten under my skin, but from the constant ragging I’ve been getting from my teammates all week.

I had no choice but to fess up about the jail incident, because Brenna had breakfast with her father the morning after and Coach Jensen decided to be an ass and told his daughter. And obviously Brenna opened her big mouth, and now I’m Hunter Davenport, the guy who got arrested for receiving a blowjob while driving. The worst part is, I didn’t even get the blowjob.

Demi’s also been teasing me about it, only she’s taking things a step further than my teammates. Since experiencing my “move,” she’s launched a campaign to end my celibacy, as evidenced by the text she just sent.

DEMI: Have a good game tonight! I hope you score! Speaking of scoring, have you considered breaking your vow?

I sigh at the phone. See? I should be mentally prepping for the game right now. I’m in the visitors’ locker room at…Boston College. Right! That’s who we’re facing tonight. I should be thinking about the game, not Demi Davis.

ME: I told you, it ain’t happening.

HER: You wouldn’t even consider it? For lil ole me?

Someone smacks me between the shoulder blades. “Hey, now. Stop fantasizing about the road head, captain.”

I turn to find Matt grinning at me.

“Seriously, though, nice,” he praises.

“You’ve said that to me at morning skate every day this week.”

“Yeah, because it’s nice. Always wanted road head.”

“Me too,” I say dryly. “Like I’ve been telling you every day, nothing happened. Demi’s earring got stuck on my pants.”

“I’ve gotten road head,” Conor drawls as he unbuttons his white dress shirt.

“You’ve gotten head everywhere,” I shoot back.

“That’s not true. I’ve never gotten…” He strains his brain trying to offer up a blowjob-free location.

“Having a little trouble there?” Matt hoots.

Chuckling, I peel off my own clothes and begin to suit up. My phone dings again and I realize I didn’t respond to Demi.

HER: Sorry. I’ll stop talking about this. I know it makes you uncomfortable.

ME: No, sorry, I’m just gearing up. Gotta go, talk later.

I add a kissy face and then tuck the phone in the pocket of my discarded pants. Once I’m in uniform, I sink down on the bench to put on my skates.

Conor sits beside me. “What are you doing after the game? We were going to have some people over. You in?”

“Sure. I’ve got nothing else going on.”

He slants his head pensively. “Are you seriously not doing this sex thing or are you fucking with all of us?”

“Not since April,” I confirm.

“Christ. That’s intense. I’d probably lose my mind if I couldn’t bust a nut.”

“I never said I’m not busting nuts.” I release a gloomy sigh. “I’m just doing it solo.”

“Still. Sounds like a hellscape.”

I can’t help but snicker. “It’s not that bad. I’m actually getting used to the perpetual blue balls.”

“Jesus!” Bucky interrupts, walking over with a Saran-wrapped stinky Pablo in one hand and a cellphone in the other. “Have you seen this shit? Pablo’s Insta account reached ten thousand followers. Someone just DM’d asking if we’d do a sponsored post for an age-defying moisturizing cream.”

My jaw drops. “Is that a joke?”

“No joke.” Bucky shakes his head in disbelief.

“Age-defying cream?” Alec pipes up, looking confused. “How do you defy age?”

“And what the hell does that have to do with an egg?” Conor cracks. “Are we supposed to slather moisturizer on his little pig face and pose him for a photo shoot?”

Bucky grins. “I’ll message them back and find out.”

Coach strides into the locker room to deliver his pregame pep talk, which typically consists of a sentence or two, tops, before he turns it over to the captain or assistant captains to pump everybody up. This evening’s “pep talk” offers the usual sentiments—kick their ass, don’t embarrass me, don’t bring shame onto your house, et cetera et cetera. Then I give a little speech and we all file out onto the ice.

The crowd is deafening, and I don’t even care that only a third of the seats consist of Briar fans. The screams and cheers and even the boos fuel my blood. I fucking love this sport. I love the ice, the speed, the aggression. I love the physicality of it, the way every bone in my body jars and my teeth rattle when I’m slammed into the boards. Those are messed up things to love, but that’s hockey.

I remember the game Fitz and I watched in our living room last night. Edmonton versus Vancouver. Jake Connelly scored one of the most beautiful goals I’d ever seen. And I remember the longing I felt, an ache that actually tightened my throat, because while college hockey is great, it’s nowhere near as fast and competitive as professional hockey.

And if the pros were simply about being out there on the ice, I’d sign up in a heartbeat. But that life comes with strings I’m not interested in. It comes with women and glamour and press conferences and constant travel. Constant temptation. And Davenport men don’t fare well in the face of temptation.

So I’ll just have to content myself with this, right now, skating out on the ice with my friends, kicking ass. Because this is what it’s all about.

The bus drops us off on campus around eleven, and from there I hop into my Rover and drive myself and a few teammates back to Hastings. I deliver them to Matt and Con’s house, then head home to park my car. I’m planning on walking back to Matt’s. That way I can drink more than a couple of beers.

At home, I change out of my dress clothes—we’re required to wear jackets, ties, and trousers for all away games. It’s almost a shame to strip out of my suit, because I rock it like nobody’s business. I can thank my father for that. He pulls off the CEO look better than anyone. Probably why he’s so popular with the ladies.

A little too popular.

“Hunter, you heading out?” Brenna pokes her head into my bedroom. As usual, there was no knocking involved.

“Yeah, I’m going to Matty’s. Want to come?”

“I might pop over later. I’m Skyping with Jake first.”

