The Goal Page 5

  For some stupid reason, though, I find myself confessing, “I blocked you.”

  Rather than look offended, he chuckles. “Yeah. I figured you might’ve. That’s why I tracked you down.”

  I narrow my eyes. “And how did you do that, exactly? How’d you know I’d be here?”

  “I asked my advisor for your schedule.”

  My jaw falls open. “And she gave it to you?”

  “He, actually. And yep, he was happy to do it.”

  Disbelief and indignation mingle in my blood. What the hell? The faculty can’t just hand out students’ schedules to anyone who asks for them, right? That’s a violation of privacy. I grit my teeth and decide that the moment I pass the bar, my first order of legal business will be suing this stupid college.

  “Did he give you my transcript too?” I mutter.

  “No. And don’t worry, I’m sure your schedule isn’t being passed around in flier-form around campus. He only gave it to me because I play hockey.”

  “That’s supposed to make me feel better? The reminder that you’re a privileged jackass who gets special treatment because you skate around on the ice and win trophies?”

  I take off walking, my pace brisk, but he’s big enough that his strides eat up the ground and he’s beside me in a heartbeat.

  “I’m sorry.” He sounds genuinely regretful. “If it helps, I don’t normally play the athlete card to get favors. Hell, I could’ve asked Dean for your schedule, but I figured you’d like that even less.”

  He’s right about that. The thought of Tucker talking to Dean Di Laurentis about me makes my skin crawl.

  “Fine. Well, you tracked me down. What do you want, Tucker?” I walk faster.

  “What’s the hurry, darlin’?”

  “My life,” I mumble.

  “What?”

  “I’m always in a hurry,” I clarify. “I’ve got twenty minutes to get some food in me before my next class.”

  We reach the lobby, where I instantly get in line at the sandwich stand, scanning the menu on the wall. The student in front of us leaves the counter before Tucker can speak. I hurriedly step forward to place my order. When I reach into my bag for my wallet, Tucker’s hand drops over mine.

  “I’ve got this,” he says, already drawing a twenty-dollar bill from his brown leather wallet.

  I don’t know why, but that annoys me even more. “First drinks at Malone’s, and now lunch? What, you’re trying to show off? Making sure I know you’ve got cash to spare?”

  Hurt flickers in his deep brown eyes.

  Fuck. I don’t know why I’m antagonizing him. It’s just…him showing up here, admitting he pulled favors to find me, paying for my lunch…

  It was supposed to be a one-time thing, and now he’s in my face and I don’t like it.

  No, that’s not true. I love having his face near mine. He’s so sexy, and he smells so good, like sandalwood and citrus. I want to bury my nose in the strong column of his neck and inhale him until I get a contact high.

  But there’s no time for that. Time is a concept that doesn’t exist in my life, and John Tucker is too big a distraction.

  “I’m paying for your lunch because that’s the way my mama raised me,” he says quietly. “Call me old-fashioned if you want, but that’s how I roll.”

  I gulp down another rush of guilt. “I’m sorry.” My voice shakes slightly. “Thank you for lunch. I appreciate it.”

  We edge to the other end of the counter, waiting in silence as a curly-haired girl prepares my ham and Swiss sandwich. She wraps it up for me, and I tuck it under my arm while uncapping the Diet Coke I’d ordered. Then we’re on the move again. Tucker follows me out the door, watching in amusement as I try to juggle my drink and messenger bag and unwrap my sandwich at the same time.

  “Let me hold this for you.” He takes the bottle from my hand. There’s a gentleness on his face as he watches me sink my teeth into the lightly toasted rye bread.

  I barely chew before I’m taking a second bite, which makes him laugh. “Hungry?” he teases.

  “Famished,” I admit, and I don’t even care that I’m being rude by talking with my mouth full.

  I quickly descend the wide steps. Again, he keeps up with me.

  “You shouldn’t eat while you walk,” he advises.

  “No time. My next class is all the way across campus, so—hey!” I exclaim when he takes my arm and drags me away from the path. “What are you doing?”

