Chapter 13 #2
I snorted. “Silver and black remind me of those fuckers at Cardinal Saints.”
“Ah, of course, the bitter rivalry,” he said, a small smile playing on his lips.
“They’re dicks.”
He looked at me with amusement. “You know you beat them, right? You have the utmost bragging rights, we won.”
I scowled. “It’d be better if I could hit Jett over the head with the trophy.”
Noah whistled softly. “What the fuck did he do to you?”
I thought about it. “Nothing,” I admitted. “I just . . . Fuck it, I just really don’t like him.”
We stood at the bar door; Noah opened it and held it for me. “I’ll get you a double bucket of wings, that’ll help with that pent-up energy.”
“Don’t think there are enough wings to help with that,” I said lightly. What would help with that pent-up energy was being between Savannah Cole’s thighs and thrusting deep inside her.
I shoved that thought away.
Noah was already halfway to the bar like he owned it. I joined the guys as they gathered around a booth, my hand slipped into my pocket, fingers tracing over the curve of my phone.
I pulled it out and was slightly disappointed to see Sav hadn’t texted. I opened ESPN. I frowned as I read the updates. Our hockey team had lost. My sound of surprise went unnoticed in the crowded bar.
Well, that was not fucking good. The report I’d seen suggested all the players were healthy, but skimming the ESPN report, more than four were dealing with injuries.
“Hockey team got beat,” I told Noah when he returned with a tray, carrying two beers and a bucket of wings.
“Yeah, they were going to, they’re beat up pretty bad.” He set the tray on the table.
“Really?” I questioned him. “That’s not what the reports say.”
Noah looked up. Not a long look — just long enough to know he’d just noticed more than I wanted. “What reports?”
I suddenly remembered where I was and who might be listening. I waggled my phone. “The provider of all things,” I joked. “Sports news.”
Noah nodded, and he didn’t push it, and neither did I.
I settled into the booth, wondering if Noah planned to share the wings with me as he continued to eat his way through the bucket.
“I thought these were for me?” I teased, and he looked up sheepishly.
“I ordered two,” he said. His hand was already dipping back in.
“Fine, I’ll wait.” I glanced at my phone and saw a message from Sav.
Savage: You still awake?
My entire focus shifted to the screen and that question. It could be completely innocent. Or it could be something else entirely.
“What is it?” Noah asked, licking his fingers, but his eyes were sharp.
I showed him the screen, and he grinned, shoving the bucket my way.
“You’d better eat, you might need it.”
“Dick,” I murmured, but I reached for a wing and wondered what I would say. Could Sav really be hitting me up for a booty call? If she was, was I going?
Of course I was going.
I checked the time she sent it — twenty minutes ago. I ate a few more wings, weighing my options, and then hit reply.
Me: Yeah. What do you need?
I knew what I needed. Fucking her into the mattress and hoping the need to have her would disperse as soon as I left her bed. I went to the bathrooms to wash my hands, ignoring Noah’s knowing grin.
My phone buzzed as I was leaving. I pulled it out of my pocket faster than I meant to, even while I exchanged shit with people who called out to me.
Savage: I forgot to send you the reading list for next week.
I barked out a laugh as I read her text. Shaking my head at my own stupidity. Savannah Cole sending me a booty text? What the fuck was I thinking? I headed back across the bar toward my teammates, but the sound of my name — sharp, low — stopped me short.
“Dante Spence.”
I turned around. It wasn’t a coach or anyone I knew well enough to name.
Just a group of upperclassmen, no longer on the first team.
Guys who would tell others for years that they played in college, as if they were stars, but in reality, they were never going any further than the bench.
The way they looked at me made my jaw tighten.
“Word of advice,” the biggest of them said, stepping in close enough that I could smell the stale beer on his breath. “Keep your mouth shut about what you hear in the weight room.”
What the actual fuck was this? I narrowed my eyes. “And what do you think I’ve heard?”
“Don’t play dumb.” His smirk was all teeth, but there was nothing funny about it. “Rumors are rumors for a reason. Nobody wants the NCAA sniffing around again.”
Again? That word felt heavier than the others.
Before I could respond, another voice cut in — quieter but sharper. “You remember Sterling, who played on the team?”
“Sterling?”
He smirked, misinterpreting my confusion as a question. “Yeah, that’s what happens when people don’t know when to stop talking.”
Vaguely, I remembered a player named Mason Sterling. I hadn’t heard his name since I was a freshman, hearing whispers about how a solid player had suddenly vanished. Transfer papers filed. A career derailed overnight.
The guys didn’t wait for me to answer. One of them slapped me on the shoulder, my injured shoulder — and not in a friendly way, more like a warning — and they peeled off toward the back of the bar.
I stood there, the weight of their words feeling heavier in the noisy bar. What the fuck had that been?