The Score (Off-Campus Book 3)

“You can’t turn down the part.” Hannah looks outraged that I could even suggest such a blasphemous course of action.

“Why not?”

“Because it’s a lead role on a sitcom! What if the show’s a huge hit? You could win an Emmy!”

I shrug and sip my coffee. I know I’m talking crazy right now. Believe me, Ira already dished out his own dose of disbelief earlier, begging me to accept the job. But when it comes to my career, I always go with my gut, and my gut is telling me this is not the role for me.

“I haven’t made my final decision yet,” I tell Hannah. “They gave me until Wednesday.” It’s Saturday night. That means four whole days to think it over.

My gut insists there’s nothing to think about.

I’m tempted to call Dean and ask for his advice, but I force myself not to. I’m so used to running my decisions by my boyfriend. I did it with Fletch, Sean, Dean. But nobody else can make this decision for me. It’s all on me.

Honestly, I’ve enjoyed being on my own these past couple weeks. It’s nice to just think about myself for once. But I miss Dean. I really, really do. I know he’s doing well, because I’ve been harassing Hannah for status reports. She said he’s working with the Hurricanes again. He’s gone out to Malone’s with the guys a few times, but only had a few beers, as far as Hannah knows.

There aren’t any pictures of him on Instagram or Facebook making out with other girls, but a part of me still worries about it. Dean is the most sexual guy I’ve ever met. I’m praying he’s jerking off a lot, because I don’t know what I’ll do if I find out he slept with someone else. I didn’t bring up the subject at the coffeehouse because I just assumed he’d keep his pants zipped while I took this time to clear my head.

That was selfish of me, maybe. But I love him, and if I hear that some chick tried to put her hands on him, I’ll beat her senseless. He’s mine. And I’m finally ready to claim him. The time apart succeeded in centering me, but now it’s time to get my man back.

The only problem? Dean is in New York visiting his parents for the night. Hannah mentioned it earlier, which triggered a flash of concern, because it’s weird that he would fly to Manhattan for only one night.

My ringing phone interrupts our coffee chat, and I’m even more concerned when I see my dad’s number.

A second later, his voice rumbles over the line. “I don’t want you to worry,” is how he starts, and oh my God, who says that? Now I’m worried!

I slam my mug on the kitchenette table and stumble to my feet. Hannah eyes me in alarm.

“What’s wrong?” I demand. “What happened? Are you okay?”

“I just told you not to worry, didn’t I?” God, sometimes I really want to kill my father. “I took a little spill this afternoon, that’s all. Thought I might have broken my arm, so I called an ambulance.”

Fear pummels into me. “Oh my gosh. Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” he says firmly. “It’s just a sprained wrist. No broken bones, I promise.” A sarcastic note creeps in. “I can ask the hospital to send you copies of my X-rays if you’d like.”

I clench my teeth. “Don’t be a jerk, Daddy.”

He sighs heavily in my ear. “I’m sorry. I just knew you’d overreact when I told you. I promise you, sweetheart, I’m fine. My wrist is a little sore, but I have my pain meds.”

“How did you get home from the hospital?”

“Taxi. And now I’m lying on the couch watching the Hawkeyes game.”

I inhale a slow, calming breath. “Okay. Don’t walk around. Don’t try to lift anything heavy. Please, Dad, just take it easy for a couple days.”

“I will. Love you, AJ.”

“Love you too.” I hang up and turn to Hannah, who instantly asks, “Is your dad okay?”

I nod. “So he says.” But Dad was a hockey player. Hockey players always say they’re okay, even when they’re bleeding from their ears and spitting their broken teeth at your feet.

I take another deep breath. Then I pull up Dean’s number and press send.

*

Dean

Joe Hayes answers the door with the biggest, meanest scowl I’ve ever seen on another human male.

“You’ve got to be kidding me! She sent you over to check on me?”

