The Score Page 22

  “But she changed her mind?”

  “Yup. It was subtle at first. She’d talk about something we were going to do in the future, I’d remind her it probably wouldn’t happen, and she’d laugh it off and say she forgot. But then she got…clingy. She’d call like ten times a day, and suddenly she was paranoid I was cheating on her. I wasn’t, by the way—I’ve never cheated on anyone I made a commitment to.”

  “So you ended it? No, wait, first you had sex with her.”

  I hear the accusation in Allie’s tone, and I can’t deny it hits its mark. “Yeah. I did.” My mouth runs dry. I try to swallow. “Miranda was with this other guy for two years before she went out with me. When we started dating, she told me she’d had sex before.”

  “Oh no,” Allie murmurs. “I don’t like where this is going.”

  “We were at a party, and she was acting all clingy again, not letting me talk to anyone, refusing to let go of my hand. She even followed me into the fucking bathroom. I was frustrated and angry, and I started pounding beers because it was the only way to pass the time. She didn’t want to leave, but she also wouldn’t leave my side. I was actually considering breaking up with her right then, and I guess she sensed it because next thing I know she’s dragging me upstairs.” Regret throbs inside me. “I was disgustingly wasted, not to mention seventeen and horny, so I wasn’t exactly fighting her off. We had sex. And then afterward, she admitted she was a virgin.”

  “Shit.”

  “If I’d known, I would have been more…I don’t know, careful? Gentler? I was sloppy drunk and she got a sloppy lay. For her first time, Allie. I felt like a total ass the next day, but Miranda wasn’t mad. She said she felt closer to me than ever, and after that, it was like DEFCON level clinginess. Suddenly she was planning college visits and saying how we should think about getting engaged, that a stronger commitment would make it easier to stay true to each other.” My stomach churns just thinking about it. I hadn’t even turned eighteen at that point.

  “So like any teenage boy would, you freaked out and ended it.”

  I nod.

  She sighs. “I don’t blame you. I’m sure anyone would feel overwhelmed in that situation.”

  “Maybe. But…Miranda didn’t handle the breakup too well,” I confess, fighting the nausea clawing at my gut. “Turns out she’d dealt with depression in the past, but she never told me about it. I never would’ve guessed either, because she was so happy and easygoing all the time. But I found out that’s because of the meds she was taking. The meds she stopped taking after I ended it.”

  “Shit,” Allie says again.

  “She changed completely. She was crying all the time, screaming at me in the halls, calling me in the middle of the night threatening to kill herself. I had no choice but to involve her dad, because I was terrified she might actually commit suicide. Frank pulled her out of school after that, and I haven’t seen or heard from her since.”

  Allie’s jaw drops. “Are you serious?”

  “Frank wouldn’t allow it.” The frustration I felt back then rises again now. “He told me Miranda was back on her meds and getting professional help. Oh, and that if I ever tried to contact her again, he would rip my throat out. That didn’t stop me from worrying about her. I mean, I still cared about her even though we were broken up, so about a month after she left school, I cornered Coach in the parking lot and demanded to see Miranda.” My jaw twitches. “And he punched me in the face.”

  “Oh my God. Did anyone see him do it?”

  “No. It was late, and he was coming out of a staff meeting. Nobody else was around. But yeah, he clocked me good. That’s when I found out that Miranda told him we had sex. She also told him I was drunk out of my mind when it happened.”

  “Well, that’s not cool,” Allie says angrily.

  “None of it was cool. I shouldn’t have let her seduce me that night, absolutely.” Bitterness clogs my throat. “But she let her father believe I was some drunk asshole who took advantage of her, and that wasn’t fair either.” I force myself to relax my grip on the steering wheel. “Anyway, that’s why O’Shea can’t stand the sight of me. He thinks I played the long game with his daughter—spent a year trying to get into her pants, and then dumped her once I got what I wanted.”

  “And you really have no idea how she’s doing now? You haven’t tried to contact her?”

  “I sent her a Facebook friend request a while ago,” I admit. “She hasn’t accepted it. I think she’s doing well, though. Her profile said she goes to Duke.”

