The Score (Off-Campus Book 3)

My heart is pounding as I hang up on Dean. I hadn’t expected him to say that. At all.

“I want to fuck you again.”

Well, of course he does. I’m amazing in bed.

But there’s no way I’m sleeping with the guy again, not after I spent the entire day feeling like Hester fricking Prynne. Only, the self-judgment I’ve been hitting myself with is far more scathing than anything that poor woman ever got from those Puritans.

God, I’m not cut out for casual sex. I feel…defiled. Except that’s ridiculous, because if anyone was defiled last night, it was Dean. Not only did I seduce him, but I tied him up and rode him like he was my own personal amusement park ride.

I’m such a slut.

You’re not a slut.

Okay, maybe I’m not. Maybe I’m just a twenty-two year old woman who had some no-strings fun for once in her life.

The only problem is—I like the strings. Sex and relationships go hand in hand for me. I’m all about the snuggling and inside jokes and talking late into the night. I’m a card-carrying member of Team Boyfriend, and after last night, I can honestly say that Team One-Night-Stand sucks balls. The sex was incredible, but the shame it left me with isn’t worth the orgasms.

Sighing, I toss my phone on the couch cushion and pick up the script I’d been reading before Dean interrupted. The student-written play will be my final performance at Briar. I’m one of two female leads, and even though the material is a tad melodramatic for my tastes, I’m looking forward to rehearsals. Ever since my theater debut in Boston this summer, I’ve been itching to perform in front of a live audience again.

Which is just another contributing factor to the stress I’ve been under. I’m at a crossroads in my career, and I have no idea which path to take, damn it.

When I started college, I asked my agent to concentrate on only finding summer projects for me. It would have been too tempting to drop out of school if a juicy role came along, and I wanted my degree. Now that I’m graduating, all bets are off. Pilot season kicks off around January, and Ira has already sent me dozens of scripts for sitcoms and Glee-style dramedies, along with several romantic comedy screenplays that normally I’d be salivating over.

I always thought I was destined for comedic roles. I caught the acting bug when I was still in middle school, and all the bit parts I’ve landed over the years have been light and fluffy, highlighting my comedic timing and girl-next-door persona. I dreamed about being a rom com queen. The next Sandra Bullock or Kate Hudson or Emma Stone.

Until this summer, when a casting call went out for a super serious, super depressing play directed by Brett Cavanaugh, an Oscar-winning director and a fricking legend. Somehow my agent made it possible for me to read for Cavanaugh, and to my total astonishment I actually got the part—the heroin-addicted younger sister of the lead actress. The show only had a two-month run, but it was a huge success. Since then, I’ve received a ton of offers to read for more dramatic roles, both on stage and for television.

And someone told me Cavanaugh is developing another project for the stage, off-off Broadway this time…

Shit. Why am I so tempted to veer off the course I set for myself? Considering dramatic roles is one thing, but theater?

Hollywood means more money. More recognition. Oscars and Golden Globes and Rodeo Drive shopping sprees.

I stare at the stack of scripts on the coffee table. If I get hired for one of these pilots Ira sent over and the show gets picked up? Or if I snag a role in one of these films? I could actually break out in the business. So why am I fantasizing about stage acting?

I’m still lost in thought when my phone rings. I check the screen, and for a second I think it’s Dean calling, until I do a double take and realize it’s an S, not a D. Huh. My ex-boyfriend and my one-night-stand literally have the same name with one letter replaced. I wonder if that means something…

Sean’s calling you, you idiot.

Yeah, that’s probably the more pressing issue at the moment.

My chest fills with anxiety. I shouldn’t pick up. I really, really shouldn’t pick up.

I pick up.

“Are you okay?” are the first words I hear.

Sean sounds so frantic that I’m quick to reassure him. “I’m fine. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“I came by after class yesterday and you weren’t home. And I texted you all night.”

“I know.” I gulp. “I spent the night at a friend’s. I…” Another gulp. “I told you I didn’t want to see you.”

“I was hoping you’d change your mind.” There’s no mistaking the sheer torment in his voice. “Fuck, baby. I miss you. I know it’s only been a couple days, but I miss you so much.”

My heart cracks in two.

“I messed up, okay? I see that now. I shouldn’t have given you an ultimatum, and I definitely shouldn’t have said your acting career isn’t going anywhere. I was upset and lashing out at you, and you didn’t deserve that. When I came to your opening night in Boston this summer, I was blown away. Seriously. You’re so talented, baby. I’m an ass for saying all that shit to you. I didn’t mean it.”

He’s practically pleading with me now, and another piece of my heart splinters off. “Sean—”

“You’re the most important person in my life,” he interrupts, his voice thick with emotion. “You mean the world to me, and I want to fucking strangle myself for driving you away. Please, baby, give me another chance.”

