11. JT

CHAPTER 11

JT

Why the hell did I let the guys drag me here again?

Oh, that’s right. Because my traitorous dick thought Maggie might be back at Kappa tonight and since I’ve basically been pining for her this past week, I listened to my dick.

Turns out, my dick’s a dick.

Not only is Maggie nowhere to be found, but my cock isn’t the least bit interested in any of the women who are here, regardless of the fact that it feels like I stumbled into the dressing room of the lingerie department at the freaking mall.

Last week’s end-of-summer party was beach-themed. This one is a pajama party, which means the guys are all in boxers and the girls are in frilly little sets that look like the embodiment of icing on a cupcake.

Too bad my cock’s not hungry.

Well, okay. It is. But only for Maggie, even after my extra long shower this afternoon.

Jesus.

I take another sip of the “nightcap” Ollie made me, and wince. It’s apparently the “good stuff”, but this shit tastes like rubbing alcohol. I’d much rather have a beer, even if it isn’t ice cold and it’s served in a plastic red cup. I’m not a fancy guy in any regard. Case in point: I’m wearing the same basketball shorts I had on last week.

I sleep naked, but coming to the party commando was not an option.

At least not for me. There are a couple dozen people who are walking around naked, no doubt hoping that skin-to-skin leads to sin.

And good for them. It’s not like I’m jealous or anything.

“Who pissed in your whisky?”

“What?” I ask, looking up to see Van and Santos setting up camp around me. They brought lawn chairs, like last week and they’re acting like it’s a goddamn campfire.

“What’s the scowl for, dude? In case you didn’t know, we’re at a party. And there are beautiful, half-naked women as far as the eye can see. What Van wants to know is why you’re standing here by yourself looking like you’d literally rather be anywhere else.” Pete stretches his legs out before reaching into the fucking beach bag he brought along and pulling out snacks and drinks like he’s a suburban mom at the community pool.

I roll my eyes and dodge the question, posing one of my own instead. “Why aren’t you two bachelors making the rounds?”

Santos shakes his head. “I’ve gotta keep an eye on our heathen teammates. Booker’s visiting Ian this weekend, so I’m the adult in charge.”

I look at Van and he’s sporting the same scowl I am.

“I’m keeping my options open,” he says, digging into that big-ass bag and pulling out a… toaster?

“What the hell is?—”

Van doesn’t even let me finish my sentence before a shit-eating grin covers his face. “We’re making S’more’s!”

I shake my head and watch as they set up their poolside kitchen. I have to hand it to these two, though. In a matter of minutes, they’re surrounded by partygoers, most of whom are in bikinis. It’s a hell of a strategy, although I know both of these guys well enough to know they’ll be heading home alone tonight. Pete takes his role as alt-captain pretty seriously. I’d do the same in his shoes, to be honest. Half the guys we live with are nuts, so it’s probably for the best that our resident leader acts like our dad most of the time.

As for Van, well…he’ll only admit it when he’s drunk, but he’s still hung up on his ex-girlfriend. They dated for a hot minute a couple years ago and he never moved on. He sure as hell tried, though. When Mickey and I joined the team last year as freshman, Van was kind of a legend around campus. That all blew up in his face one night when he called out his ex’s name while he was in bed with someone else. His overnight guest slammed the door so hard when she left that I’m pretty sure she knocked the hinges loose.

He declared that fall the Semester of Celibacy and I’m fairly certain it’s still going strong. I used to think he was crazy. I mean, I’ve seen enough TV shows and movies to get the concept of love. And I sure as hell understand attraction. What I never did get was his devotion to a ghost. I mean, yeah, breakups suck, but eventually you have to move on. What sense does it make to withhold yourself from sex just because you miss someone, especially when you were only together for a month.

But after one night with Maggie, I see where Van’s coming from.

It’s not like she’s the love of my life or anything. I don’t even know her full name. But the feel of her body on mine, the heat of her closing in on me as she came, the way I nearly blacked out from ecstasy as I lost myself inside her.

Nothing compares to that, and I don’t know if anything ever will.

We fit together. It felt right .

I’m not a guy who gets attached to anything. I know better.

I fell hard one other time in my life, and I’ve never looked back.

The first time my scrawny little six-year-old ass took a few wobbly steps on the ice, I was hooked. I could barely lace my skates, but it didn’t matter. I knew in no uncertain terms that I was in love and that I was destined to play hockey for the rest of my life.

