The Score (Off-Campus, #3)

by Elle Kennedy

He studies my face for so long I shift in discomfort. “What?” I mutter. “Nothing,” he says, but he still wears a suspicious expression as he ducks out of my bedroom.

Goddamn Allie. I told her I wanted her again, and she’d hung up on me. That doesn’t happen to me—ever.

So what the hell is Allie’s problem? I spent way too much time last night wondering if she’s playing hard to get. I mean, it’s not like she hadn’t enjoyed the sex. I’ve never been with anyone who showered my dick with so much glowing praise.

“Oh my gosh, I want to marry your cock!” “Best. Dick. Ever.” “Dean, you’re making me come…” Her throaty cries run through my head on a perverted, boner-inducing loop, and I grip the towel rack with one hand as a groan slips out.

Woulda been nice to have a witness around in case O’Shea tries something. After all, this is the man who clocked one of his own players in the empty parking lot of a high school. I was eighteen at the time. I didn’t report it because I understood why he’d done it, but that doesn’t mean I’ve forgotten about it. Or forgiven him for it.

Jeez

There isn’t a problem on his end, my ass. I’ve always played on the first line with Logan. We’re the two best defensemen on the roster. A dynamic duo, for chrissake. Brodowski is a junior who needs so much work I’m surprised he’s still on the team.

I don’t want to spend three days a week coaching a bunch of middle-schoolers. This is my senior year, for chrissake. My course workload is massive. And I’m already practicing six days a week with my own team and playing my own games, which doesn’t leave a lot of downtime.

The jab stings more than it should. Sure, I can be a selfish bastard at times, but I hadn’t done anything wrong back then, damn it. Miranda and I had been on the same page…until suddenly we weren’t.

But I guess it doesn’t matter who was in the wrong, does it? Because it’s pretty fucking clear that Frank O’Shea is never going to forgive me for what went down between me and his daughter.

“Dicky! Yay! I haven’t spoken to you in ages!” The nickname never made me cringe when we were kids, but now that we’re adults, it’s fucking mortifying.

As far as I’m concerned, once my little sister learned how to pronounce Dean, our folks should’ve ordered her to kick Dicky to the curb. Then again, ordering Summer to do anything pretty much ensures she’ll do the opposite. My sister is a stubborn brat.

“Why are you answering Nick’s cell?” I ask suspiciously. “Because I saw your name and wanted to talk to you fi...

She says lawyer as if it’s a dirty word. Though to Summer, it probably is. My sister had declared at the age of twelve that law is “hella boring,” and eight years later her stance remains the same.

She only agreed to attend an Ivy League college to placate our parents, but last we spoke, she told me she wants to go into interior design after she graduates.

Good for her

Summer is two years younger than me, but she gives me a run for my money when it comes to grabbing life by the horns and seizing the day and all that crap. I’m surprised our parents haven’t disowned her yet.

“Actually, I’m thinking of transferring to Briar.” An alarm goes off inside me. “Why? I thought you were happy at Brown.” “I am. But…uh…yeah.” Summer sighs again. “I’m on probation.”

I halt midstep. “What did you do?” I demand. “What makes you think I did something?” There’s a sniff over the line. “Save your Little Miss Innocent act for the parentals.” I snicker.

“What’d she do?” I ask him. Nick gives a hearty laugh. “Oh no, I’m not spoiling it for you. All I’m going to say is, classic Summer.”

My friends like to mock me about being a rich kid from Connecticut. I’m sure they think my parents are snobs and my siblings are spoiled, but truth be told, my family is awesome.

Both my parents are high-powered attorneys, but they’re the most down-to-earth people you’ll ever meet.

Don’t get me wrong, my siblings and I definitely had a ton of perks growing up. We had a nanny and housekeeper. We went to private schools and got a cushy weekly allowance. But we also had to do chores and finish all our homework before we ever s...

And if we tried pulling that gimme-whatever-I-want-because-we’ve-got-oodles-of-money crap...

