Winter Miracle Page 17

  A collective groan follows from those in attendance.

  “Think about it,” whispers Blue Eyes Big Arms, before settling back into his seat and watching on.

  He doesn’t speak during the following hour, thank god, but I’m very conscious that he’s sitting right beside me, his hard body right. Freakin’. There. Even the slouchy way he sits says ‘I own this place,’ and maybe he does, but he’s not going to own me.

  He can’t.

  I don’t need this attention, nor is it what I’m here for. Still, I cannot help thinking about him as the lecturer rattles on about ethical responsibility and fringe benefits.

  You signed up for this, remember? I remind myself.

  Well, yes and no, but I’m here now and I have to work with it. I will buckle down and I will study. That’s really all there is to it. Blue Eyes Big Arms can try all he wants to court me with this ‘Bro Bible’ pick-up routine, and I am thankful he came to my aid last night, but it doesn’t buy him a free pass into my pants.

  I know he’s turning to me from time to time, eyes running up and down my body, that cheeky grin on his face like he owns the world, but I keep my eyes front and center.

  When the lecture finishes, I am out of there, swallowed up into the crowd before he even has a chance to stand.

  Not today, my friend. Not today.

  Not ever.

  *

  Naomi’s at her desk when I enter our dorm room. She shuffles a stack of papers aside and swivels in her chair. “First class, huh? How was it?”

  I place my bag down, tossing Blue Eyes Big Arm’s jersey on top. “Interesting.”

  Naomi jerks her eyebrows at the jersey. “Going to the rally tonight, are we?”

  I turn and hold up the jersey. It reads ‘Beckett’ with the numeral one below it. Why does that not surprise me? “No. This was a… gift.”

  “Your butt,” says Naomi.

  I drop the jersey and face her. “Sorry?”

  She points to the back of my jeans. “You’ve got something stuck to your butt.”

  I twist and look down my back, notice with mortification I have a Post-It stuck to my left ass cheek. I yank it free. ‘Property of Cayden Beckett’ is scrawled on it, followed by a cell number.

  I scrunch it up and toss it into the bin. “Motherfucker.”

  Naomi’s certainly amused. “Making friends already?”

  I shake my head. “Definitely not.”

  Naomi smiles, thinking it’s all a grand joke, but I am not laughing. To think, that he, this ‘Cayden’ would mark me as ‘his,’ that we are somehow connected, together, drives me absolutely insane. I pick up his jersey again, the one that reads ‘Beckett’ in giant collegiate letters across the back. The only property of mine you’re going to be getting, my friend, is my foot up your ass.

  *

  Via some small mercy, the footballers are absent tonight at The Lab for my first shift. Lucy, the manager, gives me a blazing run-down of the bar, noting the busted tap and the corner that smells like bong water. The crowd tonight is mixed, though mostly girls looking to get wild and guys looking to get laid.

  My fees are sorted as far as I know, but I still have expenses. Besides, I want this job. I wanted something to take my mind off New York.

  It’s busy, but I don’t mind. I settle quickly into the routine.

  Naomi enters and approaches the bar. She’s wearing a low-cut top, but somehow she still seems out of place here, like she’s arrived a decade late.

  I span my hands out on the bar. “What’ll it be, partner?”

  “Just a Cosmo, thanks.”

  Definitely ten years too late.

  I had a job in a bar back in New York near Wall St. Things used to get crazy there come Friday night. Somehow I don’t think it’s going to be the same here.

  I look past her as I prepare her drink. “Are you here with anyone?”

  “No, but I thought I better check it out.”

  “So you’re spying on me?”

  For a moment she seems taken aback. “No, that’s not—”

  “I’m kidding.” I smile, reaching for the vodka.

  “So, you’ve worked at bars before?”

  I nod, adding the cranberry juice. “Back in…” I trail off. “Back home.”

  Naomi nods in return. “Cool.”

  I push the drink across, knock over a salt shaker and automatically scoop up a pinch of it, tossing it over my shoulder. “That will be ten dollars.”

  She hands over a twenty, eyeing me suspiciously. “Keep the change, but what the hell was that?”