“Sean—”

“I know I can fix this. Just give me a chance to—”

“Sean.”

He stops. “Babe?” he says uncertainly.

My throat goes impossibly tight, almost like it’s trying to prevent me from saying my next words. But the guilt is eating me alive. I can’t just sit here and listen to him beg, not when I’m feeling this way. I swallow again and force my vocal cords to cooperate.

“I slept with someone last night.”

Deafening silence greets my ears. It seems to drag on forever, and with each second that ticks by, my stomach churns harder.

“Did you hear me?” I whisper.

There’s a choked noise. “Yeah…I heard you.”

We both fall silent. Pain and guilt continue to stab my insides. I involuntarily flash back to the day I met Sean. It was during freshman orientation, and I remember thinking he was the cutest boy I’d ever seen with his floppy brown hair that he’s since cropped, twinkling hazel eyes, and the cutest butt on the planet. Being the outspoken weirdo that I am, I commented on the cuteness of said butt, and his cheeks had turned redder than his Red Sox T-shirt.

We had dinner in one of the meal halls that night.

A week after that, we were a couple.

And now, three years later, we’re broken up, and I’ve just confessed to having sex with someone else. Where the hell had we gone wrong?

“Who?”

The strangled question startles me. “W-what?”

“Who was it?” Sean says flatly.

Discomfort tightens my chest. “It doesn’t matter who it was. I won’t be seeing him again. It was…” I take a breath. “It was a stupid mistake. But I thought you should know.”

He doesn’t answer.

“Sean?”

A ragged breath echoes through the line. “Thanks for telling me,” he mutters.

Then he hangs up.

It takes a while before I move the phone away from my ear. My hand shakes uncontrollably as I rake it through my hair.

God. That was…brutal. A part of me wonders why I even told him. It’s not like I cheated on him. I didn’t have to tell him. In fact, I could have spared him the pain he must be feeling right now if I’d simply kept my mouth shut. But I’ve always been honest with Sean, and some stupid, guilty part of me insisted he deserved to know.

An anguished groan flies out of my mouth. My heart hurts again. The guilt is even worse now, a tight, crushing knot in my stomach.

Rather than pick up my script, I grab my iPod instead and shove in my earbuds. Then I yank the blanket up to my neck and put Miley Cyrus’s “Wrecking Ball” on repeat because it pretty much sums up how I feel right now.

Wrecked.

*

Dean

“Awww, look at him, G, he’s so precious when he’s sleeping.”

“Like an angel.”

“A really slutty angel.”

“Wait—do angels even get laid? And if so, are heaven orgasms a million times better than earth orgasms? I bet yes.”

“Uh-doy. Where do you think rainbows come from? Whenever you see a rainbow, that means an angel just came.”

“Ah. Makes sense. Sort of like how whenever a bell rings, an angel gets its wings.”

“Exactly like that.”

I crank one eye open and direct it toward the doorway. “I can hear you, you know.”

My annoyed voice puts an end to the most bizarre conversation I’ve ever heard. “Oh good, you’re up,” Logan says.

“Of course I’m up,” I grumble, rubbing my eyes. “How am I supposed to sleep when you two fucktards are standing at the foot of my bed talking about angels blowing their loads?”

Garrett snickers. “Like I’m the first one to ever wonder about that.”

“Trust me, you are. When’d you guys get back?”

Logan props one massive shoulder against my doorframe. “About an hour ago. Gracie needed to be back early because she has a show to produce tonight.”

I nod. Logan’s girlfriend works as a producer at the campus radio station. Which reminds me… “You planning on calling in and professing your love again?” I ask mockingly.

He sighs. “You’re never gonna let me forget that, are you?”

“Nope.” Though I wish someone had recorded that radio segment so I could pull some quotes from it and torture him with them. After screwing up and nearly losing Grace last weekend, Logan had won her back by calling the advice show she produces and saying the sappiest shit imaginable. I worry about him sometimes.

I toss the covers aside and slide out of bed buck-ass naked. My roommates continue to lurk in the doorway.

I find a pair of clean boxers and tug them on. “I swear to God, if you tell me you’ve been watching me sleep for the last hour like a bunch of creepers, I’m calling the cops.”

“Coach called,” Garrett tells me. “He said he’s been trying your phone all morning but you weren’t picking up. He wants you at the arena in an hour.”

“Why?” I ask warily.

Garrett shrugs. “Fuck if I know. Maybe he found out you got wasted this weekend—I assume you got wasted, right?—and wants to ream you out.”

“How would he even know? It’s not like he’s got people tailing us.”

“Dude, Coach is like that spy master from Game of Thrones. His sources are endless.”

Shit. Hopefully I’m not in store for one of Coach Jensen’s long-winded lectures about keeping my nose clean. We’re not allowed to drink or dabble in drugs during the season, but that doesn’t stop any of us from getting plastered or smoking the occasional joint. Still, I’ve never failed a piss test or tarnished the team’s good name with my partying, so I’m not sure why Coach is constantly on my case about it.

