The Mistake (Off-Campus Book 2)

“Beers at Malone’s?” Dean asks as we leave the arena after what might possibly be the worst game of my entire hockey career.

I grit my teeth. “I have plans with Grace. And even if I didn’t, I wouldn’t be celebrating at the goddamn bar tonight, man.”

He runs a hand through his shower-damp blond hair. “Yeah, it was rough out there. But it’s done. Game over. No point in dwelling on it.”

Times like these, I wonder why he even plays hockey. For the pussy, maybe? Because from the day he joined the team, Dean has shown a lack of intensity about our sport, which is a damn shame because he happens to be an amazing player. But he has no interest in playing hockey after college, at least not professionally.

“Seriously, dude, quit scowling,” Dean orders. “Come to the bar with us. I set the freshman up with a fake ID, so I’m showing him some moves tonight. I could use my wingman.”

The “freshman”, of course, is Hunter, who Dean has taken under his wing and is well on his way to corrupting.

“Naah, I’ll pass. Grace and I are having a movie night.”

“Boring. Unless it’s naked movie night. Then I approve.”

I’m kinda hoping it is naked movie night. I desperately need to release all the pent-up tension that’s been plaguing me since we lumbered into the locker room after that final buzzer, leaving the sour stench of a 0-5 score in our wake.

Granted, it’s just a pre-season game, doesn’t count toward our standings, but if we’re to take anything from tonight’s loss, it’s this: we’re nowhere near ready—and our first game is next fucking week. Plus, we got shut out by St. Anthony’s, which only pisses me off more, because St. A’s team has a roster of dickheads and douchebags.

I’m still stewing about the game when I walk through Grace’s door a short while later, and she clucks in sympathy when she sees my face.

“Didn’t go well, huh?” She comes up and wraps her arms around me, her soft lips brushing a soothing kiss at the base of my throat.

“The team’s still not gelling,” I answer, aggravated. “Coach keeps rearranging the lines, trying to find a good fit, but he might as well be jamming random puzzle pieces together.”

It’s frustrating, especially since Dean and I are a well-oiled machine when we play on the same line. But we’re also the best D-men on the roster, so Coach split us up in the hopes that we’d help the other lines not suck so hard. I’m paired up with Brodowski now, who needs so much work I’m pretty much manning our defensive zone alone.

“I’m sure it’ll get better,” she assures me. “And I promise, I’ll be cheering for you in the stands next week.”

I grin. “Thanks. I know what a big sacrifice it is for you.”

Grace sighs. “The biggest.” She swipes a T-shirt off the floor and tosses it in the laundry basket. “I just want to finish tidying up, and then we can put on the movie. Is that okay?”

“Sure.”

I kick off my shoes and unzip my jacket, watching as she wanders around plucking random items of clothing—all belonging to her roommate, I realize. God, Daisy must love her. Awesome roommate and OCD-ridden maid all rolled into one cute package.

Grace bends over to grab a sock that’s wedged between Daisy’s desk and bed, and the sight of her round ass jutting out makes me groan.

She glances over her shoulder. “You okay?”

“Oh yeah. Stay in that position for a minute. That exact position.”

“Perv.”

“You’re right. How dare I enjoy the sight of my girlfriend’s sexy ass sticking up in the air?” My throat runs dry. “I want to fuck you just like that tonight.”

Her breath catches. “I can live with that.”

I chuckle at the teasing response. “Then get on the bed. Naked. Now. Bonus orgasms for speed.”

She gets rid of her top, leggings and panties in record time, and I snicker as I reach for my zipper. “Jeez, one would think I haven’t been meeting your needs.”

Her gaze tracks the movement of my fingers as I drag my fly down. I love the way she looks at me. Hungry and appreciative, like she can’t get enough.

A minute later, I’m naked and covered with a condom. No foreplay necessary for me tonight—I’m hard as a rock and raring to go—but that doesn’t stop me from playing with her for a bit.

I crawl between her legs and kiss her inner thighs. Her skin is baby-smooth, silky beneath my tongue, and when I lick my way up to her clit, her fingers tangle in my hair to trap me there. Chuckling, I give her what she wants. Soft, slow licks and gentle kisses, until she’s squirming on the mattress. I don’t let her finish, though. Her first orgasm is always the most intense, and I want to feel her squeezing my dick and hear her moan my name when she comes.

I plant one last kiss, then grip her hips and roll her over. “All fours, baby. Bring that sweet ass toward me.”

Bring it she does. Her firm bottom bumps my groin as I rise on my knees behind her, and then she rubs it against my shaft, sending a bolt of heat up my spine. Two months together and she’s still driving me crazy. Melting my goddamn brain with the pleasure she brings me.

