Face Offs & Cheap Shots (CU Hockey 2)

I start walking again.

He follows. And he doesn’t stop even when we get to Cohen’s car. No, the fucker jumps in the passenger seat.

“If you don’t want to be arrested, I’d get out if I were you.”

“Think about what this will mean. What happens if you get caught?”

Nothing. Nothing will happen if I get caught because my father is big and powerful and rich.

“You getting out or not?” I bite out.

“Nope. Drive. I have ten miles to convince you not to do this.”

My lips quirk. “I’d like to see you try.”

9

Jacobs

I think it’s safe to say my brain has officially checked out. As soon as that challenge was announced and I opted out, the smart thing to do would have been to let Beck get on with it. If the dumbass gets caught, it’s on him.

Even knowing that, I’d followed him. I’m still unsure why, but I have one pretty solid guess.

I sneak a quick look at his profile. He hasn’t done anything with his blond hair, and it falls across his forehead in wisps. His sharp jaw is tensed, his nose crooked from being broken playing hockey, and those lips I can’t stop thinking about … God I want—no, need—another taste.

And he’d punch me right in the face if I tried. Only, if he broke my nose, I definitely wouldn’t look as good as him with a permanent bump.

“You really going through with this?” I ask.

“Yup. You’re really not?”

“I can’t. We’re not all here on Daddy’s money.”

He scoffs. “Ah. Now it’s all coming out. That’s what your big problem is with me? That I have money?”

I didn’t mean to put it that way, but now we’re here. “You don’t appreciate the shit you have.”

His laugh is hollow. “You’re a fucking idiot.”

“You’re not arguing though, are you?”

“I don’t have to prove shit to you, Jacobs.”

“I’m Jacobs again. Good to know.”

“Would you prefer I called you Topher?” He’s mocking me.

Honestly though, I don’t know anymore. I rub my hands on my thighs as I think of a way to bring the conversation back around. “Why are you always such a dick?”

Probably not like that.

“Are you kidding? You’re the dick, dude. It’s like you have two settings. Judging McRighteous, or Scowly Fuckhead.”

“Ever thought that’s only around you?”

“What is it that makes me so special?”

Ask my dick. I clear my throat. “Look, I might not like you, but I don’t want to see you get in trouble.”

“You don’t like me?” His voice drips with faux remorse. “But I like you.”

“Bullshit you do.”

“No, really. I do like annoying you and making you scowl, and when I say something really ridiculous you get this vein”—he runs a finger over my temple and I flinch away—“right there.”

“I’m trying to have a serious conversa—”

“A serious conversation? That is so unlike you.”

“I changed my mind.” I rake my hand through my longish hair. “Do whatever the hell you like. You do anyway.”

Beck starts to laugh, and I jolt when he reaches over and squeezes my thigh. Considering how much I want to touch the guy, I’m being a jumpy idiot.

“You’re finally learning, Topher.”

And we’re back at that again.

Beck steers the car into the parking lot behind the UVM theater and turns off the ignition. He claps his hands together. “Let’s do this.”

“No way. You’re on your own.”

He leans closer. “Chickenshit.”

“Not gonna work.”

When he laughs, his whole face lights up and it makes my mouth go dry. “Wait here, then.” He winks and tosses me the keys. “Captain’s orders.”

There go my warm thoughts.

Beck jumps out and grabs the shit Cohen stashed in the trunk. The telltale chink of spray paint cans follows Beck past the car, and my stomach sinks.

Idiot.

Idiot, idiot, idiot.

Why the hell did I get in the car?

What is it about this guy that makes me lose my damn mind? I can admit he’s hot—my nightly jerk-off sessions have brought me to terms with that—but a sexy smile and a biteable ass are not reasons to risk my scholarship.

I have a clear view of him as he follows a path to the catamount statue. The thing was put up maybe twenty years ago as a way to foster school spirit.

Clearly it didn’t work.

I’m not saying it made me smile to kick their asses last year, but our team was unbeatable last season thanks to Grant and me. Okay, and Beck.

I hate giving him that credit, but he deserves it.

Beck pauses by the side of the theater and checks the area is clear before approaching the statue. It’s made of tarnished, bronze-looking stone and seems more like a hissing panther than a catamount.

I expect Beck to do a quick spray and get out, but he takes his time with it. First, he wraps toilet paper around each of the four legs, then fashions a diaper with a hole for the tail.