  “I guess it makes sense that O’Shea was so overprotective of her,” Allie muses. “It must have been really hard for him, watching his daughter struggle with depression. Watching her get better, and then fall into that dark place again.”

  Maybe, but I refuse to empathize with that bastard, not when he’s trying to make my last year at Briar so damn miserable.

  “You make more sense to me too now,” she adds.

  “How so?” I don’t like her thoughtful, probing gaze.

  “This is why you’re always so upfront about sex, right? You’re making sure your hook-ups are on the same page as you?”

  “I’m not misleading anyone ever again, that’s for sure. Or taking their agreement at face value. I don’t care if it makes me an ass, but I never, ever lie about my intentions. And I never date virgins,” I say as an afterthought. “Or freshmen, because they tend to be clingier.”

  “The Life of Dean sure has a lot of rules.”

  “Without those rules, there is no Life of Dean.”

  “I suppose.” She pauses. “The virgin thing is tough, though. It’s easy for a girl to lie about that. I mean, horseback riding alone has probably broken fifty percent of hymens.”

  I bark out a laugh. “Trust me, my virgin radar is infallible these days.”

  “Oh yeah? How did you know I wasn’t a virgin?”

  “Because Garrett stays at your dorm every other weekend and he heard you and Sean in the bone zone tons of times. He told me you were a screamer.”

  She gasps. “He did not say that.”

  “He totally did. Face it, babe, you’re a loud lay.” I chuckle at her stricken expression. “That’s not a bad thing. Vocal is good.” I think of her throaty moans and breathy Oh my Gods, and I’m semi-hard in a nanosecond. “Vocal is very good.”

  “No, it’s embarrassing,” she mutters. Her cheeks are bright red.

  “Hey, I’d way rather be in bed with a loud woman than a quiet one. Silent comers are the worst. I slept with this one chick who didn’t make a sound the entire time. Seriously, I had no idea if she was even enjoying herself, and then when it was over she turned to me and thanked me for the multiple orgasms.”

  Allie lets out a hoot. “You’re lying.”

  “I don’t lie.”

  “You…really don’t, huh? I’m starting to think you might be the most honest person I’ve ever met.”

  “Another requirement in the Life of Dean. Say what you mean, mean what you say.”

  “And do what you want.”

  “And do what you want,” I echo.

  “I think I really like the Life of Dean.”

  I think I really like you, I almost blurt out.

  Fortunately, I manage to tamp down the sentiment, because…what the hell? I like banging her. Allie is easy to talk to and fun to fuck—that’s all there is to it. And considering how adamant she is about this being nothing more than a fling, I know she agrees wholeheartedly with me on that.

  But a few hours later, when I pull up in front of a three-story brownstone in Brooklyn Heights, Allie throws me a curveball.

  “Do you want to come for dinner tomorrow?”

  The invitation is alarming and unexpected.

  And alarming.

  Did I mention alarming?

  My unease must be written all over my face, because Allie hurries on. “I won’t be insulted if you say no. Honestly, you can say no. I was just imagining you all alone in Manhattan
for Thanksgiving while your family is scarfing down a tropical turkey in St. Bart’s, and it was such a lonely, depressing picture that I figured I’d extend the invite.”

  “What…” I clear my throat. “What will you tell your dad?”

  She shrugs. “I’ll say you’re a friend from school who didn’t have anywhere else to go. It won’t be a big deal, I promise. You guys will talk hockey, I’ll cook dinner, we’ll watch some football, and there’s a forty percent chance we all get food poisoning. Just a regular old Hayes family Thanksgiving.”

  A laugh flies out. “Sounds like a blast.” I consider it. “Okay, I’m in. What time do you want me to show up?”

  “Four should be good, but we probably won’t eat until five.”

  I nod.

  “Okay. Awesome.” She smiles ruefully. “Now help me get my suitcase out of the trunk, will you? I’m pretty sure I’ll break my back if I try to lift that thing myself.”

  21

  Dean

  Allie’s father hates me on sight.

  I’m sure if I mentioned it to Allie, she’d wave off my concerns and say things like “he’s just grumpy” or “oh, that’s just how he is with everyone”. But she’d be wrong.