I fist my erection and guide it to the crease of her ass, sliding lower until it nudges her opening. Anticipation heats the air. This is my favorite moment, the hint of suction around my tip, the knowledge that soon she’ll be clutching me tight, surrounding me with the warmth of her pussy.

She’s so wet I slide right in with my first thrust, filling her to the hilt. I fuck her slowly at first, wanting to prolong it, but each deep stroke scrambles my brain more and more, and soon the slow pace turns into a fast, relentless rhythm that makes me groan with abandon. But for all my talk about screwing her from behind, this position feels too…impersonal. I yank her up so her back is flush against my chest, and I fill my palms with her tits, teasing her nipples as I give an upward thrust.

Her head lolls to the side, and I take advantage of it, pressing my lips to her neck. I breathe her in, sucking on her smooth, fragrant flesh as I drive my cock inside her. Quick, shallow thrusts that make both of us gasp. I skim one hand down her body, grazing her tits, dancing over her belly, until I find her clit and rub it with my index finger, gentle circles that contrast the fast strokes of my cock.

We’ve gotten good at timing our responses, synchronizing our bodies so that we shudder in release at the same time. We collapse in a sweaty tangle of limbs, breathing hard from the orgasms, kissing frantically even as we come down from the euphoric high.

Afterward, she gets her laptop, and we cuddle under the blanket and start the movie. It’s her pick, so naturally we’re watching an old Jean-Claude Van Damme cheese fest that’s bound to put us in hysterics. We’re only five minutes in, however, when Grace’s cell phone rings.

She drapes across my chest to check the display, but doesn’t answer the call. “It’s Ramona,” she says when I offer a quizzical look. “Not in the mood to talk to her right now. Let’s keep watching.”

The phone rings again.

Grace makes a frustrated noise and presses ignore.

I’m not sure I blame her. Dean told me he ran into Ramona at the bar a few times, but I haven’t seen her since last semester. And I don’t particularly want to.

“She probably just wants to hang out,” Grace says, then switches the phone to vibrate.

She’s about to rest her head on my chest, but she barely makes contact before a loud buzz shakes the mattress. “O-kay then, guess I should’ve picked silent instead of vibrate.” She sits up again, snatches the cell, and freezes.

“What’s wrong?” I try to peek at the phone.

She flips it over so I can see the screen. SOS is all it says. Sent by—who else?—Ramona.

Maybe I’m a cynical bastard, but this smacks of manipulation to me. Grace wasn’t answering, so Ramona decided to make her answer.

“I have to call her back.”

I smother a sigh. “Babe, she’s probably trying to scare you into calling—”

“She’s not.” Grace’s expression is stricken. “We don’t abuse the SOS. Ever. In all the years we’ve been friends, we’ve only SOS’d each other twice. I did it when I thought I was being followed by some creep in Boston this one time, and she did it when she blacked out at a party senior year and woke up with no idea where she was. This is real, Logan.”

Even if I’d wanted to argue, she’s already hopping off the bed and making the call.

*

Grace

I’m actually frightened. Palms sweating, heart racing, lungs burning. But I guess that’s the appropriate response to finding out your friend is being held against her will by a bunch of thugs. When she had to sneak into the bathroom to call you because the thugs in question tried confiscating her phone after she announced she wanted to leave.

In the passenger side of Logan’s truck, I drum my fingers against my thighs in an anxious rhythm. I want to beg him to drive faster, but he’s already speeding. And he won’t stop barking out questions at me, questions to which I have no fucking answers, because Ramona hung up on me five minutes ago and is no longer picking up her phone.

“What hockey players?” Logan demands for the third time in ten minutes. “Briar guys?”

“For the last time, I don’t know. I told you everything she told me, Logan, so please stop harassing me.”

“Sorry,” he mutters.

We’re both on edge. Neither of us knows what we’ll find when we reach the motel, and as we race toward Hastings, my conversation with Ramona buzzes through my mind like a swarm of bees.

“I thought there would be other people here, but it’s just the players. And they won’t let me leave, Gracie! They promised to give me a ride home and now they’re saying I should crash in their room, and I don’t want to, and I don’t even have my purse with me! Just my phone! I don’t have money for a cab, and nobody will come get me…and…”

At that point she’d started to cry, and fear had flooded my stomach. I’ve known Ramona a long time. I know the difference between her crocodile tears and her real ones. I know when she’s fake-panicking, or freaking the fuck out. I know what she sounds like when she’s calm, and what she sounds like when she’s terrified.

