The Goal Read online

  Coach blows his whistle and dismisses us, so we end the practice on a good note. Sort of. The d-men are asked to stay behind as usual, and I don’t miss the frustration in Dean’s and Logan’s eyes. O’Shea’s gonna need to lighten up if he wants to win the respect of this team.

  In the locker room, I strip out of my sweaty jersey and pads and drop my hockey pants on the gleaming floor. We’ve got a state-of-the-art facility here. The room is huge, the lockers are padded leather, and the ventilation system is top-notch. It only slightly smells like old socks in here.

  Garrett comes up beside me and whips off his helmet. His dark hair is damp with sweat and sticking to his forehead. As he reaches up to smooth his hair away, I glance at the badass flames tattooed on his biceps. It always makes me think I want to get inked myself, but then I remember the travesty on Hollis’ leg that he got after our first Frozen Four win. Three years later, and he still wears long socks to cover it up most of the time.

  “Think we’ll ever remember how to play hockey again?” he says wryly.

  I snort. “Season’s just started. We’ll be fine.”

  He doesn’t seem convinced. Neither does Hunter Davenport, who lumbers over with a sour look.

  “We keep getting worse,” the freshman growls, and then, in eighteen-year-old fashion, hurls one glove against the wall.

  I quickly glance around and sigh in relief when I don’t spot Coach. The man would shit a brick if he saw one of us throwing a temper tantrum in the locker room.

  “Chillax, kid,” Mike Hollis, a junior, tells Hunter. He’s bare-chested and in the process of undoing his pants. “Who cares if we lose a scrimmage in practice?”

  “It’s not about the scrimmage,” Hunter snaps. “It’s that we suck.”

  Hollis tips his head. “You got laid last night, didn’t ya?”

  The dark-haired freshman furrows his brow. “What does that have to do with anything?”

  “Everything. We embarrassed ourselves in that game, got our asses kicked, and you still had chicks lining up to suck on your knob. Doesn’t matter if we win or lose—we’re still hockey players. We rule this school, dude.”

  “Spoken like a man without ambition,” Garrett says, his lips twitching.

  Hollis shrugs. “Hey, not all of us have a hard-on for the pros like you do. Some of us are happy doing this for the pussy.”

  A heavy sigh sounds from the end of the long bench spanning our lockers. Colin “Fitzy” Fitzgerald, an enormous junior with scruffy hair and more tats than a biker, saunters over and smacks Hollis on the ass.

  “Do you ever not talk about pussy?” Fitzy asks.

  “Why would I talk about anything else? Pussy’s great.”

  He’s right about that. Unfortunately, I won’t get to experience any great pussy for at least…oh, a month? Two? I’m not sure how long it’ll take my cock to forget about Sabrina James. If I hooked up with anyone else right now, I’d only be comparing her to Sabrina, and that’s not fair to anyone involved.

  “Oh hey,” Hollis says suddenly. “Speaking of pussy…”

  Garrett rolls his eyes. Hard.

  “I’m hitting up Boston this weekend,” Hollis continues. “Crashing at my brother’s place. You guys want to come with? Barhopping, a few clubs, hot girls. It’ll be a good time.”

  Our team captain frowns. “We’ve got a game on Saturday.”

  Hollis waves a hand. “We’ll be back in time.”

  “You’d better be.” Garrett shrugs. “But I can’t go anyway. Got plans with my girl this weekend.” His face takes on a faraway expression, a mixture of wonder and pure bliss, before he saunters off toward the shower area.

  I tamp down the envy that rises in my throat. Garrett’s been with Hannah for a year now, and it doesn’t seem like that new love glow is ever going to wear off. He’s so in love with his girlfriend that it’s almost disgusting. Ditto for Logan, who recently got back together with his girlfriend Grace and professed his love for her on the radio.

  It feels a bit…wrong, I guess, that the two biggest players I know have settled down. Out of all of us, I’m the guy who’s into all that commitment stuff. When I first came to Briar, I figured I’d meet the woman of my dreams—the one—during freshman orientation, date her for the next four years, and propose after graduation. But it didn’t turn out that way at all. I’ve dated lots of girls, slept with a lot of them too, but none of them were the one.