The one and only time I demanded money from my dad, he turned around and donated my entire college fund to a charity for underprivileged kids. Then he made me clerk at his...

I wrinkle my forehead. Tucker hadn’t spent Friday night at home either. I wonder if he’s seeing someone new, because he doesn’t usually stay out two nights in a row.

I don’t know why I’m feeling so antisocial. Maybe I’m still edgy about O’Shea showing up at Briar. Or maybe it’s because every time I closed my eyes for a nap today, I pictured Allie’s sexy mouth wrapped around my dick. Her smooth, golden curves pressed up against me. Her tits filling my palms.

Why can’t I get this girl out of my mind? Yes, the sex was phenomenal. Yes, I find her attractive. But phenomenal sex and attractive girls aren’t exactly an anomaly in my life.

Get over it, I order my dick when it yet again hardens at the thought of Allie. It twitche...

Allie picks up after four rings, her wary voice sliding into my ear. “Hey. What’s up?” I let out a ragged breath. “I want to fuck you again.”

“Is this a thing now? You’re going to call me every night and say that?” “Maybe?” Shit. I’m cranky and horny and as confused as she is. “Say yes, baby doll. Just say yes and put me out of my misery.”

“I already told you, it was a one-time thing. I’m not into casual sex. We had fun, sure, but—shit, I’ve gotta go. Call one of your puck bunnies and I’m sure they’ll take care of you, okay?” ...

“Who was that?” I jump nearly two feet in the air at the sound of Hannah’s voice. I disconnected the call when I heard her footsteps in the hall, but I hadn’t expected her to appear in my doorway this fast.

Dean: You really need to stop hanging up on me. I text back, You really need to stop propositioning me. I know I’m a great lay, but get over it already.

Him: I can’t. Trust me, I’ve tried. Me: Try harder. Him: C’mon, baby doll. Just one more time. Think of how good it will be…

Of course it’ll be good. He’s a sex champion. But that doesn’t change the fact that I’m not comfortable with casual sex.

Me: Go away. I’m running lines w/ Hannah. Him: Text me when you’re done and I’ll sneak into your dorm. Wellsy won’t even know I’m there.

I’m startled to feel a sharp ache between my legs. The idea of Dean sneaking in and fucking me while Hannah sleeps obliviously in the next room is a turn-on I didn’t expect. I ignore the unwelcome response and type, Good night, Dean.

“All right. Who am I? Jeannette or Caroline?” “Caroline. Her defining traits are petty and insensitive.” My best friend grins widely. “So I get to play the bitch? Nice.”

I think it takes a certain level of trust to sit next to someone and not feel the pressing urge to babble away.

Meg breaks a silence with jokes, doing her damndest to fill the lull with laughter. For as long as I’ve known her, she’s resorted to humor whenever shit gets too serious for her.

Stella fills the silence by barraging you with questions about your life. For as long as I’ve known her, she’s avoided discussing herself if she could help it.

I guess that’s why it surprised me when she started dating Justin Kohl, the football player Hannah had a crush on before she fell for Garrett. Stella has openly admitted...

I have this terrible habit of wanting to make everyone happy, even if it means sacrificing my own happiness.

Shit. Maybe Dean’s right. Maybe we should hook up again.

She snorts. “Good luck with that. We both know you can’t even make out with a guy without hearing relationship bells in your head.” Also true.

Not only is he not relationship material, but I doubt he could even commit to a fling. I can’t see him being exclusive to me, which is absolutely nonnegotiable, because there’s no way I’m sleeping with someone who’s also sleeping with other people.

I don’t know why he’s so eager to jump into bed with me again, but I’m confident he’ll get over it eventually. The guy has the attention span of a fruit fly, and the affection-giving habits of a puppy, offering his sexual devotion to whoever happens to be holding the treat. By which I mean the vagina.

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.

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.

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.

It's not inevitable if you do the work