Spencer
“Fuck a duck,” I curse out loud as I park my ancient Subaru in the back of my house. My shared house—the famous, or infamous, hockey house. I totally forgot about tonight’s party. And what the fuck? It’s a damn Wednesday. Who parties on Wednesdays? That’s right, my team does. At least, in the off-season. And last year, I was right there in the thick of it. And that didn’t end well at all.
It’s been a long-ass week and I’m bone tired after the extra practice I just had with Coach Garfunkle. We ran drills until my legs felt like jello. I’ve been exclusively in net since I was seven, so I can do butterfly pushes in my sleep, but we ran them for hours today.
You don’t get to the NHL without working your ass off.
Or, as my dad says, you need to eat, sleep, and breathe hockey. It’s the Dan Briggs way, and he won’t settle for less. My dad never made it to the NHL because of a college injury, so he’s pressing extra hard for me to move up to the pros as fast as possible.
Speaking of my dad, I palm my buzzing phone and sure enough, he’s calling.
“Hey, Dad. What’s up?” I go for casual as I exit my car and grab my hockey bag from the back.
“Just checking in to see how practice went. Did you get that extra session in?”
“Yep. Just finished up with Coach Gar,” I confirm.
“Garfunkle? Why not Keller? Or Gaulthier? You need to get face time with your head coach, and your goalie coach, Spencer. Spending an evening with a hippie does what for your game?”
I ignore the jab, but he persists.
“I asked you a question, Spencer. Three hours of new-age shit is helpful to your game in what way exactly?”
It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell him that Coach Gar’s a good guy and we had a really good practice. Do I believe all his new-age shit? Nah. It’s not my thing. But I’m not gonna trash it, either. If carrying around crystals and talking about chakras makes the guy’s day, then who the hell am I to judge?
But, I don’t want to spend the next hour getting a lecture from my dad, so I respond accordingly. “Understood, sir. I’ll work with Coach Keller and Coach Gaulthier from here on out.”
“Jesus Christmas. A program like that, a goalie like you? They should be bringing in somebody to work with you full-time. You were signed by the goddamn NHL,” he grouses, but I tune him out. It’s nothing I haven’t heard before. Will Gaulthier is a great goalie coach, but he’s part-time. They can’t dedicate a whole coaching position to two or three guys, no matter what my dad thinks.
“Look, I should go. Gotta eat.”
“Yeah, all right. You’re sticking with the meal plan?”
“Yes, sir,” I answer, shaking my head. It’s the same damn meal plan I’ve been on since grade school, only the portion sizes have increased.
“Have a good night then. Try and relax a little. I sent you some tape on that forward from Michigan, so go ahead and watch that.”
“Sounds good, Dad.” Only my dad would want me to spend my downtime watching tape. Like I haven’t already scheduled time for that. Jesus. I’d love nothing more than a Marvel marathon right now, but based on the sounds coming from my house, that's not gonna happen. Nope. It looks like I have a party to attend.
Fake it till you make it, right? Except that’s never been my speed. I’m more the work-your-tail-off till you make it sort. And when I was the life of the party for a brief stint last year? Let’s just say, again, it didn’t end well. Would I much rather hole up in my room and watch every Avengers movie in order than go to this party? Hell yes, I would. But team bonding is important and I need to quit my bitchin’ and get down there and be Mr. Social.
Or, in my case, Mr. Socially Awkward.
I approach the back door, which leads into the kitchen, and the noise is already deafening. For a split second I think I can escape the party and duck up to my room, but my damn stomach growls.
And that’s when I make the first mistake of the night. I turn toward the cupboards to grab a bag of nuts, and Coop spots me.
“Briggsy! Where the hell you been? Get your ass back here. We’ve got kegs to unload.”
“No problem, Coop,” I say, turning toward the front of the house. But the thing is, it’s a huge problem. Parties are not my thing anymore. I learned my lesson the hard way; I can’t have a social life and a hockey career. It’s one or the other, and since I’ve been working toward the NHL since I could walk, being in a crowd of college students is a giant pain in my ass and it’s not something I have the energy for right now. But the fall semester starts next week, so my housemates think it’s a perfect time to let loose.
But, like always, I follow orders. I do the same with my dad, so why should my team be different? And the fact is, every time I haven’t followed orders, I’ve fucked up. So yeah, I’ve learned my lesson. I give JD a hand with the kegs, which takes all of five minutes.
“Thanks man. You’re sticking around for the party?” he asks, but it’s not really a question. JD knows I try to distance myself from the social scene these days, but it’s clear that won’t be an option tonight.
“Yeah, just gonna grab a quick shower.” I say, turning toward the stairs.
“Good call. You smell like ass,” Coop yells after me as I jog up to my room.