  Ignoring my protests, he leads me to one of the wrought-iron benches on the lawn. It hasn’t snowed yet this winter, but the grass is covered with a silver layer of frost. Tucker forces me to sit, then drops down beside me and plants one hand on my knee, as if he’s afraid I might bolt. Which I was totally considering doing before that big hand made contact. The heat of it sears through my tights and warms my core.

  “Eat,” he says gently. “You’re allowed to give yourself two minutes to recharge, darlin’.”

  I find myself obeying, same way I obeyed the other night when he told me to ride his face, when he ordered me to come. A shiver shimmies up my spine. God, why can’t I get this guy out of my head?

  “What did you text me?” I blurt out.

  He gives a mysterious smile. “Guess you’ll never know.”

  Despite myself, I smile back. “It was something sexy, wasn’t it?”

  He whistles innocently.

  “It was!” I accuse, and then experience a jolt of self-directed recrimination, because, damn it, I bet it was filthy and delicious and wonderful.

  “Listen, I’m not going to take up much of your time,” he says. “I know you’re busy. I know you commute from Boston. I know you have a few jobs—”

  “Two,” I correct. My head tips in challenge. “And how would you know that?”

  He shrugs. “I’ve been asking around.”

  He has? Crap. As flattering as that is, I’m kind of scared to know who he’s been asking and what they’ve been telling him. Aside from Hope and Carin, I don’t spend much time with my peers. I know I come off as aloof at times—

  Fine, bitchy. Aloof is just a nice word for bitchy. And while I’m not thrilled that my classmates think I’m a bitch, there’s not much I can do about that. I don’t have the time or energy to make small talk, or to grab coffee after class, or to pretend that I have anything in common with the wealthy, elitist kids that comprise most of this college.

  “The point,” he finishes, “is that I get it, okay? You’re swamped, and I’m not asking you to wear my varsity jacket and my class ring and be my steady girl.”

  I have to laugh at the Pleasantville picture he’s painted. “Then what are you asking me?”

  “For a date,” he says simply. “One date. Maybe it’ll end with us fucking again—”

  My body sings in delight.

  “—or maybe it won’t. Either way, I wanna see you again.”

  I watch as he rakes a hand through his reddish hair. Damn, who would’ve thought that gingers could be so hot?

  “I don’t care when. You want to grab a bite late at night, fine. Early in the morning, cool, as long as I don’t have practice. I’m willing to play by your rules, adapt to your schedule.”

  Pleasure and suspicion war inside me, but the latter wins out. “Why? I mean, I know we rocked each other’s worlds, but why are you so hard up on seeing me again?”

  I gulp when he fixes me with a steady, intense gaze. Then he freaks me out even more by asking, “Do you believe in love at first sight?”

  Oh my fucking God.

  I start to shoot to my feet.

  He tugs me back onto the bench with a deep chuckle. “Chill, Sabrina. I’m not saying I’m in love with you.”

  He’d better not be! Taking a calming breath, I set my half-eaten sandwich on my lap and try to muster up a tone that doesn’t convey the scared-shitless feeling racing through me. “Then what are you saying?”

  “I’d seen you around campus before the night at Malone’s,”
he admits. “And yeah, I thought you were hot, but it’s not like I was desperate to find out who you were.”

  “Gee, thanks.”

  “Make up your mind, darlin’. Do you want me to be infatuated with you, or do you want me to not give a shit?”

  Both! I want both, and that’s the problem, damn it.

  “Anyway, I’d seen you before. But the night at the bar, when we made eye contact from across the room? Something magical happened,” he says bluntly. “I know you felt it too.”

  I pick up my sandwich and take a small bite, chewing extra slow in order to delay having to respond. He’s freaking me out again, with his confident gaze and his matter-of-fact tone. I’ve never met a guy who can throw out phrases like “love at first sight” and “something magical happened” without at least having the decency to blush or look mortified.

  Finally, I force myself to answer him. “The only magical thing that happened was that we liked what we saw. Pheromones, Tucker. Nothing more.”

