Comeback Season (St. A Knights #1)

Chapter 1

Colt

September

There’s no fucking way we’re going to lose this game.

Four minutes left. Sweat drips down the side of my face. The blood roaring in my ears pounds so loudly I can’t hear my own thoughts. Adrenaline and muscle memory fuel my body as the time on the clock ticks down.

Drew passes me the puck, and I break away from the pack. My shot is flawless, a five-hole shot sailing right between the goalie’s knees before he can block it.

The crowd roars, fans losing their ever-loving minds that I’ve just tied the game: 2-2.

It’s pre-season, the first home game, and we’re fighting for our lives on the ice. We’ve got a young team, and I don’t know that I’ve ever played such an intense game. These boys want to prove themselves.

One of our D-men, my roommate and best friend, Beau Warren, jostles for the puck. The asshole he’s battling checks him hard into the boards, but it doesn’t slow Beau down.

A few more possessions pass without either team scoring until Beau steals the puck. He passes it to Booker, who fakes right and then shoots a hell of a shot to the goalie’s left. A buzzer beater! Saving us from finishing in a tie at the literal last second, winning us the game.

Everyone in the stands erupts, screaming and going crazy, my teammates and I pounding each other on the back. You’d think we just won the Stanley Cup with the energy in the arena. This is why I love hockey. Love the fans. Even winning such a low-stakes game, there’s nothing like the feeling.

“Way to come back, boys!” Coach says when we’ve all filed back into the locker room.

“That was a good fight at the end. The majority of that game was sloppy, but we’ll address that tomorrow at practice.

” Coach likes to let us ride the high of winning after a game.

He says it keeps us in good spirits over the season.

He never rags on us for our mistakes during the post-game debrief; he saves that for practice the morning after.

“Get dressed and be safe tonight.” With those final words, he heads out.

“Dude, that shot was insane,” I hear Drew, aka Andrew Mattingly, say to Booker.

Jameson Booker is our senior star forward, one of my closest friends, but also the guy I’ve been trying to imitate for my last two seasons at Saint Augustine University. He’s the team captain and has been coaching me to take his place next year after he graduates.

“Thanks, man, but did you see that shot Colt took?” Booker looks at me with an approving grin.

The boys continue to celebrate as we undress and shower. By the time we make plans to meet at Ale Mary’s, the local college sports bar downtown, I can’t think of anything that could make this night any better.

The bar is packed with people who came from our game. One of the perks of being a hockey player at St. A’s is that we’re basically campus royalty. I haven’t paid for a drink yet tonight because people keep offering me beers and shots in congratulations for my goal and our win.

“Hey, Colt,” a sultry female voice says from behind me. I turn to find a slim blonde I’m sure I’ve never met before. Although with the amount of partying we do, who’s to say?

“Hello, gorgeous,” I reply, laying on the charm pretty thick. I decide to eat my words from earlier. There’s one thing that could make this night better: getting laid.

“Great game,” she drawls, slinking closer and running a perfectly manicured hand up my arm, feeling up my biceps.

As far as hookups go, I’ve participated in my fair share. I’m not as much into sleeping around as some of my teammates are, but I won’t deny that I enjoy the benefits of being a hockey star.

I place a hand at the base of her spine, right above the curve of her ass, and pull her in closer.

She smells like vanilla, sickly sweet. “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name.

” Not that I’ll remember tomorrow. I’m buzzing hard from all the free drinks.

I actually might be on the verge of drunk, something I’m usually more careful to monitor.

“Summer,” she states, running her hand up my chest and around my neck.

“Hmm,” instead of giving her some off-handed compliment about how pretty her name is, I lean in and kiss her glossy lips instead. She wastes no time opening up and meeting my tongue with her own.

I set my beer down on the bar beside me and cup her waist with my now-free hand. My head is buzzing, and my jeans grow tighter by the second. I’m not sure how long we make out before she pulls back and asks if I want to go back to her place.

And that’s exactly what we do.

My head is pounding when I wake up the next morning. It takes me a moment to get my bearings. I’m in a girl’s room, everything’s frilly and pink. A slender arm is draped over my torso. Looking down, I see that Summer is clinging to me, still naked, and sound asleep.

When I untangle myself from her clutches, I almost groan as nausea makes its way up my throat. Fuck alcohol. Every time I drink, I say I’m never doing it again, but then I end up at the bar again the next weekend.

I search the floor for my jeans and am unsuccessful in finding them. Only my boxers lay discarded on the rug. Where the hell are the rest of my clothes?

Exiting her room, I find myself in the living room of an on-campus dorm suite. Beau and I lived in one of these during our freshman year before we moved into our off-campus apartment.

I locate my jeans in the middle of the living room, right in front of the couch. We must’ve started undressing as soon as we got here, because her skirt lies a few feet away.

I follow the trail of clothes until I find my shirt and my hockey jacket near the front door in the kitchen.

“Ahem,” someone clears their throat as I’m in the process of pulling my shirt over my head. When I finally get it on, I look up to see a girl leaning against the fridge.

She’s beautiful. Tall, dark hair, round green eyes.

Damn, those are the brightest eyes I think I’ve ever seen.

She’s wearing a spaghetti-strap tank top and shorts; her pajamas, I assume.

