27. JT

CHAPTER 27

JT

I feel shitty. Nervous. Like a liar and thief. At this very moment, I feel worse than I have in my entire life.

And that includes the night I got arrested.

It includes the nights I’d lie awake on some aunt or uncle’s couch and listen to them bitch about how I was one more mouth to feed, one more person in a too-small house. One more kid to deal with.

It includes the day my scholarship to Woodcock was rescinded, leaving me without a future. That is, until Coach Hudson Baylor called me. He’d seen me at some showcases. We even had a conversation in an elevator where he told me I was a hell of a player. Hearing that from a former pro was pretty fucking awesome, but I’d committed to Woodcock by that point, so his words only registered as an incredible compliment, and nothing more. But when I was down and out, sure I’d fucking screwed myself over, Coach Baylor recruited me. I asked if he knew about my situation, and he looked me straight in the eye and nodded, saying “What I know is that you need to get the hell out of Grand Plains. I know you were born to defend a net. And I know you’re no longer on Woodcock’s roster. ”

I owe him everything.

Which is why it feels so unbelievably wrong to be sneaking through his house in the middle of the night.

But Maggie won’t have it any other way.

And I want Maggie, so this is the way I’m playing it.

For now.

When Mickey accidentally set fire to our couch last week, it left most of us stranded for a place to go. Who knew a plaid nightmare of a sofa from the 1980s would go up in flames so quickly. One minute my best friend was making S’mores using a candle, and the next, we had half the fire department at our place.

We were each given ten minutes to gather what we could and get out so the investigators and cleanup crews could do their thing. Coach was on the scene by then, micromanaging every detail. He and Booker and Santos put their heads together and within half an hour, Santos had a spreadsheet with all the players and their temporary housing.

Mickey and I are staying with Coach until we’re cleared to go back to the hockey house.

It makes sense, really. Mickey’s folks live close by, but too far for a daily commute. And since I haven’t stepped foot in Grand Plains in more than a year, I’ve always spent breaks either at Coach’s place or Mickey’s. The first few days were fine. Coach is fun to be around when he isn’t super stressed, and Jules is cool as shit. Those two seem to have the perfect relationship. They balance each other out, and I’ve always admired them for it. I never really thought a long-term relationship was in the cards for me. I’m only nineteen, so maybe that was short-sighted of me. I’ve just seen so many couples that are toxic as hell, people who bring out the worst in each other and go the extra mile just to make the other person miserable. Before Coach and Jules, the only role models of healthy relationships I saw were the ones on TV.

We all co-existed pretty easily for a couple days. But now Jules is back on the West Coast for some fancy TV gig. She’s organizing celebrities’ closets or something and getting paid a shit-ton to do it, too. She’s happy as hell helping rich people declutter and Coach is moody as shit because he’s wife’s gone again.

I can handle that.

I can even handle Mickey getting on Coach’s last nerve. I’m the Mickey-whisperer. It’s funny because Ollie drives me batshit crazy, but Mickey doesn’t bug me at all.

I can deal with the fact that our team’s hit some road bumps. Will’s hearing is in a couple days, which only adds to Coach’s pissy mood. Unless a damn miracle happens, Will’s about to get booted from the team and maybe even the university.

Van’s in a crappy mood because things between Josie and him are at a standstill.

And Rosco’s bitching at anyone who comes within five feet of him. His hand is starting to heal, but he bruised the other one when he punched a hole in the wall after finding his girlfriend in bed with another guy.

So, yeah. It’s been tough.

But I can handle tough.

What I can’t handle is sneaking around.

Maggie’s been away for the last few days. Her Statistical Analysis class took a trip to the American Academy of Actuaries. Sounds like a snore fest to me, but she was pretty excited for the trip.

She got back this afternoon and I had to physically stop myself from hauling her into my arms and kissing her the way I wanted to after being apart for four days.

I also had to refrain from hauling her suitcase upstairs.

If we’d been alone, I’d have done both. Hell, I’d knock on Coach’s bedroom door right now and come clean.

But half the team was in Coach’s kitchen, so I had to pretend like I had no idea who Maggie is. I gave her an upnod like the rest of the guys and sighed silently in relief when Van grabbed her bag and offered to take it upstairs.

He’s a do-gooder like that. A schmoozer. No one batted an eye when he went all suave and smooth and helpful. Van’s natural charm gets us upgraded hotel rooms and free desserts at restaurants. He doesn’t even try. He just turns on that dimple and people fall all over themselves to please him.

Maggie thanked him, of course, and they chatted for a couple minutes about her train ride and all the thrilling sites she saw on her trip. I nearly ground my back molars to dust watching them talk like old friends.

It’s dumb, I know. Not to mention hypocritical. Maggie wasn’t flirting with Van, and he wasn’t hitting on her. In fact, he was doing me a favor. He’s the only guy on the team who knows that Maggie and I are together, so he was giving her a hand when I wanted to but couldn’t.

I promised Maggie I’d keep our relationship quiet, and I’ve kept that promise. I haven’t even told Mickey, and he’s my best friend. He also has the impulse control of the average five-year-old, so it’s probably for the best that he’s in the dark.

I am also in the dark.

The dark hallway of Coach’s house.

I really shouldn’t be here.

I should go for a run or hit up the gym or even go for a round of wings at Wolfie’s. I should not be creeping up the steps and checking that the coast is clear so I can sneak into Maggie’s room like some horny teenager.

Okay, technically speaking, I am a horny teenager, but I’m almost twenty. And wise beyond my years. And horny as hell.