  “What?”

  “With the salt just now.”

  I shrug. “I’m rather superstitious. Don’t hold it against me.”

  She taps on the bar. “I won’t.”

  I watch her head off into the corner. Weird.

  Lucy comes up beside me. There’s more metal in her ear than a cutlery drawer, but I like her hair with its one, defiant streak of fuchsia. “You ready to help close up then?” she says.

  I look at the Petri dish clock behind the bar. “But it’s only eight o’clock?”

  Lucy leans back against the bar. She’s got a really pretty tattoo of a wren running down her arm, far too adventurous for me, but beautiful nonetheless.

  Tattoo. And there I go day-dreaming about Blue Eyes Big Arms again and his model body.

  “Everyone will be at the pep rally, and I mean everyone,” she says.

  She sees the look on my face. “Don’t tell me you’re not going.”

  “I had a run-in with this football guy in class earlier. I don’t really want to bump into him again.”

  Or do you? my inner voice suggests, thinking only about it’s stupid, selfish need for sexual satisfaction.

  Lucy looks interested. “Who was he, this mystery footballer?”

  I almost reply ‘Blue Eyes Big Arms’ before remembering his name. “Cayden. Cayden Beckett or something.”

  Lucy crosses her arms, nodding with knowing. “Ah, so you’ve met ‘The Damage’ then?”

  “The what?”

  Lucy’s smiling wide now. “He’s one of the infamous Beckett brothers, the one they call ‘The Damage’ because of the trail of destruction he leaves on the field… and off.”

  “Seems like an odd nickname.”

  Lucy laughs. “If you saw the size of his cock, you’d understand.”

  I lower my voice. “You’ve seen it? His…” I can’t even say it.

  Lucy laughs again, waving her hand around the room. “Honey, everyone has seen it. He’s not exactly shy about showing it off. I would too if I had a dick the size of the Empire State.”

  For no particular reason I swallow hard.

  Hard. Hard for you.

  Shut up, stupid, horny, head.

  Lucy takes my arm. “Don’t worry. I don’t swing that way, and neither will you if you know what’s good for you. Now,” she says, looking over me. “Lose that bar towel and I’ll take you myself, find you a guy who isn’t going to give your vagina a concussion”.

  CHAPTER THREE

  CAYDEN

  Coach has his hands behind his back. He’s in ass-kicking mode.

  He stalks the line. “Look at this disheveled shit-show I’ve been gifted this year. Thank you, O lord, for delivering me these legends of the field.”

  One of freshman sniggers at the end of the line.

  Big. Fucking. Mistake.

  Coach is onto him in a second, so hard up in his face the poor kid can probably see what he had for breakfast.

  “Something amusing, son?” says Coach.

  “No, sir,” the kid replies.

  Coach grabs the kid’s hair and hauls him to the ground, a boot onto his back. “Get your fucking ass into the mud, sunshine! Does this look like a comedy club to you? Because I sure as shit ain’t coaching a clown class here, am I?”

  “No, sir,” comes the muffled reply.

  I look across to Hunter. What seemed so shocking when we arrive
d as freshman last year is par for the course now. Coach lit Greg Myer’s locker on fire last year. I can’t say anything has shocked me since. I imagine it’ll only be worse when we hit the NFL, and we will, Hunter by my side.

  We’ve always had that twin connection, Hunter and I. Yes, Colton and Mason are my brothers too, but we’ve never had the same relationship, that strange sixth sense.

  Coach stops in front of us. “You Beckett boys put on a fine performance last year, I’ll give you that, but the doomsday clock has reset. It’s all new, baby, got it?”

  “Yes, Coach,” we reply, one voice.

  He walks off, clapping his hands. “Onto the field, fuckers. Forty-yard dash. Let’s go.”

  If Coach was a punisher last year, this year he’s damn near insane. We run a three-cone drill for the good part of an hour, following it up with shuttle runs, wind sprints, broad and vertical jumps, bounds, high knees… he even squeezes the ‘nutcracker’ in—a personal favorite. By the end of the session my muscles feel like they’ve been run through a meat grinder.

