The Mistake (Off-Campus, #2)

by Elle Kennedy

Like Grace? The mocking thought slices into my mind like a damn lightsaber. Shit. Yeah, someone like Grace. Someone exactly like Grace, with her Ted Bundy rants and her calming presence and—hello, irony.

I broke up with her to avoid getting into a serious relationship with her, and now it turns out that’s what I wanted all along. “Damn it. I…scre...

Then he grins and slaps me on the arm. “Well, thank God. Because I was seriously considering promoting Tuck to the number one best friend slot.” “Are you kidding? Big mistake, G. He’s a terrible wingman. Have you seen his beard?”

I’m already pulling up Grace’s number as I dart out of the kitchen and head for the stairs. Texting isn’t an option. I want her to hear my voice. I want her to hear how agonized I am about everything that went down tonight.

I didn’t just lead her on—I led her right up to the point where she wanted to lose her virginity to me, and then I threw the offer back in her face and told her I was interested in someone else. Hell, I'm surprised karma hasn’t rained down on me and given me three flat tires and a sprained ankle by now for being such an ass.

Hey, this is Ramona. Just heard what happened with you and Grace. Need me to come over and comfort you? ;) Winky face. She actually fucking winky-faced me.

Ew

Why the hell is Grace’s best friend hitting on me? Who does that? I’m so pissed off that I grab the phone and forward the message to Grace without stopping to question my actions. I add a caption—thought you should see this.

Mom eyes me from the counter. “Which one? The boyfriend or the best friend?” “Ramona,” I mutter. “Who, by the way, I don’t care to discuss, seeing as she’s no longer my best friend, same way Logan isn’t my boyfriend.”

“And yet they keep calling and texting, which means they both still care about you.” Yeah, well, I don’t care that they care.

An explanation? Gee, how does one explain the betrayal of their closest friend?

“It’s not about Logan. It’s about the fact that she knew I was hurting. She knew I was humiliated over what happened with him, and instead of supporting me, she waited until I was asleep and then propositioned him. It’s pretty clear she doesn’t give a crap about me or my feelings.”

Preach

“Bryndan? Lord, what is the matter with parents these days?”

It’s my turn to sigh. “I know you’re trying to be helpful, but can we please not talk about Ramona anymore?” “Okay, let’s talk about the boy then. Because I think you should call him back, too.”

“Sweetie, he obviously feels bad about what happened, otherwise he wouldn’t be trying to contact you. And…well, you were going to, ah…give him your flower⁠—” I do a literal spit take.

“Oh my God. Mom. Don’t ever say that again. I beg of you.” “I was trying to be parental,” she says primly. “There’s parental, and then there’s Victorian England.”

“All right. You were going to fuck him⁠—” “That’s not parental either!” A gale of laughter flies out, and it takes a second before I’m able to speak without giggling.

Every year, the Munsen Miners extend an invitation, and every year I turn them down. Honestly, it’s too depressing to even consider. It’s just a reminder that next year I’ll be going from a Division I team to the Munsen Miners.

And I have memories of him when he was sober. When he was quick to smile, always armed with a joke or a laugh. I miss that man. Christ, I really fucking miss him sometimes.

Poor kid

“You don’t recommend. You push it on them. You shove it down their fuckin’ throats.”

That's not the way to do business

He blinks again, confusion eclipsing the anger. For a moment, he looks like a lost little boy, and suddenly I feel like bawling. It’s times like these when I want to grab his shoulders and shake him, beg him to make me understand why he drinks.

My mom says it’s genetic, and I know Dad’s side of the family has a history of depression as well as alcoholism. And fuck, maybe that’s it. Maybe those really are the reasons he can’t stop drinking.

But a part of me still can’t fully accept that. He had a good childhood, damn it. He had a wife who loved him, two sons who did whatever they could to pleas...

I know he’s an addict. I know he’s sick. It’s just so hard to put myself in that mind frame, in that place where a bottle of booze is the most important thing in your life, so much so that ...

And shit, I really need to quit thinking about Grace. I can’t even count how many times I’ve called her this summer, but her continued silence tells me everything I need to know. She doesn’t want to hear my apologies. She doesn’t want to see me again. Yet I can’t fight the hope that maybe she’ll change her mind.

I haven’t had sex in almost three months,

So, since he met Grace. He's so gone for her. I love it.

