12. JT

CHAPTER 12

JT

I’ve been summoned.

It could be worse, I guess. I had a lab earlier today, which means I missed the team meeting at my house this afternoon, and that’s why I’m currently hauling ass across campus to meet my captains at Drip.

The coffee shop is busy as usual, but I spot Booker and Santos over by the window, so I head in that direction. There are two Green Dream smoothies in front Booker, so unless Cap’s pounding protein shakes, I can skip the line. I approach the table and sling my backpack over the back of a chair before taking a seat. Book slides a smoothie in my direction, and I take it gratefully.

“Thanks, man. What’d I miss today?”

Our games don’t start for another few weeks, but our practice schedule is in full swing. We typically hold team meetings at the athletic center, but I’m guessing these two have cooked up some team bonding idea that I’ll hate but comply with anyway.

“They want to sell our bodies,” Mickey says, sliding into the seat next to Santos .

We all blink at him. Dude’s my best friend, but I haven’t got a clue what he’s talking about. He could be spouting a conspiracy or just explaining some pyramid scheme he’s signed himself up for. With Mick, you never know.

“But the proceeds go to charity, so I’m down,” he announces, drumming his fingers on the table. “I need caffeine. brB.”

Our heads swivel collectively as we watch him walk across the coffee shop.

“He most definitely does not need caffeine,” Santos says, putting into words what Booker and I are clearly thinking.

The line parts for him and a group of girls lets him cut in line. They’re fucking giddy at the privilege of letting Brannon Mikalski go ahead of them. Or maybe it’s the privilege of staring at his ass. Mickey’s the best person I know, but that’s not why the ladies love him. It could be the swoopy thing his hair does, or his toned physique, but it’s probably the fact that the man’s got a damn anaconda in his pants. I know this because he tends to walk around naked and has a penchant for talking about his giant schlong.

“So, back to the whole “selling our bodies” thing?” I say, not loving the way my captains’ faces both turn red.

Santos shakes his head and takes a sip of his frothy drink. “Mickey wasn’t entirely wrong, to be honest.”

“But we’re not selling anything. And it is for charity.” Book looks apologetic and scandalized all at the same time. I know his family is super religious and that the guy doesn’t swear, ever. So, whatever they’re cooking up, it’s definitely out of his comfort zone.

“It’s a bachelor auction,” Pete clarifies. “A bunch of campus organizations are involved in fundraising this year, and we’re one of the groups that got picked for this particular event. Basically, we parade around on stage and people bid on dates with us. Everything’s donated, so all we need to do is show up twice: once to strut our stuff on stage and then again for the actual date. It actually sounds like fun. And like Book and Mickey said, it’s for charity.”

This whole thing sounds so far from my idea of fun that I feel my smoothie sour in my stomach.

“It’s gonna be the fuckin’ tits,” Mickey says, slipping right back into his seat. “And get this. The theme is “Inside the Ocean,” or something?—“

“Under the Sea,” Booker corrects.

“Yeah,” Mickey agrees, nodding. “I was gonna dress up like that crab guy, the one who sings. Then I’d, like, do a whole striptease to the drumbeat. But some sorority is in charge, and they said we have to wear swim trunks and that we can’t actually strip. So dumb.”

He pauses just long enough to take a slurp of his Caramel Chocolate Meltdown, or whatever the hell his drink is called. It’s sugar shock waiting to happen, but Mickey laps it up daily.

“So dumb,” I agree in solidarity.

Santos and Booker look at me, then at each other. I know what they’re thinking. They’re playing a mental game of Rock, Paper, Scissors to determine which of them has to convince me to participate.

It’s not that I’m a surly bastard. Or even a difficult one. I’m a team player on the ice and in the locker room. I’m a damn good housemate, if only because I know how to use the washing machine. But signing up for something like this is not on-brand for me.

Before Booker even opens his mouth, I open mine. “Count me in.”

They go slack jawed except for Mickey. We have the same major and we live in the same house. Plus, for whatever reason, his brand of crazy doesn’t annoy the shit out of me. Put that all together and it basically means we spend the bulk of our time together.

Santos is skeptical. “You realize we’re asking you to be in the bachelor auction, right? That means you’ve gotta wear whatever swim trunks they pick for us and shake your cake for the masses. And it means you actually have to go on a date with the lucky winner.”

“Yes, Dad,” I laugh, using the name we all call him. “I understand the concept of a bachelor auction. And yeah, I think it’s dumb as shit. But if you guys are all doing it, then I will, too.”

Santos nods before pulling out his phone and typing my name into a doc he’s pulled up. Why am I surprised this guy already has a spreadsheet started?

Booker finishes his drink and glances at his watch. “That was way easier than I thought it’d be, so I’ve got some time before my next class. I’m gonna head over to the library and see if Fallon’s still studying for her Calc test.” He stands, pushes in his chair, and tosses his trash. “Catch you guys later.”

“See ya,” Mickey calls over his shoulder before turning his attention back to me as he taps his chin like he’s in deep thought. “Your white hoodie,” he says, with no further explanation.

I sigh. “I just got that.” Mickey dragged me to the outlet mall a couple days ago because he was on a quest for new kicks. I’m not much of a shopper, but I found a deal and bought it. Mick’s been pissed ever since because it’s a sick sweatshirt and he’s jealous.

“Just for Friday,” he offers.

“Fine,” I grumble. “But?—”

“Dishes for a week?”

“Deal,” I agree.

Santos is watching us, his gaze pinging back and forth like he’s at a tennis match. “Is this what Van and I sound like? An old married couple who finish each other’s sentences?”

My eyes meet Mickey’s, then dart back to Santos. “We learned it from watching you,” we joke in chorus, making Santos groan.

“Seriously, though, if you want any favors from Norris, now’s the time to ask,” Mickey says. “He’s in a good fucking mood this week, and thank Christ for that. You were a pissy little bitch after that pool party at Kappa.”

I roll my eyes, but I know he speaks the truth. I was in a funk for a bit after Maggie left me naked and alone in…a borrowed bathtub. My crappy mood took a nosedive after that call from Griggs. But things are looking up. I mustered up the balls to call my lawyer—and yes, I have a lawyer. That tends to happen after you get arrested. It took Doug Sterns, Esq. about five minutes to find out that Curt is up for parole, but that it’s highly unlikely it’ll be granted. According to Sterns, Curt doesn’t have a snowball’s chance in hell of getting out before his five years are up. Apparently, he’s been as much of a menace behind bars as he was on the street. That doesn’t surprise me at all.

It probably cost me a couple hundred bucks for that answer, but every penny was worth it. I’ve been able to sleep this week. I know the day will eventually come that he’s released, but if what Sterns said is true, it’ll be a few more years down the road. I’ll be playing for the Bruisers by then, and able to afford the priciest lawyers around to ensure that a dumb mistake I made at seventeen isn’t going to haunt me for the rest of my life. Because I was a minor at the time, my record’s sealed, so I’m not worried about the media getting ahold of old news. What I want—no, what I need— is as much distance between me and my asshole cousin as possible.

But all that’s a worry for a day in the future, and I’m not in the business of borrowing trouble. Right now, life’s pretty good. My classes aren’t too demanding yet, the hockey house is still standing, and I’m the starting goalie for one of the best college hockey teams in the country .

Things could be a hell of a lot worse, so I’m going to enjoy the good while it lasts.

And I will definitely not think about how much better life could be if my Cinderella hadn’t smashed and dashed.

Nope, not gonna think about Maggie at all.