  I fall back against the shower wall, let the water stream down the front of my body. “Jesus Christ,” I exhale.

  Hunter soaps himself beside me. “You tired, bro? I could go more. Just sayin’.”

  I raise an eyebrow. “More? You ain’t fooling me. Motherfucker. Another round of that fumble-recovery shit and you’d be flat.”

  Hunter presses a hand against the wall. “Fucking Coach, man. He was on a mission today.”

  I swipe the soap off him. “You can say that again.”

  “You want to head to The Lab later?”

  The best workout recovery is premium liquor and pussy, not that I’ve been able to shake the girl from the other night out of my head. She was there one moment and gone the next—an angelic apparition. Maybe I hallucinated her?

  Definitely not. I remember her sassy self very well from class. She can’t avoid me there, at least.

  And I suppose Dwayne ‘hallucinated’ his black eye too, right?

  I look down the showers to where Dwayne’s toweling himself off. He hasn’t said shit about the incident in question, which is just as well. Any excuse to turn both his eyes black is welcome by me.

  “You should watch him,” says Hunter.

  “Dwayne?” I laugh.

  Hunter’s chin drops. “Yeah, man.” He taps his head. “He’s not altogether up there. He’s fucking dangerous.”

  “Dangerous?” I question. “Tossing a toaster into a pool is dangerous. Sleeping with most of the cheerleading squad is dangerous. But Dwayne? He’s harmless.”

  Hunter nods. “Alright, but don’t come to me when you’ve got a shiv sticking out the side of your neck.” He shuts his shower off.

  “This isn’t a prison,” I state.

  Hunter flicks his head towards the door where Coach enters swinging a ring of keys. “You sure?”

  *

  I jump onto the couch from behind when Hunter and I arrive back at the house, crushing a sleeping Colton there still clutching his lacrosse crosse.

  I shove him off.

  “What the fuck?” he says, as I settle in, scanning for the remote.

  “What?” I suggest. “You going to knock me out with that plastic fucking pap stick of yours?”

  Colton looks at his crosse. “I should belt some sense into you with it is what I should do.”

  “Hut!” calls Hunter from the kitchen.

  I turn and catch the beer mid-air with one hand. Another comes at flying at Colton. He collects it in the scoop of his lacrosse stick. “See, I told you this was useful.”

  Hunter laughs from the kitchen, using the side of the counter and the butt of his hand to open his beer. “Useful for fucking yourself in the ass maybe.”

  Colton tosses the crosse aside and falls down beside me, cracking his own beer open, Hunter jumping over the back of the sofa, all three of us seated as the game comes on. In one-hundred-inch 4K, even Jess Hostetler of New York Giants fame looks attractive.

  I take a swig. “I found my angel from last night.”

  I don’t need to look at Hunter to know he’s rolling his eyes. “Here we go with your fucking fixations again. We all know where this is going.”

  “And where’s that?” I suggest.

  “You pump them, you dump them, and look for the next,” finishes Colton. “We all know that third leg you call a cock can never be sated with one pussy.”

  “One. Singular,” adds Hunter.

  But I’m thinking about her, about everything, and I’m thinking otherwise. There’s something different about this one, and it’s not her crazy, shape-shifting hair or slate eyes, that ample chest so criminally hidden by a token Abbotsleigh sweater straight from the gift shop. The moment she opened her mouth, I was sold.

  I take another swig, barely concentrating on the game and hoping the other two can’t see the way the crotch of my jeans is turning into the Pyramid of Giza. “I’ve got a plan.”

  Colton elbows me in the side. “You slapped a Post-It on her ass, didn’t you?”

  I look at him, don’t say anything.

  “Holy shit, you did,” laughs Hunter. “Wrong move, brother.”

  “They all love that shit,” I retort. “I figured her out the moment she sat down.”

  “And how’s that?” queries Colton, leaning forward and pinching his chin in introspection.

  I sit forward to match, playing detective. “Okay. She was wearing one of those shitty Abbotsleigh sweaters, so she’s a transfer.”