I gently touch his shoulder to move him out of the way. God knows he won’t be inviting me in. “Yup,” I confirm. Then I walk inside and look around.

Fortunately, nothing seems amiss. I glance at the stairs—Allie told me over the phone that Joe had taken a “spill”. There’s no blood on the hardwood, no broken floorboards. That’s good. And he’s not sporting any bruises or visible injuries. He’s using the cane, but he looks steadier on his feet than the last time I saw him.

“Please don’t tell me you got on a plane and flew all the way here just to give me the onceover,” he mutters.

“No. I was already in the city visiting my folks and brother.”

Mr. Hayes settles on the sofa and proceeds to ignore me.

I take off my jacket and drape it over the back of the armchair. Then I sit down.

He balks. “What are you doing?”

“Getting comfortable.” I raise a brow. “Didn’t I mention? I’m spending the night.”

“Like hell you are!”

His outrage makes me chuckle. “Come on, sir. I thought we already established that arguing with your daughter is pointless. She asked me to stay the night and keep an eye on you, so that’s what I’m doing.” Because I will do anything that woman asks. I’d sell my soul to the devil himself if Allie told me to do it.

“I don’t like this,” Mr. Hayes grumbles.

“I don’t care,” I say cheerfully.

And that’s how I wind up watching college football with Joe Hayes for the next hour. It’s almost nine o’clock now, and my stomach is grumbling. I hadn’t eaten dinner, and Mr. Hayes doesn’t object when I order a pizza. “Sausage and bacon okay?” I ask him as I place the order.

He grunts. I guess that means yes.

Another hour passes. We don’t talk. We scarf down pizza, drink beer, and switch from football to hockey. The Bruins are playing tonight. Every time we shout at the screen or cheer for a goal, we glance at each other warily afterward, as if remembering who we’re with.

Between the second and third period I put down my beer and say, “I love your daughter, sir.”

And he says, “I know you do, pretty boy.”

I don’t know if that’s acceptance, or if it’s a ‘yeah you love her but I still hate you.’ I decide to treat it as the former.

Around eleven, I help him up the stairs and wait outside his bedroom door, listening to him wander around and change for bed. Then I knock. “You all right in there?” I call out.

“I’m fucking fine. Go to bed.”

Chuckling to myself, I duck into Allie’s childhood room, where Joe said I could crash in tonight. First thing I notice? The scent. Holy shit, it’s the scent. The mysterious fragrance that’s always surrounding Allie and that I can never place.

I wander over to her dresser and pick up a small vial of perfume. Or at least I think it’s perfume. The label is pale-blue and reads “Allie” in a pretty script font. What the fuck?

“Eva had it made for her.”

I jump in surprise, turning to find Mr. Hayes standing in the doorway wearing nothing but plaid boxers. I can’t help but gape at his chest. Dude’s in his late forties and suffering from MS, and he’s rocking a six-pack. I’m impressed. I guess that explains how he landed Allie’s smokin’ hot model mom. Shit, and it suddenly occurs to me that if this is how Allie’s dad looks now, she’s got expectations. I’m going to have to look forward to working out for the rest of my life.

At my blank look, he gestures to the perfume bottle in my hand. “My wife…AJ’s mom…she had a friend in France, this fruity-tooty fashion designer she worked with once. He knew a perfumer—is that what you call ’em? Perfumers?”

“I have no idea, sir.”

“Anyway, Eva’s friend gave her perfume one year, a scent made especially for Eva. AJ was green with envy, so for her twelfth birthday, Eva told her she was getting a special perfume for her too. My wife was sick at that point, real sick, so she was doing everything she could to make AJ happy. She asked AJ what scent she wanted, and AJ says—” he snorts in amusement “—strawberries and roses.”

I laugh too, because now it makes total sense why I could never figure it out. Roses and strawberries. Two completely different fragrances, yet somehow, when combined, they work. They’re Allie.