I’m not even here for a booty call. I can’t do that with Coach fifteen feet down the hall.

Maggie texted a couple minutes ago and asked if I was still awake. It’s past midnight, but I can’t sleep, so I said yes. She asked if I could talk, but then she never responded when I answered. I guarantee she’s asleep, no doubt in tiny little shorts and an oversized sweatshirt. She’s probably tucked into her blankets, all warm and cozy. I want to fucking bust through that door just to lie next to her.

Instead, I’m sweating my balls off waiting for a reply text.

My phone is silent.

My blood pressure is probably in the danger zone.

And this hallway is quieter than the library during finals week.

I turn to head back downstairs when I hear a throat clear behind me.

“You need something, Norris?”

Yeah, a bucket to puke into.

“Hey, Coach.” It’s a wonder I manage to choke the words out and make them sound normal. “Nah, I just—” My mind goes blank and I can’t think of what to say next. I just want to crawl in bed with your niece? Or maybe, I just want to see if my girlfriend’s okay. Oh, yeah. My girlfriend’s at your house. She’s your niece. Definitely not, I’m so in love with your niece that I can’t think straight.

Proving that there is a god—and she’s a hockey fan—Coach hands me a save. “You couldn’t sleep, either, huh? Come with me, Norris. I know where my wife keeps the good stuff.”

I follow Coach downstairs and into the kitchen. He had us all over for a team dinner tonight, but he wisely had it catered by The Gatehouse, so Mickey didn’t manage to burn Coach’s kitchen down. He may have broken the disposal while we were doing the dishes, but I’m not dumb enough to bring up that little detail.

Coach reaches into the cabinet above the fridge and I’m about to remind him I’m still underage, so giving me a shot of whatever “good stuff” Jules has stashed up there is probably a bad idea. I’m no snitch, but I feel like I’m breaking enough rules these days .

He doesn’t bring down a bottle, though. In his hand is a small brown tin. He sets it on the counter, grabs the milk from the fridge, and tells me to get the saucepan in the cabinet next to the dishwasher. I do as I’m told, and five minutes later I’m sharing a cup of hot chocolate with my coach, which is fucked on several levels. First off, did I land in an after-school special? I don’t even like chocolate. And if he hadn’t found me creeping on his steps, I’d be in his niece’s bed right now…

Fuck. My. Life.

It’s on the tip of my tongue to come clean. To just lay it all out there. He’s a man in love with his wife, so he’ll get where I’m coming from. He’ll give me the stink-eye for sneaking around and he’ll threaten to cut off my balls if I make his niece cry. We’ll toast our hot cocoa mugs and practically be related before heading off to bed.

Damn. Maybe there is some special ingredient in this drink that’s making me hallucinate.

“It’s good, right?” he asks, holding his cup up. I nod because I’m not about to piss the guy off and tell him this too-sweet cocoa is wasted on me.

“Jules knows I have a sweet tooth, so she keeps hiding it. If she didn’t, there wouldn’t be any left for her to enjoy. It took me a while, but I found her hidden stash.” He darts a glance up the stairs. “My niece, Margo, has a sweet tooth that’s worse than mine. You better finish what’s in your cup or she might sniff it out and come downstairs to claim it.”

Jesus, Coach .

Again, I’ve got nothing to add to the conversation that isn’t completely inappropriate. I’m keeping my mouth shut so I don’t accidentally spew something about his niece’s secret stash or what she can claim if she comes downstairs.

Yep, I don’t have anything PG to say, so I’m not saying anything.

Lucky for me, Coach is unusually chatty tonight. We rehash the game plan in case Will gets cut, we go over the stats of every player on Claybrooke’s roster for the four-hundredth time. When the clock strikes two, I’ve drunk more hot cocoa than ever before in my life, and I feel ready for our games this weekend.

We say our goodnights and I head back to the guest room down the hall where I can finally check my phone. There’s nothing new from Maggie, so, like an idiot, I reread our earlier conversation looking for clues.

JT : You look fucking hot in those jeans.

Maggie : Stop. Also, thank you. And enjoy the view because I’m going back to my soft stretchy leggings as soon as I get upstairs.

JT : You look fucking hot in leggings, too, for the record.

JT : You haven’t touched your dinner. You okay?

Maggie : I’m not hungry. We ate out all week at the conference and I’m kind of done with rich food.

JT : Having a thrilling conversation with Kersey and his girlfriend, I see…

Maggie : Oh. My. God.

Maggie : They have talked for ten straight minutes about what song they should dance to first at their wedding. They are my age. They are not engaged. And their taste in music sucks.

Maggie : Switch me spots.

JT : Not a good idea.

Maggie : Why? Mickey’s your best friend. I want to get to know him.

JT : He’s swirling all the food on his plate into one big pile.

Maggie : Yeah…no. I’ll stay here.

Maggie : Hey, are you awake?

JT : Yeah. What’s up?

Maggie : Nothing. Everything’s fine .

JT : When someone says everything’s fine, that’s a guarantee it isn’t.

Maggie : No, it’s probably nothing. My brain’s in overdrive and I wanted to talk to you.

JT : On my way up.

JT : I’m on the steps. Is your door unlocked?

JT : Did you fall asleep?

I must read through our thread a dozen times, but nothing jumps out at me. I’m overreacting and that’s not like me. I’ve got ice in my veins. I’m cool under pressure. Nothing rattles me. But when it comes to Maggie, all bets are off.