Second Shot K.O.K (The Brooklyn Bears: Season 1)

26. Long Shot

TWENTY-SIX

LONG SHOT

Ellie

B efore my junior year at Lincoln University, I promised myself three things. Just three.

1. Actually dig into the whole sorority girl bit.

2. Stay away from athletes.

3. Seriously, stay away from athletes.

When Professor Taylor posted our chem midterm partners and I got stuck with the captain of Lincoln’s ice hockey team, I was sure I’d be able to abide by rules 2 and 3. After all, I was immune to Leo’s whole “hottest guy on campus” thing. I grew up with him—my brother’s best friend.

That I’ve been obsessed with since I was eight.

Fuck me.

Leo

Senior year. Captain of the hockey team, already engaged to the NHL with the perfect union months away, my whole life mapped out ahead of me.

All my dreams have come true.

Except for Eleanor Rhodes.

That one’s reoccurring, staring her in nothing but my number and that perfect little blush that shows up every time she looks at me.

No biggie. I’ve worked that one out. In the shower. Numerous times. Never had a reason to get any closer than her Instagram until Professor Taylor assigned us as chem partners.

The one girl on campus who shouldn’t be on my radar, yet she somehow seems to be the only one.

Chapter One

“Fuck,” I growl as I tap the ice off my skate, reluctantly making my way to the locker room, knowing darn well we’re going to get our asses reamed for the sloppy game we barely made it through.

In the locker room, I toss my gloves on the bench, remove my helmet, and brace for it.

“Stone, you wanna tell me what the hell got into you tonight?” Coach Kostas asks a question I know he doesn’t want the answer to.

So, I don’t.

“First period, you spent more time in the goddamned penalty box than you did on the ice! Do you know what that does to your team?” And … another question he doesn’t want an answer to. “Leaves them a man down—that’s what it does!” In typical Kostas form, he tosses his ball cap on the ground.

I catch the towel tossed to me by Stewie, our equipment manager, say, “Sorry, Coach,” and run it over my sweat-drenched hair.

“You just pulled it out of your ass third quarter!”

By making two goals and winning the game , I think, reluctantly keeping it to myself.

“Giulietti, Smith, you two certainly didn’t play like you’re heading to the N—H—fucking—L tonight either!”

“Sorry, Coach,” they say in unison.

He scans the room for a beet-red face. “Costello!”

When Costello doesn’t answer, he points to me. “Where’s the other captain of this shitshow?”

Costello yells into the locker room, “Everyone decent? We have very special visitors.”

“Fuck’s sake,” Coach grumbles under his breath then clears his throat. “Come on in.”

A fake-ass smile spreads across his face but doesn’t touch his eyes as Dean Costello walks in with his grandparents.

His grandfather, Dean Costello II, gives a nod and a heartfelt smile. “Wonderful game, men, simply wonderful.”

Beth Costello, or Bitty as she insists on being called, claps her gloved hands. “Bravo!”

“They played a heck of a game,” Coach says, taking on a much more pleasant tone for them.

Dean winks at me, knowing damn well what he would’ve walked into had he not brought his grandparents with him.

When I was being recruited, Lincoln U was cost cutting, stepping away from the off-campus arena they shared with several other teams. We were supposed to play all games at the much smaller campus rink. Dean’s grandparents donated the funds for the expansion and update to the rink when he came here to play.

The entire team changes quicker than ever as the senior Costellos chat up Coach. Lots of talk about how much nicer playing at Lincoln must be than to have to come to places like this that are in desperate need of upgrades.

I mean, ours is better, but we’re college hockey players in the visitors’ locker room, not old monied “chaps” visiting the country club. Dean is, but to the rest of us, it’s nothing to cry about.

Whispering, Dean tells Theo Rivera, our sophomore center, “Get everyone to the bus. Stone and I will cover.”

Coach’s face has turned a slightly less violent shade of red by the time the Costellos leave. He runs his hand through his hair as he looks around the room for his hat.

I step over and grab it off the floor, shaking it off before handing it to him.

He accepts it with a headshake. “Stone, something’s off with you this season. I see it, the other coaches see it—hell, the fans see it. Let me ask you something: do you think Philly’s blind to it? You think they want to pull a hot head college punk directly up to the NHL? I sure as hell don’t. If I was the coach there, I’d be sending you to Lehigh Valley to get you ready. I’m fucking pissed that you’re choosing your last season to lower your standards.”

I nod as if I agree with him, even though I don’t.

“Not sure what’s changed. Maybe your routine, your diet, your drive, but you need to go back to what it was you were doing before. Pull my freshman starting center out of the hole he’s buried himself in and get him back on the ice, you hear me?”

I feel Costello’s hand grip my shoulder as I hear him suck in a breath before speaking up. “I know exactly what’s changed.”

“Care to share it?” Coach practically screams in his face.

“Stone has most definitely changed his routine.”