Any other time, I’d invite myself into her shower in a heartbeat. But I’m still holding on to hope that Grace might…might what? Text me? Accept my apology? Even if she does, that doesn’t mean she’ll want to go out with me. Hell, why would she? She wanted to fuck me and I rejected her.

I grin when I notice the sunburn on his nose, neck, and shoulders. And because I’m an ass, I lean in and flick the red patch of his skin on his left shoulder. He winces. “Fuck you. That hurt.”

“Poor baby. You should ask Wellsy to rub aloe on your booboos.” He gives a wolfish smile. “Oh, trust me, she has. Which already makes her a way better roommate than you.”

Actually, I haven’t felt like partying at all lately. If I’m being honest, my mood’s been in the dumpster since that night with Tori last month.

Because you're an idiot who shouldn't of slept with her

I shift in my chair, uncomfortable. “Thanks for the offer, but I’m not interested in a set-up.” He brightens. “Does that mean the freshman you’ve been obsessing over finally decided to forgive you?”

Now I regret telling him, because talking about her brings an ache to my chest.

“She still won’t talk to me,” I admit. “It’s over, man.” “Shit. That sucks. So I assume you’re back to drilling anything in a skirt?” “No.” My turn to pause. “I almost slept with this older chick a few weeks ago.”

“Nice. Are you—wait, what do you mean, almost?” I awkwardly sip my beer. “Couldn’t go through with it.” He looks startled. “Why not?”

“Because…it was…” I struggle to find the right adjective to describe that disastrous night with Tori. “I don’t know. I went back to her place, fully intending to fuck her brains out, but when she tried to kiss me, I just bailed. It felt…empty, I guess.”

Phil Graham is hockey royalty around these parts, and I used to idolize him when I was growing up, but ever since Garrett told me about the abuse, I can’t even hear the man’s name without wanting to shove a skate in his chest and twist. Hard.

“That’s bullshit,” Garrett says again. Vehemently this time. “No, it’s life. Jeff did his time, and now it’s my turn. Someone has to, or else my dad will lose his business, and the house, and⁠—”

“And that’s his problem,” Garrett interjects, his gray eyes blazing. “I don’t mean to sound insensitive, but it’s true. It’s not your responsibility to take care of him.”

Preach

Disbelief drips from Garrett’s voice. “So you’re putting your life on hold? For years?” “Yes.” The silence that follows only heightens my discomfort.

A crease digs into my forehead. “What?” “You’ve got a whole year, John. Your senior year. For one more year, you do have choices. You have hockey, and your friends, and if you want a girlfriend, you can have that too.”

“Hey. Change of plans,” he says. “Wellsy got off work early, so we’re going running instead.” I wrinkle my nose. “You and me?” “You, me, and Wellsy,” he clarifies. “She and I have been running every night.

I also know that the reason she doesn’t see them is…her own damn business. Even though she told Garrett it was okay to confide in me about the sexual assault in her past, it feels inappropriate to bring it up. If she wanted to talk about it with me, she would.

Just in time to hear Hannah scolding Dean about his running attire. “Seriously, dude, put on a shirt.” “Hey, you know what they say,” Dean drawls. “If you’ve got it, flaunt it.”

“No, I’m pretty sure they say put on a shirt when you go for a run, you cocky narcissist.”

His jaw drops. “Narcissist? More like realist. Look at these abs, Wellsy. Actually, touch them. Seriously. It wil...

I snicker, but I happen to know she’s not giving Dean enough credit. As much as his ego probably hates that his pristine abs have been soiled, Dean also happens to be a stubborn-as-fuck hockey player who’s not going to allow a tiny ballbuster like Hannah get to him.

Knowing they’ve been running together often enough to have a “route” brings a strange pang of jealousy. I miss my friends, damn it.

As she sings Hozier’s “Take Me to Church,” I can’t help but turn to grin at Dean. “She sings when she’s running,” he says with a sigh. “Seriously. She does it the whole time. Garrett and I tried explaining that it messes with your breath control, but⁠—”

“I swear to God,” she interrupts, “if I have to hear one more lecture about my breath control, I will punch you. All of you. I like to sing when I run. Deal with it.”

I actually don’t mind it. Her voice is a nice soundtrack to the thuds of our sneakers pounding the pavement, even if her choi...

When we reach the entrance of the park, I notice the roof of the gazebo peeking through the trees, and I’m suddenly reminded of the night at the water tower with Gra...