I go through the motions of emptying my bag, sorting what I need for tomorrow and throwing the rest in the hamper. I wash up, put on fresh clothes, and then stall in my doorway.
In the twenty minutes I’ve been gone, the party has already tripled in size. It’s crowded and already getting hot. I can’t blame the guys too much. It’s still the off-season, technically, and since classes aren’t in session yet, no one has any studying to do.
I swing through the kitchen for a beer (just one, Dad, chill). There are people everywhere, but my size alone makes it easy to see over the crowd and make my way to one of the couches.
I thumb through my phone, checking scores and mindlessly looking at videos. Before I know it, an hour has passed. Damn, this socializing thing isn’t so bad after all.
Not two seconds after that thought crosses my mind, do I realize how completely wrong I am.
I’m halfway through the old game tape my dad sent me, when I hear moaning in my left ear. What the actual fuck? I’m not the only one occupying this sofa anymore. I’ve been joined by my teammate, Nic Rosen, but we exchange no pleasantries. And that’s because there’s a woman wrapped around him like a damn octopus.
And based on the sounds he’s making, he doesn’t mind a bit. I’m not sticking around, though. I vacate my seat and it’s quickly filled by a girl who’s all too eager to watch Rosie and his date.
My beer’s warm, so I make my way toward the kitchen, all the while calculating if I’ve spent enough time at the party. I get my answer when I walk up to the keg and nod at Coop and Vonne, then get pulled aside by JD.
My captain lays it right out there. “Briggsy, get out there and show your face. Fuck, even smile if the spirit moves you. Look, I get this isn’t your scene, and hell, it’s not really mine, either, but at least act like you like these people. It’s no secret you're hot shit on the ice and you keep us on our winning streak, but these guys need to see you let loose if they're really going to trust you.”
“Yeah, I hear you.” I give a half a smile of acknowledgement and head back toward the living room. I skip flip cup because I do not need a hangover tomorrow, but I spot Chase and Jonesy, a couple of rookies, and figure we can talk shop for a while.
I walk over to where they’re standing, but their eyes aren’t on me. Nope. Like everyone else at the party, their attention has turned toward the door. I swear even the music stops when she walks in.
I may only be a sophomore, but it’s a well-known fact at Moo U that no party really starts until Paige Underwood arrives. She’s like the Pied Piper of Frat Boys, this one. Well, athletes, too. She’s a magnet. Guys want to be with her and girls want to be around her. And why the hell wouldn’t they? She’s a knockout, and she’s as sweet and charming as she is gorgeous.
Well, at least that’s what I’ve heard. Paige and I have never had so much as a conversation. She’s friends with a lot of the guys on the team, though. And I was at the Kappa Sig party last year when she hopped up on the deejay’s table and danced to the Booty Medley— “Doin the Butt,” “Rumpshaker,” and of course, “Baby Got Back.”
Paige Underwood’s ass is a work of art.
Her ass is also none of my business. I have no time for dating or hooking up, not to mention the fact that she’s so far out of my league it’s ridiculous. I’m not a troll or anything, but I’m just not one of those charismatic guys that people like Paige are drawn to.
Chase and Jonesy are still talking and for a brief minute, I wonder if I could sneak upstairs. Not that I would deliberately disobey my captain’s order to socialize, but would it be so bad if I snuck upstairs for half an hour or so? No one would notice. And I could come back in a bit when everyone is even drunker, and make a quick appearance.
“Dude! Briggsy. Do not go upstairs.” Shit. Chase has only been here a couple weeks and already he has a handle on how much I try to avoid shit like this.
“I’ll stick around for another beer,” I concede, since I just refilled my cup and promised JD I would.
“Fuck that noise, goalie, we’re getting trashed.” Chase looks like he’s trained all his life for this moment. With his backwards cap and Moo U shirt with the sleeves ripped off, he’s clearly achieving every bro goal he’s ever set.
“Slow down, rookie. The season isn’t that far away,” I caution.
“But it doesn’t start tomorrow,” he says, and I have no choice but to follow him. If he gets shitfaced and does something stupid, there’ll be hell to pay.
He leads me into what would typically be the dining room, but we’re a bunch of guys, so the room is pretty much devoted to ping pong and foosball. All right, this won’t be so bad. A little beer pong and we can all call it a night.
Uh, yeah. Not so much.
There, among a small crowd in my dining room, stands Paige. She’s deep in concentration, setting up something. There are a couple of chairs haphazardly circling the table. Some people are sitting, a couple are still standing, and Andy, one of the guys who lives next door, is sitting on the floor.
“What the—”
“Drunk Jenga, Briggsy. C’mon.” Chase all but drags me over to join the game.
Sweet Hell. As if Jenga needed to be more complicated, you go and add a bunch of drunk college kids to the equation. Still, I’m not too worried about my chances. I’ve got reflexes like a damn cat and my balance rivals that of any yoga instructor. I will survive this game unscathed.