  “That was part of it,” he agrees. “But there was more to it than that, and you know it. There was a connection the moment we looked at each other.”

  I raise my Diet Coke to my lips and chug nearly half of it.

  “I want to explore it. I think we’d be stupid not to.”

  “And I think…” I struggle for words. “I think…”

  I think you’re the most fascinating guy I’ve ever met.

  I think you’re amazing in bed and I want to fuck you again.

  I think if I was capable of having my heart broken, you’d have the power to break it.

  “I think I made myself clear that night,” I finish. “I’m not in the market for a relationship, or even a fuck buddy. I wanted sex. You gave it to me. That’s all it was.”

  I don’t miss the disappointment that floods his eyes. It brings a pang of regret and makes my stomach twist painfully, but I’ve already set this course and now I need to see it through. I’m very good at staying the course.

  “I know you athletes are stubborn as hell and that you don’t give up when you want something, but…” I take a breath. “I’m asking you to give up.”

  His jaw tightens. “Sabrina—”

  “Please.” I cringe at the desperate note in my voice. “Just give up, all right? I don’t want to start anything up. I don’t want to go on a date. I want…” I rise on wobbly legs. “I want to get to class, that’s all.”

  After an interminably long silence, he gets up too. “Sure, darlin’. If that’s what you want.”

  It’s not a taunt, nor does it contain even a hint of promise, as in sure, darlin’, I’ll give up—for now. But expect me to keep chasing you until I wear you down.

  No, there’s a finality to his words that makes me sad. John Tucker is clearly a man of his word, and while I ought to admire that, I’ve suddenly become a hypocrite, because now I’m the one feeling disappointed.

  “I’ll see you around,” he says gruffly.

  And then he strides off without another word, leaving me to stare after him in dismay.

  I did the right thing. I know I did. Even if I had oodles of free time to pursue something with him, there’s no room in my life for someone like Tucker. He’s sweet and earnest and clearly has money, whereas I’m bitchy and stressed and live in the gutter. He can talk all he wants about connections at first sight, but that doesn’t change the reality of this.

  I’m not the girl for John Tucker, and I never will be.

  6

  Tucker

  Practice is shit. The team’s just not clicking this season, and Coach Jensen is riding us mercilessly now that we’ve got a few losses tarnishing our record. Yesterday’s loss bummed us out pretty hard—we were up against a Division II team who should not have wiped our asses all over the ice like that.

  The new defensive coach, Frank O’Shea, is only making things worse. I’ve been thanking my lucky stars that I’m not a defenseman. O’Shea seems to have a vendetta against Dean, constantly calling him out and harping on his mistakes.

  Dean’s cheeks go redder than apples every time O’Shea opens his mouth. According to Logan, the man used to be the head coach at Dean’s prep school. They obviously have a past, but whatever it is, Dean’s not sharing. But he’s not happy, either. Not only are the d-men constantly ordered to stay late, but apparently Dean got forced into coaching the kiddie team at the elementary school in town.

  I skate to the bench after my shift and heave myself over the wall, then squirt some water in my mouth and watch Garrett’s line fly across the blue line. Today’s scrimmage is non-scoring so far. Seriously, that’s how bad we suck. We can’t even score on each other during practice, and it’s not because our goalies are in top form—none of the forwards can get their shit together, myself included.

  A whistle blows. Coach starts screaming at one of our junior d-men for icing the puck.

  “What the hell was that, Kelvin! You had four passing opportunities and you decide to ice the fucking thing!” Coach looks ready to pull his hair out.

  I don’t blame him.

  “I could’ve made that pass if I was out there,” Dean grumbles beside me.

  I glance over in sympathy. One of O’Shea’s first orders of business had been to rearrange the lines. He’d paired Dean up with Brodowski, and Logan with Kelvin, when we all know that Logan and Dean are unstoppable together.

  “I’m sure O’Shea will realize his mistake soon.”

  “Yeah right. This is punishment. The motherfucker hates me.”

  My curiosity is once again piqued. “Why’s that again?”

  Dean’s expression goes cloudier. “Don’t worry about it.”