It’s funny to me now, because my home rink is not exactly a gateway to the NHL. My Aunt Kimmy’s on-again-off-again boyfriend Steve worked part time at a Speedy Lube. He knocked off in time to get me off the bus and we’d head downtown to a fine establishment called Boards and Brews. Steve spent his hours warming a barstool on the Brews side of the building. It wasn’t legal for me to belly up to the bar with him, and since he was longtime friends with the guys who owned the place, he had some deal worked out where I got to play on the U8 hockey team and they got free oil changes for life, I guess.

Steve’s only goal was to not let his babysitting gig interfere with his drinking habit. He wasn’t trying to get me to socialize with kids my age or learn the value of teamwork. And he sure as hell wasn’t trying to make me into one of the most sought-after goalies in college hockey.

I was bounced around from relative to distant relative for the next ten years. The only thing that ever remained constant in my life was hockey, and I know that had more to do with keeping me out of everyone’s way than a desire to foster a love of the sport or gain a scholarship to school.

No one else in my family went to college that I know of. A fair amount never graduated high school and the vast majority of my relations are more likely to wear prison orange than they are to don a cap and gown.

“Incoming!”

Ollie’s booming voice jolts me out of my head just in time to step out of the way of my teammate and his comrades, all of whom are toting giant water guns as they storm the poolside lawn.

Absolute mayhem erupts as they launch their attack. I hang back and watch as girls start shrieking. Apparently, getting sprayed with water is not something they expected when they decided to stand ten feet from a swimming pool.

To be fair, last week’s theme was better suited to water sports. But I’m not telling Ollie that. In fact, I’m gonna duck out of sight before he?—

“Briiiick!”

Dammit .

My teammate is doing his best to wrestle me into a headlock, even though I edge him out by two inches. Nimbly, I duck free of his hold and swipe his UZI while I’m at it. I’m not much of a joiner, but hell if I’m gonna be the target.

“You fucker!” Ollie yells, swiping at me a second too late. He’s laughing, though, and loving every minute of it.

This is the kind of shit he lives for, and I have to admit, I get the appeal. Before I can think better of it and toss the water gun at him, I find myself darting through the mass of wet bodies, spraying as I go.

It’s total chaos out here. Not only are half a dozen of us carrying HydroBlasters, but a couple of people have started using their plastic cups to scoop water from the pool in a futile effort to fight back. It’s a terrible idea all-around, and I’m damn glad I don’t live here because their pool’s gonna be fucked. But that’s not my problem.

A couple girls have apparently decided their lacy nighties are weighing them down, so they start stripping down, tossing their lacy pj’s into the pool as they go. Dudes are joining in and I have no doubt this is going to turn into an orgy in a matter of minutes.

I take advantage of the distraction to kneel down at the pool’s edge and restock my ammo. Yeah, the fun’s about to get x-rated, but before it does, I’ll take them all down in a blaze of glory.

Weaving my way back into the crowd, I spot Ollie’s bare ass. He’s with his equally-naked buddy Aven and they’re working together to help a girl out of her barely-there pajamas.

They don’t see me coming.

I laugh as the stream of water hits its target, causing Ollie to yelp as he jumps a few inches in the air. To his credit, the fact he’s been ambushed doesn’t stop his handiwork. He manages to unsnap the brunette’s bra one-handed without missing a beat.

I bypass Aven because the man’s kneeling in front of said brunette looking like he’s about to eat a meal for the first time in a week. I don’t know him well, but I know that look of absolute hunger. I wore it last week at this same party. No doubt I’ve been walking around with that exact expression on my face since.

I manage to soak a few more partygoers before a slippery slumber party takes over the pool deck. I see Toad loading up his HydroBlaster with lube, and that’s my cue to move on.

And holy hell, I did not know they sold lube in gallon jugs…

Dropping the water gun on the grass, I make my way over to Van and Santos’s wrecked campsite and grab a towel from their bag. I made fun of them earlier, but I’m damn grateful two of my teammates came prepared.

“Goddammit,” Van mutters, frowning at the gooey mess in his left hand .

Pete laughs as he tries to dry off. His hair is drenched like everyone else’s. But whereas my locks are cropped pretty short, Pete’s got more hair than most sororities combined. The guy looks like a damn caveman as he wrings out a fistful of hair with one hand and mops up his furry chest with the other.

“Dude, you should swing by the carwash on your way back. Pretty sure you need an industrial dryer.”

Pete looks up at me, brow quirked as he drops the towel he was holding and gives me the middle finger.

“Look who’s got jokes, Van,” he grumbles.

Van dumps his water-logged S’more into the little trash bin they brought along—suburban moms, I’m telling you—and chuckles. “He’s got a point, though. Do we have a hair dryer at the house? Somebody’s got to, right?”

“We don’t even have a vacuum,” Pete grouses.