  Joe Hayes hates me from the moment he opens the door and sees me standing on the stoop. And hoo boy, don’t I feel overdressed. Allie told me to dress “nice”, so I’d chosen a white Tom Ford dress shirt and gray Armani trousers. No suit coat, but my black Ralph Lauren jacket gets an eyebrow flick from Allie’s dad, who’s in sweatpants and a flannel shirt.

  “You AJ’s friend from school?” he barks.

  I wrinkle my brow. “AJ?”

  “My daughter. Allison Jane?” Mr. Hayes looks annoyed that he has to explain.

  “Oh, ah, yes, sir. I know her as Allie, though.”

  “And you didn’t know her nickname?” He makes a derisive sound. “Not much of a friend, are ya?” He mutters, “Come in” and turns around stiffly. Stiff in the literal sense, because his gait is visibly labored as he stumbles forward on a slender cane.

  Allie had warned me that her father has MS. She also advised me not to bring it up in conversation, saying he doesn’t like talking about it and will most likely bite my head off if I mention it. So I don’t, but it’s clear even with my non-medical background that he’s in pain right now.

  I follow Mr. Hayes through a surprisingly large main floor with gleaming hardwood and what looks like the original woodwork and doors from whenever this brownstone was built. Allie and her dad have the two lower floors, which I’m brusquely told contain four bedrooms and three baths. Either the family purchased the apartment before the Brooklyn Heights neighborhood became super exclusive, or pro-hockey scouts make way more money than I thought.

  He leads me into a spacious living room with a bay window that overlooks a neatly tended garden and patio. “Do you garden?” I ask politely.

  Allie’s dad scowls at me. “Woman upstairs takes care of the garden.”

  Okay then.

  “Dean. Hey.”

  Oh thank Christ. Allie pops into the room, and I’m relieved to see she’s wearing a knee-length blue dress. Not a fancy one, but nice enough that I no longer feel like I showed up to a potluck in a tuxedo.

  “You want anything to drink?” she asks after she greets me with a quick hug.

  I glance at the brown leather couch that Mr. Hayes is slowly lowering himself on. He tucks the cane on the edge of the sofa and snatches a beer from the coffee table. His hand trembles wildly as he raises the bottle to his lips. When he catches me staring, he scowls again.

  “Uh…” I gulp. “A beer would be nice.”

  “Coors or Bud?”

  “Bud.”

  She nods. “Coming right up.”

  I’m once again left alone in the clutches of Mr. Hayes, whose blue eyes are now glued to the Lions game flashing on the flat screen. I’ve got about five inches and thirty pounds on the man, but he still fucking terrifies me. I suspect he was a bruiser when he played hockey. He’s got that stocky barrel chest. And the surly attitude.

  “What are you waiting for, pretty boy? Sit down already.”

  Pretty boy?

  Goddamn it. Why did I show up in Ford and Armani? Allie’s dad probably took one look at my expensive getup and decided I was a rich prick.

  Very reluctantly, I sit on the other end of the sectional.

  Mr. Hayes glances over briefly. “AJ says you play hockey.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Forward?”

  “Defenseman.”

  “What’re your stats so far this season?”

  I pause uncertainly. Wait, does he expect me to rattle off actual numbers? Like goals and assists and penalty minutes? I could probably ballpark it, but reciting my own statistics feels pompous.

  “They’re decent,” I say vaguely. “The team’s had a rocky start. We won the Frozen Four last season, though.”

  He nods. “Won it junior year. Boston College.”

  “Nice. Uh. Congrats.” His face is utterly expressionless, so I can’t be sure if this is some kind of pissing match. If so, I could probably mention I won it the year before, too. But I keep my mouth shut. Luckily, Allie is back with my beer, and I reach for it as if it’s a life preserver. “Thanks, babe.”

  We both freeze the moment the endearment leaves my mouth. Shit. I hope Mr. Hayes didn’t hear that.

  He’s sitting right here. Of course he heard.

  I twist off the bottle cap and take a much-needed swig of alcohol.