“Tell him I said hey. Oh, and tell him I’m jealous of that goal he scored yesterday. It was a beauty.”

“Right? I’ve never been more turned on in my life.”

“I honestly think Edmonton has a shot of winning the Cup this year.”

“Same. They’re unstoppable.”

I zip up my hoodie. “When I was in Boston last month, Garrett was saying he hopes they don’t have to face each other in a playoffs series.” Christ, I don’t even know who I’d be rooting for in that scenario. Garrett, I guess. No. Jake. Or maybe Garrett. Fuck, it’s an impossible choice. Like picking between the gym and your girlfriend.

Brenna wanders off, and I go downstairs to put on my coat and boots. I’m about to slide my phone in my pocket when it beeps in my hand. I check it and find a text from Tara, a girl I hooked up with last year.

TARA: Hey, sorry for texting out of the blue like this—random, right? Nice win tonight. Just wanted to give you a heads up, tho. Some guy was asking about you.

ME: I might need more details than that LOL

HER: After the game, some guys came over and one of them was grilling me and my girls about where you were. I said probably on the team bus.

ME: Wait, this happened in the city?

HER: Yeah, outside the BC arena.

ME: OK, that’s weird. Thanks for the heads up.

HER: No prob, hon.

She punctuates that with three hearts. Red hearts. Every guy on the planet is aware that red hearts mean business. An invitation to start something up if I want to. But I don’t.

I walk out the front door, and I’m nearing the sidewalk when my phone beeps again. This time I find a message from Grady, the little brother of one of my teammates.

GRADY: Hey. Hunter. Got your # from Dan. He told me to text about this—some dude was looking for you at BC.

ME: Yeah, I just heard. Any idea who it was?

HIM: Never seen any of them before. The main guy kinda looked like a young Johnny Depp?

ME: Doesn’t ring a bell.

HIM: Anyway, I heard someone mention to them that you might be at Matt Anderson’s house tonight. Wanted to let you know in case he tracks you down.

ME: Thanks. I appreciate it, man.

Okay. I don’t like this at all. Two different warnings that a bunch of strangers were asking about me? Strangers who raised enough alarms that Tara and Grady both felt the need to reach out to me.

And fuck, I’m glad they did, because when I reach Matt and Con’s street, I immediately notice the group twenty feet ahead, loitering by the curb. If I hadn’t been forewarned, I might’ve waltzed right up to them thinking they were partygoers.

Instead, I slow my gait, giving myself time to scope out the guys. There are five of them. They’re not particularly huge in terms of height, but they’re all pretty beefy. One is bald and stocky and appears vaguely familiar. The tallest one has his back to me, but he turns around when he hears my footsteps.

“Nico,” I say guardedly. “Hey.”

I haven’t seen or spoken to Demi’s ex since the night she went all Carrie Underwood on his stuff. And on closer examination, he kind of does resemble a young Johnny Depp, but with a darker complexion.

“What’s going on?” I ask when he doesn’t return the greeting.

“You tell me.”

I resist the urge to roll my eyes. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

“Really? Because rumor has it you were out with Demi on Monday night.” Barely concealed rage reddens his face. His fists are clenched at his sides.

Nico’s friends creep forward. Not close enough to pose a physical threat, but enough that my shoulders snap into a rigid line.

“Yeah, we went to Malone’s for a drink.” I omit the part where Demi was going there to meet another guy. Nico is already on edge.

“I heard it was more than a drink.” His voice trembles with anger. “Heard you got thrown in lockup together.”

Fuck’s sake.

I open my mouth to respond, but Nico hisses like a venomous snake. “Heard you got pulled over with your dick in her mouth.”

“That’s not what happened.” My tone is calm, even.

“You feel like a big man, Davenport, disrespecting my girl like that?”

“I’m not disrespecting anyone—”

He’s still talking. “Using her? Forcing her to blow you?”

“I didn’t force her.” I quickly amend that when I realize what it implies. “Nothing happened, man. It was a misunderstanding, and the cops let us go. But even if something did happen, you’d have no right to be pissed. You guys aren’t together anymore.”

“We’re not together right now,” he qualifies. “We’ll get back together. We always do.”

“Is that so,” I drawl.

“You don’t know a damn thing about our history.”

“I know you cheated on her at a frat party.”

Nico’s eyes flash. “She tell you that?”

“Nah, I saw you, man.”

A brief silence travels between us. Then Nico hisses again. “Wait, it was you? You’re the asshole who told her about the chick at the party?”

“What the hell does it matter? She was going to find out anyway, Nico. She was already going to find out about your other screw-up because you’re too stupid to delete a Wi-Fi password.”

“Who the fuck you calling stupid?”

He charges at me, and I dodge him, taking several steps back. “I’m just saying, you did this to yourself. If you want someone to blame, go look in the mirror.”

“You ratted me out.” Nico glances over his shoulder at his buddies, each of whom has his arms crossed. “This puta ratted me out, can you believe that? You’re a real prick, Davenport.”

“I’m the prick? You cheated on your girlfriend.”

“You broke the bro code,” he spits back.

“You’re not my bro.” I take another backward step. “Are we done here?”

Before I can blink, his arm shoots out. He grabs the collar of my winter coat, tugging me toward him. His face is inches from mine, the white puffs of his alcohol-scented breath chilling my face.

“Nico,” I warn.

A spiteful smile stretches across his angry face. Beyond his shoulders, I spy his buddies closing in on us.

“Get your hands off me,” I say in a deadly voice.

His smile widens. “Or what?”