  Meanwhile, Garrett and Logan found their ones when they weren’t even looking for them, those lucky bastards.

  “Tuck?” Hollis encourages. “Boston? Dude weekend? You in?”

  My first inclination is to say no, but my mind trips over the word Boston. I know Sabrina said she didn’t want to see me again, but…would she really tell me to get lost if we happened to run into each other in the city? I mean, she lives there, and I happen to know her address, so…who knows, right? Maybe a stellar Yelp review will take the guys and me to some amazing bar in her neighborhood. Maybe we’ll bump into each other. Maybe—

  Maybe you’re turning into a stalker?

  I stifle a sigh. Fine, my mind’s definitely treading into Stranger Danger! territory. But even knowing that, I can’t stop myself from saying, “Sure, I’m in. Wouldn’t mind catching a Bruins game at a sports bar or something.”

  “Me too,” Fitzy decides. “I want to pop into this gaming store downtown. They’ve got a role-playing game there that I can’t find anywhere online. I’ll have to suck it up and spend some actual money.”

  Hollis’ horrified gaze travels from me to Fitz. “A Bruins game? A gaming store? How am I friends with you two?”

  I arch a brow. “You’d rather we bail?”

  “No.” He heaves a sigh. “But at least try to pretend you’re in it for the pussy.”

  I snicker and pat him on the shoulder. “If that makes you feel better, then sure. Fitzy and I are—”

  I look at Fitz, prompting him with my hand.

  “—in it for the pussy,” we finish in unison.

  7

  Sabrina

  I’m dragging by the time I arrive home from Briar.

  I can’t decide what I hate more—the weekends, when I’m at the club until two or three in the morning and then have to sort mail and packages from four until eleven. Or the weekdays, when I either have classes in the morning and the post office afterward¸ or an ungodly early post office shift followed by classes. Today was the latter, so I’m dead-ass tired as I drop my backpack on the hall floor.

  Even if I wanted to be with Tucker again (and most of my body parts are in favor of a reunion) I’m too exhausted to do anything but lie on my back.

  Although…that wouldn’t be half bad, either. He could rub me down¸ fuck me slow, and I could just lie back and enjoy it.

  I give myself a mental head slap. Tucker and his big wang is the last thing that should be on my mind.

  In the kitchen, Nana is stirring a pot at the stove, dressed in tight jeans, a lycra top that’s losing its elasticity, and her ever-present fluffy pink slippers.

  “That smells great,” I tell her.

  The simmering red sauce is filling the kitchen with the most heavenly scent. My stomach gurgles and reminds me I haven’t had anything to eat since the bagel I grabbed for breakfast before work.

  “Girl, you look like you’re about to fall over. Go and sit down. Dinner will be ready in a sec.”

  I don’t need to be told twice, but when I see the empty table, I make a detour to grab plates and silverware. Through the doorway, I spot the top of Ray’s head as he stares at the television. He’s probably fondling himself. I shudder as I pull the plates out of the cabinet.

  “You want milk or water?” I ask as I begin to set the table.

  “Water, babe. I’m feeling bloated. Did you know that Anne Hathaway is lactose intolerant? She doesn’t eat any dairy. Maybe you should think about cutting dairy out of your diet.”

  “Nana, that means no cheese or ice cream. Unless a d
octor tells me that dairy is going to kill me, I’m all in on the cow.”

  “All I’m saying is, dairy could be why you’re tired all the time.” She shakes her spoon at me.

  “No, I’m pretty sure it’s because I’m working two jobs and taking a full course load,” I answer dryly.

  “If she stops eating dairy, will she be less of a baby bitch?” Ray asks as he strolls into the kitchen. He’s wearing the same sweatpants that he always does. The fabric is so worn around his crotch, I swear I can see a faint hint of pink skin.

  I nearly gag, turning away before he ruins my appetite.

  “Ray, don’t you start,” Nana complains. “Babe, will you get the strainer for me?”

  My stepfather nudges me as I walk by. “She’s talking to you.”

  “No shit. Because she knows talking to you is like talking to her couch. She gets the same results.”