  “So what did I miss?” Allie asks in an overly cheerful voice.

  Her father scoffs. “Pretty boy over here was just telling me how he won the Frozen Four.”

  Fucking hell.

  This is going to be a long Thanksgiving.

  *

  Dinner is awful. Well, not the food—for someone who claims to suck at cooking, Allie did a pretty good job with the meal. It’s the act of eating said food that I find excruciating. The conversation is brutal. Mr. Hayes seems to be going out of his way to antagonize me. His preferred phrase of the evening is “of course.” Except it’s spoken in a flat, condescending tone that makes me wish I was spending Thanksgiving in the empty house in Hastings.

  When Allie tells him I’m going to law school next fall, he says, “Of course.”

  When she mentions my family owns a place in Manhattan, he says, “Of course.”

  When I thank him for having me to dinner, he says, “Of course.”

  Goddamn. Brutal.

  Don’t get me wrong, I’m making a genuine effort to be polite. I ask him what it was like to be a pro scout, but all I get is a half-mumbled, one-sentence response. I compliment him on how nice this brownstone is, and he grunts out a “thank you.”

  Eventually I give up, but Allie is more than happy to fill the awkward silence. As she tells her father about the play she’s acting in, her courses, her upcoming auditions, and everything else she has going on, that’s the only time Mr. Hayes seems to come to life. It’s obvious he loves his daughter deeply, and he hangs on to every word she says like she’s offering him the secrets to eternal life. He does scowl at her once, though, after he asks if she’s still in touch with Sean and she admits they had coffee.

  “Never liked that boy,” Mr. Hayes mutters. For once, he and I are on the same page.

  Allie chews her last bite of gravy-laden mashed potatoes before voicing a protest. “Aw, that’s not true. You guys always got along when we came to visit you.”

  Her father chuckles. Well, look at that, he’s actually capable of conveying humor. I never would have guessed.

  “He was your boyfriend—I had no choice but to get along with him. Now he’s not, so I don’t have to pretend to like him anymore.”

  I cover up a laugh behind my napkin.

  “Boy was too needy,” Mr. Hayes continues. “I didn’t like the way he looked at you.”

  “How did he look at me?” Allie asks warily.

  “Lik
e you were his entire world.”

  She frowns. “And that’s a bad thing?”

  “Damn right it is. Nobody should ever be someone else’s entire world. That’s not healthy, AJ. If your whole life is centered on one thing—one person—whatcha going to be left with if that person goes away? Absolutely nothing.” He gruffly reiterates, “Not healthy.”

  Joe Hayes has a very practical way of looking at things. I’m oddly impressed.

  “Well, now you’re just making me feel bad for Sean. Let’s change the subject. Dean, tell my dad about your last game.”

  I sigh ruefully. “Really? The one I got thrown out of?”

  Her dad harrumphs. “Of course.”

  The conversation becomes strained again. I’m relieved when it’s finally time to clear the table, eagerly standing up to help Allie gather the dishes. There’s still half a turkey left in the serving platter, which Mr. Hayes reaches for as he staggers to his feet.

  “No, Dad,” Allie says in a strict voice. “Go and watch the rest of the game. Dean and I can clean up.”

  “I’m not an invalid, AJ,” he grumbles. “I’m perfectly capable of carrying one plate to the kitchen.”

  No sooner do the words exit his mouth than the platter wobbles in his hand. Or rather, his hand wobbles and the platter follows suit, abruptly slipping from his grip and smashing to the hardwood.

  The ceramic shatters to pieces, sending the slippery turkey careening across the floor. I immediately set down my plates and hurry around the table. Allie does the same, and our heads bump when we both reach for the same broken piece.

  “Goddamn it,” Mr. Hayes bites out. “I’ll take care of the mess.”

  “No.” Her tone isn’t strict anymore—it’s commanding. She snatches the ceramic shard from my hand and says, “Dean, would you take Dad to the living room and make sure he stays there?”

  Her father levels me with a death glare that makes my balls shrivel up, but no way am I facing Allie’s wrath right now. Stifling a sigh, I lightly clasp Joe’s arm and lead him out of the small dining room.