At least, I think I will.
“Everybody knows the rules, but just in case you’re a newbie,” I swear Paige looks right at me when she says this, “it’s regular Jenga, but you have to do whatever’s on the tile you pull. So, what’s that one say, Benny?” she asks the guy directly across from her as he pulls the first tile.
“Single,” he answers with a smile.
“So, if you’re single, drink up,” Paige says, before taking a sip of her beer, and I take the shot Chase pours. So much for not drinking tonight. But one shot won’t kill me, and besides, I need the liquid courage for this level of socialization.
“Drink, man,” Chase commands Andy.
“Screw you. I have a girlfriend.”
“Really? Cause I don’t see her…”
“She lives in Canada.” Andy defends himself.
“Oh, buddy, this is a no judgement zone,” the girl next to Paige coos. “Drink up.”
The tips of his ears turn red, poor guy, but he drinks.
The first few rounds go like this, a little good-natured ribbing, a lot of drinking, and just a general good time.
Until we lose Chase.
He was right next to me, but then he picked the Swap tile and had to switch places with the guy on his left, which was Colin Zacarelli, another rookie. Or, as my dad likes to call him, the little asswipe who’s gunning for your spot.
I guess I should have kept a better eye on Chase, but he’s a college freshman, so I guess I figured he could play a game without direct supervision. And he was still in the group. But now he’s not, and I don’t see him anywhere. What the hell? How does a 200-pound guy who stands at 6’ 2” just disappear?
So, Chase is MIA, Andy’s under the table meowing and I can’t force myself to give a shit. Somebody pulls a tile that says Shoes, and since we’re all wearing shoes, we drink. I can see how this kind of shit could get out of hand pretty quickly.
A roommate of Andy’s pulls the tile that says Scramble, so we all rearrange ourselves before taking another drink. I’m not exactly sure we’re playing this right, but you won’t hear me complain. After we scrambled, Paige ended up next to me, so I’m pretty sure Drunk Jenga is my new favorite game.
“Briggs, you’re up,” Paige tells me, and I’m a little stunned she knows my name. I mean, sure, a lot of people recognize me because I play hockey, and we’re a pretty visible crew. But somehow, I’m a little starstruck that the prettiest girl at the party, if not the entire university, knows who I am.
I take a look at the tower, trying to gauge my best move. Apparently, I take too long, because Zacarelli shoves me. “Dude. Pick a fucking tile or I’ll pick it for you.”
I shoot him a glare and then turn back to the tower, choosing an interior piece near the bottom. It’s risky, but that’s the point, right? There’s a chorus of “oooohhhhs” as I gently pull it, almost like the chorus you’d hear from a bunch of third graders when a classmate gets called to the principal’s office.
The tile comes out clean, not even a wobble. Floor is Lava. Huh. I read it out loud, but before I get all the words out, everyone at the table is jumping on their chairs. Catching on, I laugh and jump to the chair next to me, just as Paige claims it. My weight tips us over just a bit, and I catch her around the waist to right us.
“Whoa. That was close. Thanks for the save, Red.” The nickname should make me cringe, it always has before. But coming from Paige, it doesn’t sound so bad.
Still, I manage to sound like a total dork when I respond. “Yeah, no problem. I’m really good at catching people. Things, really. Pucks. Not that you’re a thing. And you’re way bigger than a puck, but like…”
Instead of shoving me off the chair like she ought to, she laughs.
She’s next, and her tile reads Waterfall, so we all have to drink to the count of ten because there are ten of us playing. And Andy, the guy who’s still meowing under the table, gets to call out the count. If I wasn’t a little drunk, this would make no sense. But I’ve had a few shots, so I go with it.
We circle around again, and Emma, Paige’s friend, has to moo like a cow every time she takes a drink, while Doyle, a junior on our team, picks Strip 1 and peels off his shirt.
Hoots and hollers come from every direction and even Paige’s eyes widen a bit. Kinda makes me want to peel my shirt off too, and yell, he only has a six-pack, but I have 8, look! But I refrain.
My turn comes up again and it feels like the Drunk Jenga Gods are smiling down on me because the tile reads Handcuffs- L. From out of nowhere Emma grabs a pair of handcuffs and hooks one on Paige’s wrist and the other on mine. I can’t lie— they’re tight as hell and it’s entirely possible I’m losing circulation, but I don’t give a damn.
“Guess you’re stuck with me, huh?” I say.
“There are worse places to be.” She smiles back.
Holy Jesus. Remind me why I never go to parties?
