CHAPTER TEN

COLTON

I take the energy from my session with Harper and transfer it to the ice. I transfer it hard.

Already my aggression has started to rub off on the other players. These sad sacks are actually growing balls, charging when necessary and not afraid to get their gloves dirty when the time calls for it. A wimpy collection of middle-roaders is fast becoming a war party Napoleon would be proud off.

Still, I’m keeping my eyes open. Smooth as things may seem on the outside, I don’t know if these guys are still holding a grudge for our first meet-and-greet. Maybe they’re simply patient motherfuckers, culturally bound to bide their time.

Ricky emerges from the showers with a towel wrapped around his waist, approaching me on the benches. The others stop what they’re doing.

Cue the fucking tumbleweed.

Ricky takes a seat beside me. “So, Beckett, you coming out for drinks?” He glances to one of the others, a defensemen with arms like tree trunks. “I know Andy here’s looking for a boyfriend.”

Andy throws his helmet at him, Ricky laughing and dodging to the side. “You are the only ass bandit around here, Ricky.”

Ricky grabs his crotch, winking at me. “You know what they say, Beckett. If you can’t go pink, head for the stink.”

And once again my assumption that all Canadians are the picture of modesty and restraint is shattered. Maybe I’m finally starting to unravel the real Canada.

I look around. A couple of these guys are in my cultural studies class. I wonder what they’d say if I told them their teacher was coming against my face only hours ago, my dick in her mouth. But sure, if they want to drink, let’s drink.

“I’m in,” I offer.

Ricky smiles, taking my shoulder. “For the anal gangbang or the drink?”

*

The facilities at Abbotsleigh were world class, even The Lab with its micro-brewed beers and selection of fine whiskies. But here, at Branton, it seems the nearest drinking hole has more in common with a broom closet than a bar. The place stinks, it’s small, and the bartender’s an old guy who looks like he just stepped out of Dickens novel.

My fellow teammates, however, appear awfully pleased with themselves as we front up to the bar. I glance around again, take in the female activity, but apart from what could well be a bible study group in the corner, this place is far from bangin’.

Old Man River looks to me first. “What can get you, friend?”

Holy shit. I’m on the set of Cheers. “Ah, a Bud, thanks.” I figure it’s the best place to start—not too high-brow for these yokels.

The bartender shakes his head. “Sorry. We don’t have Bud, bud.”

Funny. “Alright. Just a Miller then.”

Another shake of the head. What the fuck? I’m going to end up with a glass of water. “What do you have on tap?”

And I swear to god the old man has to put in some serious brainpower to work it out, standing back to check out the taps. “Ah, we got Moosehead, Molson, and…” Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock… “Labatt.”

Fucking Labatt? Sounds like a sexually transmitted disease. “Give me the Moose one.”

It arrives in a dirty glass and looks exactly like the piss-colored swill I expected.

The others seem excited by the prospect, egging me on as I down it. It’s ass in a glass, but I manage to put it away and wipe my mouth. “Delicious,” I lie.

Ricky claps me on the back. “My fucking man! Let’s drink, boys!”

We retire to the other corner of the bar, shitty grunge playing overhead, a poster of Justin Bieber to the right. I mean, what kind of fucking bar has the Beebs on the wall?

I shout a round or two, drinking more of the swill and far from surprised it’s not tasting any better.

Andy comes up beside me. He’s got a red mess of hair that could double as a mop, a fucked-up face of acne scars, but he appears otherwise harmless. “So, what do you do for fun back home, Beckett?”

Home. It’s a foreign concept now. “Nothing special. Hanging with my brothers, hunting…”

“Pussy or game?”

“Bit of both.”

“And your brother, Cayden, he’s NFL, right?”

If I have to sit here and listen to what a success and credit to the Beckett name Cay is, I’m going to scrunch up that Beebs poster and choke myself out on it. “He is.”

Andy nods, smiling, taking a swig of his beer-slash-liquid urinal cake. “You must be real proud.”

I should tell him how I was heading for the lacrosse big time, how I was fucking robbed, but I keep my mouth shut, forcing a smile. “Yeah, something like that.” Time for a subject change. “What about you guys? What do you get up to besides bromance?”

Andy likes that. “Oh, you know, fishing, hanging. You like Arrow? We get together sometimes and watch it, make a night of it.”

I’m confused AF. “Like the TV show, with Stephen Amell?”

Andy beams. “Yeah, man. He’s bad ass, right?”

Oh. God, I think. They weren’t lying about the anal gangbang.

The conversation doesn’t get any better. If anything, it just proves how different our worlds are—the Ivy League I left behind and the bleak backwater hole I’ve been banished to, even though I am here by choice. I look around the table with disgust. These guys call this drinking? We should have ordered a round of seltzers and left it at that.

I stand, laying down a twenty. I’ve had five beers and I can barely feel it. “I’m going to head off.”

“Hot date?” asks Ricky.

I immediately think of Harper’s lips, how warm and wet they were around my cock, the way her tongue snaked around the head of it, the naughty glint of corruption in her eyes as she jerked me off over her shoulder. “You could say that.”

Andy seems disappointed. “You sure, man?”

I pick up my coat. “I’m sure. See you at practice.”

I get the fuck out of that pity party and make my way to the only real bar in town, literally called The Dive. I’m sort of hoping Harper will be there, but when I walk in all I see are local drunks and girls too dumb to do any better.