Motherfucker , I think to myself, balling my hands into fists. I glower at him, a warning that he better shut the hell up, but he’s got a twinkle in his eyes and not enough sense to do so.

“He’s been …” He pauses and pretends to be considering his words, which I’m hopeful for until he opens his damn mouth again. “How do I say this without offending you, Coach?”

“You start by not pussy footing and spill it, Costello!”

He blows out an exaggerated breath, “Okay, well, you see, Leo’s been ignoring the … urges of an athlete. The urges met by our very willing fans of the female persuasion.”

“You talking bunnies, Costello, then say bunnies,” Coach snarls.

I shrug Costello’s hand off my fucking shoulder and start to walk away.

“Stone!” Coach’s voice stops me, and I look back at him. “You in love with?—”

“Not even in like with anyone,” I sneer.

“And there lies the problem,” Costello whispers only loudly enough for me to hear him.

Coach says nothing as I walk to the door before I turn back and slam a fist in Costello’s face.

“You make sure that he’s back to his old self by next game,” I hear Coach whisper as I storm down the hallway to the bus.

“Will do, Coach.”

I ignore Dean on the bus, which isn’t easy because he’s wildly amused with himself as he tells Evan Smith what went down. Overhearing it all, Bass Giulietti is sitting across from me, snickering as he taps out something on his phone

Once we get to campus, I contemplate walking back to my place instead of riding with him to the bar. I have no desire to go to the fucking bar.

I pull my phone from my sweatpants pocket and see a text from Giulietti.

Private party at Deans.

I shoot him one back.

Perfect

His response comes immediately.

Just don’t tell him.

“You coming, Stone?” Dean yells over.

“He’s gonna ride with me,” Giulietti answers for me.

Inside Giulietti’s Rover, he taps on his phone again before plugging it into the charger. The shit ass grin on his face comes and goes quickly as he turns the key, rolls down his window, and whistles.

Theo Rivera stops in his tracks and glances back.

“Rivera, hop in the back.”

“I don’t have an—” He pauses and looks around. “My ID.”

“Not gonna need one tonight. Get in.”

Theo pops the hatch and tosses his duffle in the back, slamming it shut before opening the rear passenger door.

“Grab ours from the back and toss them back there, so you have room to sit.”

“You got it, Bass,” he says almost too enthusiastically.

I glance at Giulietti disapprovingly. I hate when they give shit to the underclassmen, especially ones like Theo Rivera. The kid is good, real good, and he’s humble about it.

“Didn’t ask him to wash my jock. Gotta pay his dues,” Giulietti mutters.

“Don’t bother asking,” Rivera slides in. “That’s a hard no.”

“You been to a post-game meet and greet?” Bass asks as he peels out of the parking lot.

“Yeah.” Theo nods. “Several with you, freshman year.”

“Shit, that’s right.” Giulietti chuckles to himself.

I glance down at his screen as notifications start lighting it up, ping after ping. Cara, Amber, Shelby, Claire, Julie, Sierra, Lacey and so many more, one right after the other.

“Lit up the bunny tree for you, man.” Giulietti chuckles.

“I need a shower,” I tell him, hoping to get out of this, knowing damn well no fuck beats a good night sleep anymore.

“Yeah, and you can take one at the house.”

“Clean clothes,” I snarl.

“I got you fucking covered, man.” He nods. “What’s your deal?”

“You know my deal. We’re seniors; there’s no class ahead of us graduating and moving on next semester.”

“These girls don’t want a boyfriend; they don’t even want to waste time. Hell, they don’t even want to cuddle after. They want to get off just like we do.” He glances in the rearview. “Rivera, open your notes app on your phone.”

“Got it.”

“Good, now type this out,” he instructs. “Girls have needs, too. When they eyeball the crotch or your pants, they’re not asking for a relationship, let alone a ring or a promise of forever. They want your dick, and they want it now.”

“You may want to add that”—I sigh— “you better make damn sure they’re not drunk.”

Giulietti’s face contorts. “The fuck, bro? That’s a given.”

“Accurate notes leave no room or excuse for a fuck up,” I mumble as we pass McDonald’s, flipping Dean the bird as he waits for his food at the drive-thru.

“This about the kid sister?” Theo asks.

I whip my head around. “The fuck you talking about?”

“Your sister, Emma’s, graduating in the spring, headed off to college. You tripping on her livin’ it up in some frat basement?”

I hadn’t even considered my sister until he just dumped that poison in my head.

“I have four sisters.” Rivera cringes. “All younger. I sure as hell don’t want to think about that either, man.”

“Stone, the way you’re playing tells everyone on the ice that you’re wired tight. You need this. And there’s some fine ass bunny who needs you to give it to her. Think of it as public relations. Hell, community service.” He winks.

“How about you shut the fuck up? The more you talk about my dick, the less I feel like using it.”

Long Shot