“She got six vials made. I think AJ might be down to three? I’m not sure. She’s very stingy with that shit. Doesn’t want it to run out, I guess.”

“So Allie has a French perfume that was created just for her? That’s kinda badass.”

He shrugs. “Eva spent a lot of time in France. Spoke French fluently too. She always wanted AJ to learn it, but AJ wasn’t interested.”

My heart squeezes. “She’s interested in it now.”

He looks surprised. “Yeah?”

I nod. “She’s trying to teach it to herself by watching a French soap opera.”

Mr. Hayes grins.

“I’ve watched two seasons with her.” I sigh ruefully. “It ain’t half bad.”

That gets me a full-blown laugh. It comes from deep in his throat, lighting up his blue eyes. “You ain’t half bad either, pretty boy,” he says, and then he walks out of the room.

*

Allie

I’m waiting for Dean in his room when he walks in on Sunday night. I would’ve picked him up from the airport, but he left his car in the short-term parking, so he drove back from Boston himself.

His green eyes soften when he sees me. “Hi.”

“Hi.” I hastily stand up, but neither of us makes a move toward each other. We’re standing five feet apart.

The distance is unbearable.

With a strangled noise, I throw myself in his arms and he catches me easily, his big hands settling around my waist and pulling me close. I bury my face against his chest and whisper, “Thank you for checking on him.”

“You’re welcome.” I feel his fingers thread through my hair. He tips my head back, forcing me to look at him. “He’s fine, babe. I promise. I think he just called the ambulance as a precaution. His wrist is a little sore, but that’s it. He’s totally, completely fine.”

I’d already heard all this over the phone, from both him and my father. But the reassurance and certainty in Dean’s eyes is what I needed to see. I hug him tighter as relief pours through me.

His lips brush my temple. Then he inhales deeply, as if he’s smelling my hair. “I missed you,” he murmurs.

“I missed you too.” Swallowing, I ease out of the hug and meet his gaze. “I don’t need any more alone time.”

A slow smile curves his lips. “Thank fuck.” He flops on the edge of the bed and tugs me into his lap. “I’ve been going crazy without you these past few weeks.”

“I know. But the time apart was good for me. I needed to take a look at my life, and to take a look at myself, just me, and not the me that’s always in a relationship. I needed to know I could be alone.”

“And can you?”

“Yes.” I scrape my fingers over the dark blond stubble on his movie-star jaw. “But I don’t want to be alone. I want to be with you.”

He kisses me. Soft and sweet, no tongue. Just his lips brushing mine, over and over again until I’m whimpering for more. Just when I part my lips to invite his tongue, he pulls away.

“Wellsy said you’re thinking of turning down the Fox pilot.” There’s a chiding note in his voice.

“Argh. Why is everyone giving me shit about this?” I sigh. “I haven’t made my decision yet.”

“But you’re planning on turning it down.”

I hesitate. Then nod.

It’s his turn to sigh. “I know why you’re doing it, babe, and I’m sorry, but I can’t let you.”

I blink and I’m off his lap, my butt hitting the mattress. Dean walks over to where he dropped his coat. He reaches inside one of the pockets and his hand emerges with an envelope.

Oh no. Stupid aliens are déjà vu’ing my brain again.

He slaps the envelope in my hand and says, “Open it.”

I open it without a word, and yep, I find the same fucking thing that Sean tried to give me. Confirmation numbers for two flights to Los Angeles. For crying out loud. Do all guys share one brain or something? Like a collective consciousness that causes them to make the same bone-headed moves?

“You’re not coming to LA with me,” I inform Dean.

He looks startled.

“I’m not turning down the part because I don’t want be away from you. I’m—”

“The ticket isn’t for me.”

“—turning it down because—” I stop. “Wait, what?”