It’s quiet inside, but at least it’s a proper bar. The bartender, a woman in her forties, walks over. “What’ll it be, handsome?”

“Whiskey. Make it a double.”

“ID?” she asks.

“Seriously?” I laugh.

“Whip it out or get out.”

I consider laying my cock on the bar, but I do as requested.

“American,” she nods, holding my card and pouring the whiskey at the same time. I can’t tell whether she approves or not. “You up here for the college or the climate?”

“Oh, I came for the cold reception,” I tell her, slapping down another twenty.

She smiles, swiping up the note. “You don’t know the famous Branton saying then?”

The whiskey bites as it goes down. It’s cheap, but it’s a billion times better than the excuse for beer I’ve been drinking all night. “What’s that?”

She leans over the bar. “When you’re cold, don’t expect sympathy from someone who’s warm.”

She leaves and I smile down into my tumbler. “Cheers to that.”

I’m warm enough when I’m with Harper, though, but how long is that bound to last? I count my relationships in hours, not days, lining up my next lay seconds after I get off. I’ve got no fucking idea why I’m so obsessed with this particular girl, only that I’m going to have to get my dick wet to find out if there’s anything more there than fuck-buddy benefits.

Is an actual relationship doomed to failure? Of course. It’s a train wreck waiting to happen, for both of us, but there’s no harm enjoying the ride while it lasts.

I tell myself these things and don’t feel much better for it. Becketts are the best brooders you’ll find, my old man always searching the bottom of a glass for answers. I’d like to be searching something else right about now—hot and slick and custom-made to fit my cock, but it’s not going to happen tonight.

“I’m high up, really high up in the faculty structure there.”

I look down the bar sideways to see some guy in a silk shirt chatting up the only decent piece of ass in the place. She must be all of eighteen, alone, dressed to impress. Read: Circa-early noughties boob tube and micro skirt to match.

The girl picks up her cosmo. “What do you teach?”

“Women’s studies,” says Dr. Douchebag, “believe it or not, with a focus on the anthropological genesis of gender bifurcation.”

Her eyebrows lift. “Wow, I have no idea what that means.”

I don’t need to see his face to know he’s winking at her. “It’s basic cultural analysis, but I’m sure a smart girl like you would pick it up.”

Her hand goes to her chest. “You think I’m smart enough for college?” Jesus, she’s actually taking the bait.

Her would-be suitor claps his hands together. “For sure,” he says, his head dipping towards her cleavage, “and I’d be happy to provide private tutoring, free of charge, anything for such a pretty girl.”

She’s blushes, staring down at her stripper heels. “Thanks.”

He continues to blabber on about his many achievements, how he’s “top of the pile” at Branton, “so to speak.”

I snigger into my whiskey. Top of the shit pile, maybe.

Things start to get more personal, Mr. Personality soon detailing how good he is in bed, how he could, I kid you not, “really make” this girl’s night.

It’s pick-up-artist amateur hour, I’ve seen invalids with more game, but this girl’s lapping it up like warm milk, hungry for more.

Asshat gets even bolder. “My ex,” he continues, “also a colleague, well, she couldn’t handle my… assets, if you know what, I mean.”

My ears pique at that. Is he…?

“She taught women’s studies too?” asks the hapless victim.

King Cock-a-bout laughs. “God, no. Cultural Studies—Basically the only course they let you flunk five times over, and as for her skills out of the classroom? Non-existent.”

The girl laughs nervously, but I’ve had my fill of this prick.

“Excuse me?” I shout.

He turns, shocked. “Sorry, are you speaking to me?”

I place my tumbler down and stand, slowly pacing towards him. “Yeah. I extend my hand. What’s your name?”

“James,” he says cautiously, face crisscrossed with confusion. “Are you in one of my classes?”

I take the stool beside him, smiling at the girl. “Actually, I’m in Harper’s class.”

The color drains from his face, but to his credit he manages to retain his composure. “Is that so? Well, do say hello to her for me.”

He goes to turn away, but I push past him, extending my hand to the girl. “I’m Colton, by the way.”

“Macy,” she smiles.

“You know, Macy,” I start, slapping Harper’s ex on the back, “I heard a rumor this guy here can’t get a girl off.”

Her mouth drops a little. She looks embarrassed, poor thing. “Oh?”

“Yeah,” I continue, “‘O’ is the problem, not that it’s easy when you’ve got a magic marker for a dick.”

Poor James has been a good sport until now, but this pushes him over the edge. He leaps up and swings. I duck and step back. “Ah, now there is the enthusiasm you’ve been missing in the sack.”

He’s beet red, his beady eyes narrowing behind whalebone-framed glasses. “I don’t know who the fuck you are, but I’m going to lay you out real good.”

I shake my head. “That’s a shame. I hate it when things end prematurely.”

He charges at me, but I’m ready, stepping aside and letting him crash into the bar.

Fucking bullseye.

He holds his gut, staggering to his feet. “You’re dead.”

“So people keep telling me.”

“That’s enough!” The bartender jumps between us. “Stop. Right now.” She looks at me. “This isn’t one of your Yankee cowboy bars, friend. We’re civilized people here.”

“I’ve noticed.”

I nod to James and wink at the girl. “I’ll see you around.”

James is quiet as I leave.

I step out into the cold feeling surprisingly warm, pleased with myself for a) saving that girl the worst night of her life, and b) standing up for Harper, because it’s one thing to fuck someone when you’re together, but it’s quite another to fuck them when you aren’t.