  I set the glass of water next to Nana’s plate and then hurry over to the sink to get the strainer out. Nana dumps the sauce into a bowl while I take care of the noodles.

  Ray, meanwhile, leans against the refrigerator like a lazy toad, watching us bustle around the kitchen.

  I hate this man with all my heart. From the first moment my mom brought him home to meet me when I was eight, I knew he was trouble. I told Mom as much, but listening to her daughter was never something she was very good at. Neither is sticking around, apparently. Mom ran off with some other slimebag when I was sixteen, and we haven’t seen her since. She calls a few times a year to “check in,” but as far as I can tell, she has no plans to ever come back to Boston.

  I don’t even know where she’s living these days. What I do know is that there’s no reason for Ray to be living here. He’s not my father—that title is reserved for the piece of shit who abandoned Mom after knocking her up—and he’s definitely not part of the family. I think the only reason Nana keeps him around is because his work comp checks pay a third of our rent. I assume she fucks him for about the same reason. Because he’s convenient.

  But, God, he’s so worthless I think even worms would turn up their noses at him. If worms had noses, that is.

  Only when the table is completely set and the steaming pasta is ready for serving does Ray take a seat.

  “Where’s the bread?” he demands.

  Nana flies up from her chair. “Oh damn. It’s in the oven.”

  “I’ve got it,” I tell her. “You sit still.” As much as Nana’s offhand comments might hurt, the woman still raised me, clothed me, and fed me while Ray sat on his fat ass, smoked weed and masturbated to sporting events.

  I cast a glare at his back and notice, for the first time, a white envelope stuck down his pants. It’s probably a bill. The last time he hid a bill from us (because he’d watched a dozen pay-per-view pornos) we had a three-month late fee to pay. Our budget works only if we don’t have unexpected surprises like that.

  I grab the rolls from the oven, dump them into a basket and carry it over the table. As I bend over, I pluck the envelope out from the back of Ray’s sweatpants. “What’s this?” I demand, waving it in the air. “Some bill?”

  “It’s not those dirty shows again, is it, Ray?” The sides of Nana’s thin lips pull down.

  He flushes. “Course not. Told you I don’t watch that shit anymore.” He shifts in his chair to give me a smarmy smile. “It’s for you.” He snatches the envelope out of my grip and drags it under his nose. “Smells like uptight bitch to me.”

  A flash of crimson at the edge makes my heart beat faster. I lunge toward the envelope, but Ray holds his arm out high and away from me, making me press against him. God, I hate him.

  “Give her the letter,” Nana chastises. “The food is getting cold.”

  “I was just funnin’,” he says, dropping the envelope by my plate.

  My eyes lock on the crimson shield in the upper left corner.

  “Open it,” Nana urges.

  There’s a hint of eagerness in her tone. She may taunt me about my worthless education and ridiculous dreams, but I think that deep down she’s damn excited. At least she’ll have this to lord over the other ladies at the hair salon whose granddaughters are having babies instead of getting into Harvard.

  Except…the envelope is wafer thin. All of my college acceptance letters were in giant envelopes stuffed full of pretty brochures and catalogs.

  “She’s scared. She probably didn’t get in.” Ray’s words are both lined with disdain and ringing with glee.

  I snatch the letter and rip it open with Ray’s knife. A single piece of paper falls out. It’s got several paragraphs, none of which I fully read as I scan for the important words.

  Congratulations on your admission to Harvard Law School! I hope you will join us in Cambridge as part of the class of—

  “Well?” Nana prompts.

  The biggest smile known to mankind spreads across my face. My hunger, my exhaustion, my irritation with Ray, is all wiped away.

  “I…got in.” The words come out on a squeak of breath. I repeat myself, and this time I’m screaming. “I got in! Oh my God! I got in!”

  I wave the letter in the air as I dance wildly around the kitchen. I don’t usually allow myself to drop my guard in front of Ray, but the bastard doesn’t even exist to me right now. Excitement pulses in my blood, along with a sense of relief so weighty that I can’t stay upright for much longer. I fall on Nana’s shoulders and give her a huge hug.

  “I suppose you’re going to be extra uppity now,” she gripes, and I don’t even care.