“It’s not for me,” he explains. “It’s for your dad. I know you don’t want to be away from him. So I figured instead of you giving up your dream to stay on the east coast with him, you keep the dream and he comes to the west coast with you.” Dean shrugs. “I already ran it by him and he’s on board. He said he’ll start looking for a place to rent once you give him the word.”

I’m…shocked. I can’t help but remember the day at the coffeehouse with Sean, when he insisted on coming with me. And now here’s Dean, insisting on me going without him.

My dad was wrong. And right. He was right and wrong. Dean fell apart, yes. But maybe he needed to fall apart in order to learn that life isn’t perfect, that bad things do happen and you can’t stop living when they do.

Smiling, I hand the envelope back to him. “I’m turning down the project.”

He looks annoyed. “Allie-Cat—”

“Not because of my dad,” I cut in, “although I’m glad to know he’s willing to relocate if I do end up working in LA. I’m turning it down because the project isn’t right for me. I don’t connect with the role. And the contract requires me to commit to seven seasons if the show takes off. I’m not signing away seven years of my life to play a part I can’t stand.”

“Oh. Well, fuck. I guess I should’ve asked you before I bought these non-refundable tickets, huh?”

“You think?”

Chuckling, he yanks me back in his lap, and I wrap my legs around his hips and my arms around his neck. I try to kiss him, but he speaks before my lips can connect with his.

“I made some decisions too.”

I raise my eyebrows. “Oh really? Like that?” When his cheeks turn pink, I pounce immediately. “Holy shit, are you blushing? Okay, now I’m really curious. What’s going on?”

“I’m, ah…gonna be a gym teacher.”

My jaw falls open. “Seriously?”

He looks embarrassed. “I spoke to Coach Ellis about my options. Turns out private schools play it fast and loose with the requirements you need to teach there. I don’t need a degree in education, but it helps. And when I was in New York, I hopped on the phone with the admissions officers at NYU and Columbia. Both told me the same thing—I can upgrade my degree. It’s just an extra year of classes, kinesiology, health and wellness, that kind of stuff. But I’d be able to teach at the same time, depending on the school that hires me.” He shifts awkwardly. “I did something crappy.”

“Uh-oh. What did you do?”

“I used the Di Laurentis name with those admissions officers.”

I fight a laugh. “Oh sweetie, that’s okay. It’s for the greater good, right?” Because Dean working with kids is good, damn it. He could really make a difference. He could help those kids build confidence, become better athletes, better people.

“And then I spoke to the new hockey coach at my prep school and asked him to let me know if there are any openings in the private school sector, either for a PE teacher or a coach.” He sounds excited now. “There’s an opening for both at a school in Manhattan, grades one to eight. The job would start in the fall. Phys. Ed classes for all grades, and coaching the girls’ hockey team.”

“Girls?” I grin. “That should be fun.”

“I think I might interview for it.”

“Damn right you will. If this is what you want to do with your life, then it’s what you need to do.” I pause as something occurs to me. “Wait. Does that mean you’re not going to law school? Did you tell your parents?”

“Yes and yes. That’s why I went to New York this weekend. I sat down with my dad and we talked for hours. Did the same thing with Nick later, before you called me to check on your dad. They were both really supportive.”

I’m not surprised. Dean’s family is awesome. “I’m proud of you,” I announce.

“I’m proud of me too.” He nuzzles my cheek before planting kisses along my jaw. Then he sucks on my neck and pleasure ignites between my legs.

Oh sweet Moses. It’s been way too long since we had sex. Almost a month. Or maybe more than a month? God, I can’t remember. The feel of his warm, wet lips traveling along my throat is turning me on beyond belief.

“Dean,” I murmur.

“Mmm?”

“I love you.”

“I love you too.” He licks the shell of my ear.

“But I don’t want you right now.”

His head jerks up, his expression beyond insulted. “Can you repeat that please?”

“I don’t want you.” I flash an impish grin. “I want Little Dean.”

My boyfriend throws his head back and laughs. Then he unzips his pants and gives me exactly what I want.