And right now, she’s terrified.

The ride into town is thick with tension. My muscles are coiled so tight, my body actually feels sore by the time we reach the motel. The L-shaped brick building is located on the outskirts of Hastings, and although it’s nowhere near as nice as the inn on Main Street, it’s not a fleabag shithole either.

When Logan pulls into the parking lot, his blue eyes immediately darken. I follow his gaze and notice the shiny red bus parked on the pavement.

“That’s the St. Anthony’s bus,” he says in a curt voice. “They’re playing Boston College tomorrow, so I guess it makes sense for them to crash here for the night.”

“Wait, this is the team you played against tonight?”

He nods. “They’re assholes, each and every one of them, coaching staff included.”

My concern escalates. I’ve heard Logan trash-talk opponents before, but even when he does it, I can tell there’s a level of respect there. Like the rivalry with Harvard—Logan will bitch about it, but you’ll never catch him saying the Harvard players are hacks, or attacking their character the way he just did with these St. Anthony’s guys.

“Are they really that bad?” I ask.

He kills the engine and unbuckles his seatbelt. “Their old captain was suspended last season for breaking a Briar player’s arm. Our guy didn’t even have the puck when Braxton smashed into him. Their new captain is an entitled shithead from Connecticut who spit on the guys on our bench tonight every time he skated by them. Disrespectful POS.”

We hop out of the pickup and march right up to Room 33, which was one of the few details I’d managed to pry out of Ramona while she’d been sobbing. Logan grasps my arm and moves me behind him in a protective gesture.

“Let me handle this,” he orders.

The deadly gleam in his eyes is too terrifying to argue with.

He pounds his fist on the door, so hard he rattles the doorframe. Loud music blares inside the room, along with raucous male laughter that turns my veins to ice. It sounds like they’re having a raging party in there.

A moment later, a tall guy with dark hair and a goatee appears in the threshold. He takes one look at Logan’s Briar jacket and curls his lips into a sneer. “What the fuck do you want?”

“I’m here to pick up Ramona,” Logan snaps.

Rap music blasts from the open door, the bass line vibrating beneath my sneakers. I peek from behind Logan’s broad shoulders, trying to see what’s happening inside the room. All I can make out is a wall of big, bulky bodies. Four, maybe five of them. Horror eddies in my belly. Oh God. Where’s Ramona? And why the hell did she think it was a good idea to party with these guys—alone?

“Go home, asshole.” The St. Anthony’s player smirks. “She just got here. She doesn’t need a ride.”

Logan’s jaw turns to stone. “Get out of my way, Keswick.”

The music dies abruptly, replaced by a beat of silence, then the menacing thump of heavy footsteps as Keswick’s teammates come up behind him.

A blond behemoth with ice-blue eyes gives Logan a mocking smile. “Awww, how sweet. You crashing our after-party, Logan? Yeah, I get it. You want a taste of what it’s like to be a champion, huh?”

Logan’s answering laugh is humorless. “Yeah, I’m so fucking jealous of you for winning a pre-season game, Gordon. Now move aside so I can make sure Ramona is all right, or God help me, I’ll—”

“You’ll what?” another player jeers. “Beat us down? Go ahead and try, buddy. Not even a bruiser like you can take on five dudes at once.”

“Unless it’s in the ass,” someone pipes up. “I bet he likes it up the ass.”

The other players snicker loudly, but Logan is unfazed. He flashes a pleasant smile and says, “As tempting as it is to beat the shit out of you—all of you—I think I’d rather stay out of jail tonight. But I’m happy to knock on every goddamn door in this place until I find Coach Harrison’s room, and then I’m going to blow the whistle on this little sausage party you’re having and let him deal with you.”

Keswick is smug. “He’ll probably join us. Coach doesn’t give a shit if we get wasted after a game.”

“Yeah? Well, I’m sure he’ll give a shit about what you’re shoving up your nose.”

Logan takes a step forward, and I instinctively tense, expecting him to throw a punch. But what he does is tap Keswick on the side of his nose. Drawing my attention to the white specks that are caked under Keswick’s nostrils.

Logan bares his teeth in a harsh smile. “Your coke is showing, asshole. Now get the fuck out of my way. Stay out here, Grace.”

He charges into the room, and I’m left outside, forced into a stare-down with four very pissed off hockey players. Who, apparently, are all hopped up on cocaine. Panic scampers up and down my spine, fast and incessant, and it doesn’t ease until Logan reappears less than a minute later.