“Hannah still here?” I ask Garrett as I hunt down some pants.

“Naah, she went home. She’s having a girl day with Allie.”

I’m glad my back is turned, because the moment he says Allie’s name, my dick actually goes half-mast. Wonderful. I’m turned on by the sound of her name now?

“You didn’t do anything stupid when she was here, did you?” Garrett’s tone is lined with suspicion.

I fucked her twice. So…yes?

I bite my tongue and throw on a T-shirt, followed by a navy-blue Briar hoodie. “I was a perfect gentleman.”

Logan snorts. “Well, that’s a first.”

“Fuck you very much. I happen to be skilled in the art of gentlemanry.”

“That’s not an art. Or a word.” Logan rolls his eyes and disappears from the room, but Garrett stays behind.

He studies my face for so long I shift in discomfort. “What?” I mutter.

“Nothing,” he says, but he still wears a suspicious expression as he ducks out of my bedroom.

When I pop into the bathroom to brush my teeth, I realize that the purple hickey on my neck is still very, very noticeable. Had Garrett seen it?

But so what if he had? Anyone could’ve sucked on my neck this weekend. There’s no reason for him to suspect it was Allie.

Goddamn Allie. I told her I wanted her again, and she’d hung up on me. That doesn’t happen to me—ever. I’m Dean Di Laurentis, for fuck’s sake. I can snap my fingers and a dozen chicks appear, begging to ride my dick. Last time I was at the campus coffeehouse, the hot barista handed me a free coffee and then offered to suck me off in the stock room.

So what the hell is Allie’s problem? I spent way too much time last night wondering if she’s playing hard to get. I mean, it’s not like she hadn’t enjoyed the sex. I’ve never been with anyone who showered my dick with so much glowing praise.

“Oh my gosh, I want to marry your cock!”

“Best. Dick. Ever.”

“Dean, you’re making me come…”

Her throaty cries run through my head on a perverted, boner-inducing loop, and I grip the towel rack with one hand as a groan slips out. The toothbrush in my mouth falls into the sink. My cock tents in my pants and nudges the porcelain, needing to make contact with something, anything.

I wonder if Coach would be pissed if I was late to meet him because I was jerking off.

Probably.

*

Thirty minutes later, I swipe my student ID in the keypad at the hockey facility, sipping on the coffee I grabbed on the way here. The wide corridor is deserted, and my sneakers squeak on the shiny floors as I head to the back of the building. I walk past the row of classrooms and the screening room, bypass the kitchen and weight rooms, then duck through the massive equipment area.

Our facility is state of the art. There are half a dozen big cozy offices that Chad Jensen could’ve parked his ass in, but for some reason he chose this modest office tucked away near the laundry room.

I knock on the door, only opening it when I hear Coach’s gruff, “Get in here.” The last player who waltzed in without knocking got a tongue-lashing that the rest of us could hear all the way from the showers. I like to think Coach uses the office to jack off and that’s why he insists on privacy. Logan hypothesizes that he has a secret office family that’s only allowed to venture out in the wee hours of the night.

Logan is an idiot.

“Hey, Coach. You wanted to see me—” I halt when I realize we’re not alone.

I’m not caught off guard often. I’m a go-with-the-flow kinda guy, which means it takes a helluva lot to shock or surprise me.

Right now, the only flow I’m going with is the rush of anxiety that travels through my blood and seeps into my bones.

Frank O’Shea rises from the visitor’s chair and flicks his cool gaze over me. I haven’t seen him since my senior year of high school, but he looks exactly the same. Dark buzz cut, stocky body, severe mouth.

“Di Laurentis,” he says with a curt nod.

I nod back. “Coach O’Shea.”

Jensen glances between us, then gets right down to business. “Dean, Frank’s coming on board as our new defensive coordinator. He filled me in about your history at Greenwich Prep.” Coach pauses. “I decided it would be prudent if you two aired out your issues before practice tomorrow.”

I can only imagine what O’Shea had to say about our “history.” Whatever it was, I’m positive it was both inaccurate and in no way favorable toward me, because O’Shea’s version of the story is so skewed it makes the stories in the National Enquirer seem like well-researched academic papers.

Coach Jensen steps to the door. “I’ll leave you to it.”

Goddamn it, he’s leaving us alone? Woulda been nice to have a witness around in case O’Shea tries something. After all, this is the man who clocked one of his own players in the empty parking lot of a high school. I was eighteen at the time. I didn’t report it because I understood why he’d done it, but that doesn’t mean I’ve forgotten about it. Or forgiven him for it.

O’Shea doesn’t speak until the door latches firmly behind Coach. “So. Are we going to have a problem here?”