  “Hardly a difficult deduction, Sherlock,” says Hunter.

  I hold a hand up to silence him. “Secondly, she was wearing Cons and had a Ramones sticker on her folder, which means she’s got a rebellious side, or at least wants one.”

  “She might be reformed?” adds Colton.

  I shake my head. “The home screen on her phone was the House Stark symbol, which means she’s got a geeky side, too.”

  Colton slaps his thigh. “Come on. Everyone like Game of Thrones.”

  “You only like it because you get to see Daenerys’s tits.”

  Colton shrugs. “Better than getting a woody watching Kit Harington get his sword out.

  Colton and Hunter high-five each behind my back. I stand, pushing them apart and trying not to spill my beer in the process. “Back to the fucking program.”

  They look up.

  “And?” questions Colton.

  “And she’s trying to maintain a low profile, sit up the back, avoid eye contact, which means…”

  “Not every girl wants your dick,” says Hunter, reaching over to punch Colton in the arm, who punches him back.

  I crouch, looking between my brothers. “And that’s where you’re wrong. Every girl does want my dick.” I smile. “Some just don’t know it yet.”

  *

  I have to sprint to the administration building to make it there before the pep rally. Usually I abhor this fucking place, but I need answers.

  I make my way past the girl at the front desk, the one who was into Girl Guides roleplay. If the Girl Guides Association of America found what we did with those cookies… Jesus.

  I head down into the lower, subterranean level of the admin building that was once a bomb shelter and find who I’m looking for.

  I lean over the desk.

  Jason Rogers, one of our offensive linemen, looks up from his cell. He works down here in Records in his time off. “Cayden,” he says, surprised. “Fuck, man. What are you doing here?”

  “I need a favor,” I start.

  He places his cell down shaking his head. “No fucking way. Do you know how much shit I got in last time for giving you that girl’s details? I need this job, bro.”

  I get down to his level. “Did I or did I not hook you up with Sandy’s friend last week, the one with the purple heart tattooed right above her…”

  Jason nods, looking down the hall to make sure no one is coming. “Yes.”

  “And did you or did you not
have a great time?”

  He breaks, smiling. “She was fucking wild, just like you said.”

  “In which case,” I continue. “I’d say you owe me, wouldn’t you?”

  Jason shakes his head, but he’s in. “What do you need?”

  “There’s a girl, a recent transfer.”

  Jason nods, now in business mode. “Not many transfers here at Abbotsleigh.” He stands. “Wait here.”

  I watch him disappear into the back room where the computers and servers are located. He returns in less than a minute with a single sheet of paper, checking the hall again before placing it on the desk between us.

  I read over it. “What am I looking at?”

  Jason points to the thumbnail in the top corner. “This your girl?”

  Even in inch-by-inch black and white she looks incredible. “Sure is.”

  Jason runs down the sheet with his finger. “Here’s the thing. Her name’s here at the top—Indiana Lewis.”

  “Indiana Lewis,” I repeat, enjoying the way it sounds in my mouth, thinking of the enjoyment I’ll get hearing my name come out of hers.

  “You can see her DOB there, her major. But here’s where it gets weird. Under ‘Reason for transfer’ here, there’s nothing—zip.”

  “And that’s unusual?”

  Jason looks up at me. “Hell, yeah. It’s weird as shit. Even weirder, there’s no record of which college she transferred from, no former address or details. It’s all blank.”

  I look over the sheet, but he’s right. It’s almost completely empty. “What does that mean?”

  Jason shrugs his shoulders, shaking his head. “Beats me, but I can tell you this is no clerical error. No way.”

  I’m wracking my brain trying to work out why. “What are the usual reasons for transfer?”

  Jason takes a breath, eyebrows jumping. “Change in financial aid, scholarship, dissatisfaction with previous school environment?”

  “So something may have happened at her last college, something no one wants on her record, right?”

  Jason shrugs again. “Could be, man. I don’t know.”

  I tap a number at the bottom of the sheet. “What’s this?”

  Jason looks down. “Emergency contact number.”

  “No name, no address?”

  Jason shakes his head. “Doesn’t look like it.”