Doyle picks the Mr. Rogers tile, and slips off his shoes. Then a girl whose name I don’t know (Ava, Ada?) chooses one that says Pick a stripper. I’m clueless as to what this might mean, until she points to me. Shit. Cheers and cat calls go up around me, and I guess this’ll teach me to be careful what I wish for.
The handcuffs prove a bit tricky and my shirt ends up dangling on the chain between Paige and me, but based on the appreciative looks I’m getting from her, I don’t mind at all. And yeah, I have no time for dating, but if I did, I’d have a hardcore crush on Paige.
Emma and Andy duet “Don’t Stop Believin’ ” (yes, he continues meowing) and we’re all feeling good.
The game continues and gets increasingly more ridiculous. I’m laughing my ass off at Herrera, a junior forward, who has to announce the next round of tiles like an auctioneer.
I’m laughing, that is until he reads Paige’s. “Kiss a stranger, kiss a stranger... Going once, going twice, sold to the blonde next to Briggsy,” his voice trails off as he points to Paige.
I stop cracking up because she turns to me, reaches up and kisses me like she was born to do it. As cliché as it sounds, the rest of the room melts away. I know we’re surrounded by a bunch of drunk, horny college students, but as she threads her fingers into my hair, I really don’t care. Needing closer contact, which is a little tough since I’ve got almost a foot on her, I reach down and place both hands at the base of her spine. She leans into me, craving the contact, too, and I pay no attention to the wolf-whistle that pierces the air and is surely directed toward us.
I deepen our kiss and she moans with pleasure. Pulling back, I look her in the eyes. “You’re fucking perfect,” I tell her before tasting her lips again. She melts into me, and it’s taking all the restraint I can muster not to lift her up, wrap her legs around my waist, and—
“Briggsy!” Zac shouts in my ear, startling me and breaking the kiss, “It’s your turn.”
Asshole.
Bringing Paige along with me because we’re still cuffed together, I choose a tile and the tower tilts a little, but not enough. I should have just knocked the whole damn thing over. My tile reads Twins, which means anyone who resembles me needs to drink. No one else here is a 6’ 4” shirtless redhead, but I think the fact I’m human is good enough for this crowd, because everybody takes a drink.
Chase is still nowhere to be seen, and Zac’s looking a little green, so when Paige’s friend Lily wobbles the tower, I secretly hope it crashes. No such luck. Instead, she calls out, “Dicks!” and all the guys drink.
Stillman wanders over and takes a turn, and everyone is too drunk to care that he’s not actually playing with us. He pulls and reads Top Swap. Without blinking, he peels off his shirt, hands it to Lily and holds out his hand for her sweater. The teeny tiny cardigan is bursting at the seams as he puts it on, but Stillman just nods as though his work here is done, does a shot, and wanders off again.
Zacarelli’s up, and he’s so wasted I’m sure he’ll knock down the tower, but no, not even that drunk asshole makes it fall. He pulls out the tile like he’s stone-cold sober, even though he’s looking pretty rough. Ketchup, he reads. Emma practically giggles with glee, and since everybody’s had a few, I’m pretty sure I’m the only one who sees the train wreck this is going to be.
He downs three ketchup packets in quick succession and our little crowd goes wild. Even Paige is laughing. But there’s no way this isn’t ending badly. She and I are still handcuffed, so I start to move out of Zacarelli’s way, just as he starts to sway.
Unfortunately, that puts Paige right in his path and he pukes all over her.
“Holy shit!”
“Oh my God, get me out of here! I’m a sympathy puker!”
“That’s fucking nasty”
The collective cries are nearly drowned out by Zac’s pathetic moaning, and I call Vonne over to check on him. But my first priority is helping Paige. Holy Christ, it’s everywhere, and she looks shell-shocked, but who can blame her?
Grabbing her hand, I take two steps into the kitchen. I yank my arm free of the handcuffs, and fuck me, it hurts like a bitch. I’m pretty sure I nicked my wrist getting those tiny handcuffs off. But I can’t worry about that now. My priority is washing another person’s puke off the most beautiful girl I’ve ever met. Stepping toward the sink, I turn on the water to hose her off.
“AHHHHHHHH! Cold! Too cold!”
Uh, yeah. So...it seemed like a good idea at the time, but instead of saving the girl of my dreams, and winning her undying favor, I’ve just made things worse.
She’s soaking wet, crying, and standing in a puddle of vomit in my kitchen.
“Shit. I am so sorry. I should have let the water warm up. It’s just...I… shit. Please don’t cry.”
“Don’t cry? I’m standing in a puddle of someone else’s puke and I’m fucking freezing. I’ll cry if I fucking feel like it,” she sobs, and she’s right.
“Fuck. I’m sorry. Let me— I’ll be right back. Just stay there, ok?” I call to her as I run upstairs to grab some towels. What the fuck am I saying? Like she’s really going to leave my house right now. I’m an idiot.