“Mickey’s got one,” I volunteer. I figure if the guy can raid my closet on the regular, I can offer up his hairdryer for a friend in need.

Pete’s returned to drying the hair on his head, but once again, he drops the towel. “You’re shitting me. There’s no fucking way Mikalski has a vacuum.”

“Nah, he’s probably never even used one. But he does have a hairdryer. It’s a good one, too, I think.”

“Yeah, but am I going to be able to find it?” Pete asks.

It’s a legit question. Mickey’s room is probably a health hazard—even more so than the rest of the house. His ADHD makes it hard for his brain to remember things or organize things. And the fact that he ditches his meds half the time doesn’t help. His room is a maze of half-empty cups and laundry piles that cover up Christ only knows what. I guarantee there are at least three TV controllers somewhere under those piles.

Van shrugs. “Norris has a point. Mickey’s kinda obsessed with his hair. Makes sense he’d have some state-of-art hairdryer. He’s always borrowing my fucking deodorant, but I’m pretty sure he’s got a whole drawer of hair shit.”

“His sister’s a stylist,” I tell them. “She just finished beauty school and now she’s doing some course on facials and stuff. When I visited this summer, she gave me a killer haircut and put some crap on my face that cleared out my pores. That’s a good thing, apparently.”

“Maybe we can get her to give Pete a trim,” Van teases as Pete holds up another middle-finger salute.

“Fuck you, pretty boy. Your hair’s just as long as mine.”

Van pulls the hair tie from his man-bun, letting his curly hair down. It falls past his shoulders, just like Pete’s. “Yeah,” he concedes. “But all my hair’s on my head.” He turns to me. “You think Mickey’s sister…what’s her name? Brooke?”

“Bridgette,” I supply. “Everybody calls her Birdie, though.”

“Yeah, that’s right. You think Birdie would wax this guy’s chest? And his back? And…”

“Fuck no,” Pete protests. “No one is getting near me with hot fucking wax. And if I ever bend that rule, it sure as shit won’t be for Mikalski’s sister. Jesus. I love the guy, but if she’s anything like him, she’d probably forget what she was doing and wax my damn eyebrows off.”

“Dude, it would take more than one pass to erase those fucking caterpillars,” Van says, munching on dry graham crackers.

I bite back a laugh. “Nah, she’s really good. It’s crazy because they’re twins, right? But Birdie is Mickey’s opposite in every way. She’s super organized. She put herself through beauty school and then she’s gonna get a business degree, I think. Wants to open her own salon someday.”

Van’s eyes bug at the prospect of anyone related to Mickey being that together. “That’s wild. Maybe in the womb or whatever, she got all the parts of the brain that organize shit and he got all the athletic traits? Or is she a killer athlete, too? Tell me she’s like a figure skater, or something.”

I wince inwardly. I love Birdie like a sister, and over the past year, I’ve become almost as protective of her as Mickey is. “She doesn’t skate much. Pretty sure school and her job as a hair stylist keep her busy enough. Plus, she keeps me and Mick looking sharp. That’s gotta be a part-time job, at least,” I joke. The truth is that Birdie’s a pretty solid skater. She used to compete back when they were kids, according to Mickey. But the twins aren’t only opposite in personality. Birdie might be damn near as tall as her brother, and she might have the same green eyes and reddish-brown hair. But that’s where the similarities end. Mickey’s one of those lean guys who has to eat his weight in food just to keep his body fueled. Birdie, on the other hand, could get a side gig as a plus-size model. She’s fucking gorgeous, but her body is not one of those lean willowy, figure-skater types. She’s built like their dad, who was a linebacker in school, whereas Mick takes after their stick-thin mom. It’s just genetics, but it’s also a lot more than that. I think it’s fucked with both of them, to be honest, but looking at my family tree, I have no business analyzing anybody else’s.

“Dude, you got any marshmallows?” Ollie springs up out of nowhere, like an over-sexed whack-a-mole. His hair’s a wreck, and if I’m not mistaken, there’s beard burn on his chest. He looks back over his shoulder where Aven and the brunette are sprawled out on a lounger, and mouths something I can’t quite make out.

Van hands over a bag of marshmallows. “Your little water battle fried the S’mores machine,” he grumbles.

“Sorry,” Ollie says, not sounding apologetic at all. “Hey, is that chocolate syrup?” He asks, peering into their never-ending bag of supplies .

“Yeah, it’s for mud?—.”

Ollie nabs the bottle and mutters a hasty thanks before Van can finish his sentence.

“Lucky fucker,” Pete says, shaking his head and watching Ollie return to…whatever the hell those three have going on.