  “Not sure if you know this,” I say pleasantly, “but secrets kill friendships.”

  That makes him snicker. “You really want to talk to me about secrets? Where the fuck were you all weekend?”

  I instantly shutter my expression. I’m cool confiding in my friends about my love life, but I don’t want to discuss Sabrina with Dean, especially when I know his opinion of her. Besides, what the fuck is there to talk about, anyway? She shot me down. I asked her out and she flat-out told me no, it was never gonna happen.

  If I thought there was even the slightest chance that she wanted me to chase after her, maybe I wouldn’t have taken no for an answer. Maybe I would’ve shown up after her classes a few more times, bought her a couple more sandwiches, wooed her with my charm and worked the southern accent whenever I felt her drawing away.

  But I saw the look in her eyes. She meant what she said—she doesn’t want to see me again. And although I have no problem being the pursuer, I’m not going to chase after someone who’s not interested.

  Still, it fucking sucks balls. When we were sitting on that bench the other day, I wanted nothing more than to pull her onto my lap and fuck her right there, and to hell with anyone walking by. The Dean himself could’ve been standing there tapping his watch and I still wouldn’t have stopped. It had taken all my willpower to suppress the primal urges, but man, something about that girl…

  It’s not just her beauty, though that doesn’t hurt at all. It’s…it’s…damn, I can’t even put it into words. She’s got this hard exterior, but inside she’s as soft as butter. I see flashes of vulnerability in her bottomless dark eyes and I just want to…take care of her.

  The guys would laugh if they knew what I was thinking right now. Or hell, maybe they wouldn’t. They already rag me daily at home about my “nurturing” side. I’m our resident cook, do most of the cleaning, make sure shit around the house is in working order.

  That’s how my mom raised me, though. I didn’t have a dad. He died when I was three and I barely remember him. But Mom more than made up for him not being there, and the father figure I was lacking came in the form of my hockey coaches.

  Texas is a football state. I probably would’ve gone that route if it weren’t for a vacation we took to Wisconsin when I was five. Once a year, Mom and I would visit my dad’s
sister in Green Bay. Or at least we tried to. Sometimes money wouldn’t allow it, but we did our best.

  During that visit, Aunt Nancy bundled me up and took me skating. It’s goddamn cold in Green Bay—I imagine that’s most people’s worst nightmare, but I loved the chill on my cheeks, the frigid air hissing past my ears as I skated on that outdoor pond. A few older kids had a game of hockey going, and I got a thrill watching them whiz across the pond. It looked like so much fun. When Mom and I got back to Texas the following week, I announced that I wanted to play hockey. She’d laughed indulgently, but humored me, finding a year-round rink an hour from home.

  I think she thought I would grow out of it. Instead, I grew to love it even more.

  Now I’m here, at an East Coast Ivy League college, playing hockey for a team that’s won three national championships—consecutively. But I have a feeling there won’t be a fourth, not the way we’re playing lately.

  “What, you’ve forgotten how to talk?”

  I look over and find Dean watching me with a wary expression. What? Oh, right, he wants to know what I was up to this weekend.

  “Just hanging with some friends,” I say vaguely.

  “What friends? All your friends are here—” He waves a hand around the rink. “And I know for a fact you weren’t with any of them.”

  I shrug. “You don’t know these friends.” Then I shift my gaze back to the ice as Dean grumbles beside me.

  “Jesus fuck, you’re worse than Antoine and Marie-Thérèse.”

  My head swings back. “Excuse me?”

  “Forget it,” he mutters.

  Who the fuck are Antoine and Marie-Thérèse? Just like Dean knows all my friends, I know all of his, and I’m pretty sure we don’t know anyone with those names. But whatever. I don’t want him pushing me for answers, so I’m not about to push him.

  “Fuck yeah!” a voice yells from the other end of the bench.

  I refocus on the ice in time to see Garrett slap a bullet past Patrick, our senior goalie. It’s the first and only goal of the scrimmage, and all the guys on the bench thump their gloves against the wall in celebration.