Hannah tucks a strand of dark hair behind her ear. “For the record? If you ever lost your husband, I would never call you a crybaby and tell you to ‘get over it’。” Her expression grows serious. “In other words, you can keep moping about Sean for as long as you need to. I promise I won’t judge you for it.”
Emotion wells up in my throat, but I manage to squeeze out two words. “Thank you.”
7
Dean
For all his bullshit about the past staying in the past, it’s painfully evident that my former coach is pushing a Make Dean’s Life Miserable agenda. The first practice with our new defensive coordinator runs an hour late—but only for the defensemen. While everyone else heads to the locker room to shower, change and go home, O’Shea forces the D-men to stay behind for extra skating drills after announcing that we’re the sorriest excuse for hockey players he’s ever seen.
When he finally dismisses us, my teammates and I skate off the ice, cursing and grumbling the entire time. We’re all dripping with sweat, steam is rolling out of our helmets, and our mood is foul as we strip off our gear in the now-deserted locker room.
“Decent guy, huh?” Logan says sarcastically, echoing the description I’d offered yesterday.
“He was just showing us his dick is bigger than ours,” I mutter. “It’s probably his way of trying to earn our respect.”
No, it’s his way of punishing me for hurting his daughter, but I keep that delightful tidbit to myself. Not because O’Shea ordered me not to discuss it with my teammates, but because I’d rather not think about all the shit that happened with Miranda.
Ironically, my relationship with Miranda O’Shea didn’t just impact my high school life, but also my college one. Miranda is the reason I now spell out my intentions—or lack thereof—before every single hookup. Granted, I thought I’d spelled everything out back then too, but clearly I hadn’t articulated it as well as I should have. These days, I make sure women know exactly where we stand before their heads can fill up with fantasies about happily ever after.
“You doing anything for dinner?” Logan asks as we hit the showers. “Grace is grabbing Chinese food in town and meeting me at the house. I think she’s bringing enough grub for everyone.”
“Ah, thanks for the invite, but I’m having drinks with Maxwell. Not sure when I’ll be home.”
The conversation ends as we step into our respective stalls. I’ve barely finished soaping my balls when Logan shuts off his water. Jeez. Dude just showered like someone had offered him a million bucks if he could lather up and rinse off in less than thirty seconds.
“Later,” he calls as he slaps a towel around his waist and ducks out of the shower area.
I know he’s eager to see Grace, and for some reason that brings a strange flutter to my chest. It’s not quite jealousy. Not quite resentment. Disappointment, maybe?
I get it. My best friends are in love. They’d rather cuddle and make kissy faces at their women than hang out with the boys, and I’m not pissed at them for it, not in the slightest. Thing is, this feels like the beginning of the end for us.
After my older brother graduated from Harvard, he lost touch with his college friends within months. Teammates he once would’ve laid down his life for? Hardly speaks to them now. Friends from law school? They exchange one email a month, tops.
I understand that friends drift apart after college. People get married. They move away. They make new friends and develop other interests. But I hate the idea of not having Garrett or Logan or Tuck in my life. I also hate this cynical part of my brain that points out the inevitability of that outcome.
I’ll be in law school next year. I won’t have time to sleep let alone see my friends. Garrett will most likely be living in another city, playing in the NHL. Logan too, if it works out with the Providence Bruins, the farm team that has already stated their interest in signing him after he graduates. It’s only a matter of time before he’s called up to the pros and moving away, too. And who knows what Tucker plans to do after college. He might move back to Texas, for all I know.
Fuck. Why am I feeling so philosophical tonight? Maybe it’s because I haven’t had sex in three days. Sadly, that’s a long time for me, and my balls don’t like it. I blame Allie, of course.
“Dean!”
A familiar voice calls out to me as I leave the team facility. I spot Kelly sashaying up the path toward me, looking like she stepped off the pages of a New England clothing catalog. A thick red scarf winds around her neck, and she’s rocking a pair of brown leather boots and a long gray peacoat. Her blond hair is up in a messy knot, with long strands framing her face.