To my overwhelming relief, Ramona is at his side. Her cheeks are whiter than the coke on Keswick’s face, her eyes redder than the bus parked behind us, and she runs into my arms the moment she sees me.

“Oh my God,” she whimpers, squeezing me to the point of suffocation. “I’m so glad you’re here.”

“It’s okay. You’re okay now.” I gently stroke her hair. “Come on, let’s go.”

I try to lead her away, but she halts, her desperate eyes shooting toward the doorway. “My phone,” she stammers. “He took it.”

She points at the player Logan referred to as Gordon, and a growl rips out of Logan’s mouth as he charges back to the door. “You took her goddamn phone? Why? So she wouldn’t be able to call for help while you motherfuckers gangbanged her?”

I’ve never seen Logan this enraged. His blue eyes are wild, his broad shoulders trembling. “Give me the phone. Now.”

The assholes at the door do a little shuffling around before one of them finally pulls Ramona’s iPhone from his back pocket. He hurls it at Logan with lightning speed, but my boyfriend has quick reflexes, and he catches the plastic case before it slaps him in the face.

“Get in the car,” he tells us without turning around.

I’m apprehensive to leave him, but Ramona is shaking like crazy, so I force myself to walk away. I keep my gaze fixed on the motel room the entire time, watching as Logan moves in closer and hisses something I can’t make out. Whatever it is, it causes every St. Anthony’s player to glare bloody murder at him, but none of them act on their volatile impulses. They simply stalk back inside and slam the door behind them.

I slide onto the middle seat of the pickup and Ramona settles in beside me, pressing her cheek against my shoulder. “I was so scared,” she moans. “They wouldn’t let me go home.”

I force her to buckle up, then wrap my arm around her shoulders. “Did they hurt you?” I ask quietly. “Force you…?”

She fervently shakes her head. “No. I swear. I was only there for about an hour, and they were too busy snorting coke and drinking vodka straight from the bottle. It wasn’t until right before I called you that they started pawing at me and trying to convince me to strip for them. And when I told them I wanted to leave, they locked the door and wouldn’t let me out.”

Disapproval hardens my jaw. “God, Ramona. What were you even doing with these guys? Why would you agree to hang out with them on your own?”

Another sob flies out of her mouth. “I wasn’t supposed to be on my own. Jess and I ran into them after the game and they invited us to the motel, but Jess had to meet up with her dealer first, so she gave me some cab money and said she’d meet me there. But five minutes after I got here, she texted to say she wasn’t coming.”

My upper arm feels wet, and I realize Ramona’s tears have soaked through my sleeve.

“She bailed on me and left me alone with them. What kind of friend does that?”

A selfish one.

I bite my tongue and rub her shoulder, and a part of me can’t help but feel responsible for what happened to her tonight. I know it’s stupid to think that, but I also know I could’ve prevented this if I’d been more of a presence in her life. Ramona and I had a…balance, I guess. She encouraged me to be impulsive and stop second-guessing myself, and I encouraged her to not be impulsive and start second-guessing herself.

I force myself to banish the guilt. No. I refuse to take responsibility for this near-catastrophe. Ramona is an adult. She made the decision to party with those guys, and she’s fucking lucky that I still feel some shred of loyalty toward her and came to her rescue.

That last thought gives me pause, as it suddenly occurs to me that what I did tonight is the same thing I’ve been criticizing Logan for doing—helping someone who might not deserve it. Allowing years of history and lingering loyalty to drive me to do something I didn’t necessarily want to do, but felt I had to.

I jerk when the driver’s door flings open, but it’s Logan, sliding behind the wheel with a stony look. When he addresses Ramona, however, his tone is infinitely gentle. “Are you okay? They didn’t hurt you?”

“No,” she says weakly. “I’m fine.” She lifts her head, and the look she gives us is swimming with shame. “Thank you for coming to get me. I’m sorry if I ruined your evening.”

“You’re welcome,” Logan answers. “And don’t you fucking worry about our evening, Ramona. The only thing that matters right now is that we got you out of there before shit got out of hand.”

His gruff words circle my heart and fill it with warmth. God, I love this guy. I know his opinion of Ramona isn’t exactly positive, but he still came to her aid tonight in spite of that, and I love him even more for it.

I’m tempted to lean in and whisper it in his ear. Just tell him how much I love him, but courage eludes me.

Truth is, I’m waiting for him to say it first. I don’t know, maybe it’s leftover insecurities from what happened in April. Logan rejected me, and I’m so afraid of it happening again. I’m afraid of being vulnerable, giving him my heart, only to have him throw it back in my face.

So I stay quiet. So do Ramona and Logan, and the drive back to campus is a silent one.