Her legs are tanned and toned. Her arms are crossed over her chest, making her tits push up slightly over the neckline of her tank.

If I weren’t so hungover, I would definitely try to hit on her.

“Are you done staring, or do you want to take a picture?” she asks in an irritated voice.

“Oh, uh, sorry. I’m Colton Crosby—Colt, actually,” I hold out my hand, but she doesn’t move to shake it, so I let it fall back to my side.

A handshake? What is this, a business meeting? Pull yourself together, Crosby.

“I know who you are,” she responds, sounding unimpressed.

She pushes away from the fridge and opens it, pulling out a container of Greek yogurt.

When she turns to get a bowl from an overhead cabinet, I can’t help but admire her ass.

Goddamn. It’s perfect, round, muscular. This girl has to be an athlete with a body like that.

“You’d better get going, Colton Crosby, before she wakes up.

Otherwise, you’ll end up with another hickey to match the three on your neck. ”

I jerk my hand up as if I can feel the marks she’s talking about, which I obviously can’t. Without another word to the unnamed roommate, I turn and walk out the door.

Never in my life has a girl made me stutter like that before. I’m going to blame that little slip-up on the hangover.

I pull my phone out of the pocket of my jeans, where it must’ve stayed all night because it’s deader than a door nail.

Realizing I don’t have a way to call for a ride, I turn around and knock on the door that just shut behind me.

I don’t miss the grimace—of disgust?—when the mystery girl opens the door again.

“I’m sorry. My phone’s dead, and I don’t have a way to call for a ride back to my apartment. Do you have a charger I can use for a second? Or maybe just let me use your phone to call someone?”

She hesitates for a moment before letting me back inside. “You can use my charger. It’s by my bed on the floor.” She leads me to her bedroom, gestures to the cord lying on the rug, and then walks away.

I plug in my device and urge it to come back to life, taking in the room around me while I wait.

The bed, unmade, is covered in a white and blue quilt.

On the desk, there’s a laptop covered in photo stickers, as well as a tablet.

The wall above the desk is covered in sticky notes.

Leaning forward to read a few, I automatically know this girl has goals in the medical field because they all contain various anatomy information.

On the opposite wall, there are three bookshelves. However, they don’t contain textbooks. I skim over the titles and see some that I’ve read before, fantasies and sci-fi, and some I haven’t, mostly romance.

She has a few photos scattered about the room; they mostly show her with friends—and I don’t see Summer in any of them.

My phone, having come back to life, vibrates in my hand. I look down to see many missed texts from my teammates.

Power Puck Girls

Booker: Colt, wryd leaving with Summer Hayden?

Drew: Summer Hayden was at the bar??

Simmons: Yeah Colt was playing tonsil hockey w/ her

Drew: wtf bro

Drew: I’ve been tryna tap that since last year, asshole

Beau: Must not have been trying very hard

Drew: Fuck you Warren

Beau

Beau: Dude, you didn’t tell me you left the bar.

Beau: I’m locking your ass out. And I have your keys bc we drove your truck to Ale

Mary’s.

I groan, knowing I’m about to get my ass handed to me when I see the boys next. Just as I’m about to call Beau, I hear Summer’s voice in the kitchen.

“Hey, Stella, did you see Colton Crosby leave my room this morning?”

“Nope,” the roommate—Stella—mumbles through a mouthful of food.

“Damn. I was hoping he would ask for my number after last night. The sex was amazing.” Summer goes on to tell Stella all of the things we did last night, things I certainly don’t remember, and I can feel my face heating with embarrassment.

“Anyway, I’m going to go take a shower.” A door clicks shut.

With my phone charged ten percent, I decide that now is the best time to escape.

Stella gives me another wary look as I walk back out to the shared living room area, where she’s eating her bowl of yogurt on the couch.

“Thanks for the charger, and for, uh, not telling her I was still here,” I say, rubbing my hand on the back of my neck.

“You didn’t look like you wanted a repeat performance” is all she says in response. She goes back to scrolling on her phone, so I take that as my cue to leave, for real this time.

Once I’m safely down in the lobby, I call Beau and ask him, very politely, to come pick me up. He’s pissed at me but agrees nonetheless.

Beau has this rule that if you’re going to be drinking, you have to tell him where you are and where you’re going.

I know, it sounds weird that a guy, a college hockey player, would care about where his friends go to fuck around.

The thing is, back in high school, Beau’s sister went missing at a party.

They never found her. So, even though it’s mildly inconvenient, I try to let him know where I’m going, so he doesn’t worry.

But last night I didn’t.

While I wait for him to show up, I try to recall the events from the night before.

I remember making out with Summer at the bar, getting an Uber back to her place, and then things started to get hazy.

I must’ve blacked out at some point in the middle of getting undressed, meaning I was way more drunk than I had originally thought.

I recall flashes of sex, when I became lucid intermittently.

Summer is a screamer, and I don’t mean the good kind.

She had been flailing around and exaggerating every “orgasm” I gave her.

When I was finished, she climbed on top of me and started sucking on my neck, trying to rub my dick into becoming hard again.

Summer Hayden did not seem to hear the words “I’m done” come out of my mouth.

The memories make me feel more nauseous than I already was. I was definitely too drunk to have sex last night. I don’t even remember if I used a condom. I rub my temples and curse under my breath. I’m going to have to figure that out. Soon.