I set my jaw. “You tell me.” I force myself to add, “Sir.”

His dark eyes flash. “I see you’re still the same insolent smartass you were when I coached you.”

“With all due respect, sir, I’ve been in this office for all of five seconds. I don’t think you can make that judgment.” My tone is polite, but inside I’m seething. I loathe this man, which is so fucking ironic because I used to worship him.

“There isn’t a problem on my end,” he says as if I hadn’t even spoken. “The past is in the past. I’m willing to wipe the slate clean if that makes for a more conducive training environment.”

How generous of him.

“All I ask in return is that you treat me with respect and listen to me when we’re on the ice. I won’t tolerate any insubordination.” His mouth pinches in a frown. “And I won’t condone any shenanigans. Jensen said you have quite the reputation as a party boy. Which doesn’t surprise me—” he makes an unflattering noise “—but if you want to keep your roster slot, I expect you to be on your best behavior. No booze, no drugs, no brawling. Understood?”

I jerk my head in assent.

“As for our former issues, they will not be discussed.” O’Shea levels me with another cold glare. “Not between us, and not among you and your teammates. The past is in the past,” he repeats.

I shove my hands in my pockets. “Can I go now?”

“Not yet.” He moves toward the desk and picks up a thin folder. Either I’m imagining it, or there’s a smug gleam in his eyes. “Two more things. And rest assured, Coach Jensen is in complete agreement about this.”

Uneasiness tickles my stomach.

“First, we’re moving you to the second line with Brodowski—”

“What?” I balk.

O’Shea holds up his hand. “Let me finish.”

I slam my mouth shut, fighting to control my rising temper. I’m no longer seething. I’m fucking enraged.

There isn’t a problem on his end, my ass. I’ve always played on the first line with Logan. We’re the two best defensemen on the roster. A dynamic duo, for chrissake. Brodowski is a junior who needs so much work I’m surprised he’s still on the team.

“Jensen trusts me to work with this defense and make decisions as I see fit,” my old coach barks at me. “The second line is weak. Kelvin and Brodowski aren’t gelling, and each of them will benefit from being paired up with players of your and John Logan’s caliber.”

“Did Coach happen to mention that he tried this already during pre-season?” I can’t help but say, snidely enough to make him frown. “I was paired up with Kelvin for the St. Anthony’s game. It was a disaster.”

“Well, you won’t be with Kelvin this time, will you?” he counters in an equally snide tone. “I’m putting you with Brodowski. And the decision is final—I’m doing what’s best for the team.”

Bullshit. He’s doing this to punish me, and we both know it.

“What’s the second thing?”

He blinks. “Pardon me?”

“You said there were two things.” It’s a struggle to keep my voice calm. “You’re rearranging the lines—that’s number one. What’s number two?”

He slants his head as if trying to decide if I’m being disrespectful again. Dude doesn’t even know how badly I want to slam my fist in his jaw right now. It’s taking all my willpower not to.

O’Shea flips open the folder and extracts a single piece of paper. The satisfied gleam returns as he passes it to me.

I scan the page. It’s a photocopy of what looks like a practice and game schedule, but it’s not for our team. “What’s this?” I mutter.

“Starting this week, you’ll generously be volunteering your time to the Hastings Hurricanes—”

“The what?”

“The Hastings Hurricanes. That’s the hockey team at Hastings Elementary. Middle school league, seventh and eighth graders. Briar has a community outreach program in which our student athletes volunteer to coach or act as assistant coaches with local sports teams. The senior who’s been working with the Hurricanes—she’s the left wing for the Briar’s ladies team. She came down with mono, so we need to replace her. Jensen and I think you’d be the perfect candidate to take over.”

I try to mask my horror. I don’t think I’m successful, because O’Shea is openly smirking at me now.

“It’s two afternoon practices a week, and game day is Friday at six. I went ahead and peeked at your class schedule and it doesn’t interfere with the Hurricanes’ schedule. So we’re all set.” He tips his head. “Unless you have an objection…?”

Damn right I do. I don’t want to spend three days a week coaching a bunch of middle-schoolers. This is my senior year, for chrissake. My course workload is massive. And I’m already practicing six days a week with my own team and playing my own games, which doesn’t leave a lot of downtime.

But if I object to this, O’Shea will no doubt make my life miserable. Same way he did back in high school.

“Nope, it sounds like fun.” I force the words out and resist from giving him the finger.

He nods in approval. “Well, look at that. Maybe you have changed. The Dean Di Laurentis I knew only cared about one person—himself.”

The jab stings more than it should. Sure, I can be a selfish bastard at times, but I hadn’t done anything wrong back then, damn it. Miranda and I had been on the same page…until suddenly we weren’t.

But I guess it doesn’t matter who was in the wrong, does it? Because it’s pretty fucking clear that Frank O’Shea is never going to forgive me for what went down between me and his daughter.