“It’s still early,” Van says, packing up. “You guys want to hit Wolfie’s on the way back? There’s a band playing, I think. Play your cards right, Pete, and you could go home with a groupie tonight.”

They tease each other in the way that best friends do and debate the pros and cons of hitting up the bar on the way home.

My phone buzzes in my pocket and I palm it, wondering what trouble Mickey’s gotten himself into.

“You in, Norris?” Van asks. “Rosco’s gonna babysit the team for a bit, so we’re gonna check out the band at Wolfie’s.”

I shake my head. “No,” I say abruptly, then gesture to my phone. “I’ve got, uh…”

“’Nuff said, man.” Van claps my shoulder. “That’s gotta be your blonde from last week. Have fun, but, um, maybe not quite as much fun as Ollie, or practice is gonna suck tomorrow.”

I nod absently as they finish packing their gear. I don’t bother to correct Van as I walk off in the direction of the Hockey House. It should be empty now, but I wander down a side street to listen to the voicemail on my phone. Maggie didn’t call. I don’t know her number, but the one on my screen is one I recognize, though I haven’t used it in years.

I’m tempted to delete the message without even listening to it. A message from anyone in my hometown is guaranteed not to be a good thing, especially since this one’s from one of the assholes I used to hang with in high school, one whose name is synonymous with trouble .

Not that my name was ever squeaky clean. Still, hockey kept me closer to the straight and narrow than most of my friends and family. I was busy enough—and lucky enough—to avoid serious trouble most of the time. But the one time I got close to getting into deep shit, it was because of my cousin Curtis and his best friend, Dalton Griggs.

Curt’s serving time, and I haven’t been back in Grand Plains since all that shit went down. So why the hell is Griggs calling me?

My thumb hovers over the little trash can icon and I can almost hear Coach encouraging me to leave the past in the past. He’s the only person at Bainbridge who knows every detail of what went down the night of my high school graduation. Mickey knows the basics, but it’s not something I like to talk about.

Despite my hesitation, I press Play, and a second later, a voice from my past comes over the line.

“Jax, my boy, it’s been too damn long man. Thought you might pay us a visit on your summer break. Guess you’re too busy being a fuckin hotshot to remember where you came from. Funny thing, though. You’re about to get a memory boost whether you want it or not. Not sure if you heard the good news, but Curt has a shot of getting out early. All goes the way we think it will, he could be out in the next couple months. Figured you’d wanna know, seeing how you’re family and all. And family means everything, right Jax?”

The message ends abruptly, just as that fucker intended it to.

My mind is a jumble as I jog back to the hockey house. My key turns the lock and I ascend the stairs, skipping the ones that are on the verge of breaking. I don’t even bother shutting my door as I strip down and toss my shorts in the direction of the hamper.

Buck-ass naked, I wander down the hall to the shower, turning on the spray and stepping inside. The cold temp doesn’t even register. I’m on autopilot, going through the motions because if I stop to think about anything, the weight of Griggs’s message will come crashing down on me.

Once I’m clean, I wrench the handle to the right, step onto the pile of towels we use as a shower mat and pat myself dry.

My hair’s still wet when it hits the pillow, and I have a momentary thought that Birdie would scold me for not applying a leave-in conditioner. Hair care is the least of my fucking worries right now.

Curt’s coming home.

It doesn’t matter that Grand Plains isn’t my home anymore, or that it never will be again.

So much shit went down the night I graduated from high school, shit I paid dearly for.

But not dearly enough.

For a lot of reasons, my punishment was lighter than the other guys’.

Griggs did a quick stint in county for his involvement, and Curt’s at State for his transgressions.

But it sounds like that’s soon over, and so is the veil of safety I’ve been hiding behind for over a year now.

I shut my eyes to block out the intrusive thoughts. I’ve got to be at the gym in seven hours because this is my life now: an endless cycle of studying, training, playing, and sleeping, rinse and repeat.

My hectic schedule doesn’t give a shit that my past has come to call, and that Griggs and Curt won’t let up until they get what they want.

I take a deep breath and release it, willing my brain to shut off and let me sleep. This fucking shitstorm will still be here in the morning, and staying up all night stressing about it won’t make it any less threatening.

As I close my eyes again, my brain conjures up a vision of Maggie just to torture me. My cock twitches, but I ignore it. Earlier tonight, I was fucking bummed she wasn’t one of the pajama-clad cuties at Kappa. Now I’m fucking grateful.

The fact that Maggie wasn’t there tonight was clearly a sign from the universe. We might have fit together like puzzle pieces for one night, but we’re not meant to be, and that’s for the best.

If my toxic past is about to make a reappearance, the very last thing a girl like Maggie needs or deserves is baggage like mine.