  “Naah, this doesn’t make her special or anything,” Ray drawls. “She’s got two holes like any other bitch. Three if you count her mouth.”

  I wait for Nana to defend me, but apparently jealousy is winning out over pride right now. She laughs at his disgusting comment, and just like that, I’m done celebrating with these people. I cannot wait to get out of this house.

  Still, I refuse to let anything affect my happiness right now. I spin on my heel and waltz down the hallway to call my girls.

  “What about dinner?” Nana yells after me.

  I ignore her and keep walking. In my bedroom, I throw myself on the bed and text my friends.

  I got in.

  Hope beats Carin by a millisecond.

  OMG! Congrats!!!!!!!!

  Carin replies, PIC! PIC! PIC!

  I snap a picture of the acceptance letter and send it off. While I’m waiting for their responses, I run down the hall, fill my plate with pasta, stuff a roll in my mouth, and run back to my bedroom. Nana and Ray say something, but none of it processes. Only sheer joy fills my ears.

  There are a dozen responses when I get back.

  Hope: <3

  Carin: LOVE! LOVE! LOVE! UR so awesome!

  Hope: I’m so proud of u. UR going to make the best lawyer EVER. Please say you’ll represent me if I get sued for malpractice.

  Carin: THIS IS THE MOST BEAUTIFUL THING!

  Hope: When do we get to take u out? And no, never, not happening R unacceptable responses.

  I chew on my roll as I text them back.

  Me: A) U both get free legal services 4 life.

  B) Let’s celebrate tomorrow. I promise to order enough to make your credit card weep.

  Hope: Not possible! I’m making reservations for Santino’s.

  Carin: That place needs reservations?!

  Hope: I dunno! Figure of speech. But we could go to Malone’s again if u want celebratory sex.

  Me: I still have the number from the guy from last Saturday. What about u? Your lady garden get a private tour last night?

  The two of them had gone out without me to a party at Beau Maxwell’s house. I wonder if Tucker was there. And if so, I wonder who he took to his truck this time. The thought of him running his big, callused hands over some other girl’s breasts makes me grit my teeth in envy, but I don’t have the right to be jealous. I blocked his number, after all. I told him in no uncertain terms that I wasn’t interested in going out wi
th him.

  So why did you unblock him, hmmm?

  The taunting voice in my head has me biting my lip. Fine, so I unblocked his number. But that wasn’t because I want to go out with him or anything. I just figured it might be handy to have in case of…an emergency.

  God, I’m so pathetic.

  My phone dings, pulling me out of my thoughts.

  Carin: No. I was an angel.

  Hope: Liar! OMG, what a liar. She came downstairs with sex hair bigger than Cher. Text her a picture of ur chest. Right now or I’ll do it.

  Carin: Fine. I hate u.

  Sometimes I do wish I lived with them. I gobble up more pasta as I wait for the picture from Carin. When the image comes through, I nearly choke on a noodle.

  Me: Did u make out with teen wolf last night?

  Carin: No. Brad Allen.

  I search my memory banks and come up with a six-foot, four-inch guy with a round, sweet face.

  Me: Defensive lineman? He looks like a cherub!

  Carin: Yup. Turns out he has a sucking fetish. Good thing it’s cold out because tank tops would be out of the question.

  Me: Other than him trying to actually suck the blood through ur chesticles, did u enjoy him?

  Carin: It wasn’t bad. He knew how to use his equipment.

  Me: Ha! My athlete theory is holding strong!

  Hope: Between Tucker and Brad Allen, it appears B’s hypothesis is accurate.

  Carin: U both know that’s not how the scientific method works, right?

  Me: Yup, but we don’t care.

  Hope: Does that mean Tucker is getting a repeat?

  Me: Doubtful. He’s good, but when do I have the time?

  We text for a few more minutes, but my spike of adrenaline is wearing off. I set my partially finished plate on my nightstand and hug the Harvard letter to my chest. It’s all happening. All the good things I’ve worked so hard for are coming to fruition. Nothing can stop me now.

  I fall asleep with a big, happy smile on my face.

  *

  Raincheck, chickadees, I text my girls the following day, after Hope messages to ask if I want to have lunch with them.