Page 3 of Phantom Faceoff (Daddies of the League #5)

Chapter Three

Zander

Unknown

Shove your cum-soaked underwear up your ass.

Blanchard.

In all fairness, I thought I’d tossed them in my bag, but Julian rushed me out so suddenly, I must have dropped them.

My fingers hover over the keys, and I could one hundred percent be the bigger person here: write out a genuine apology and smooth things out.

However, that’s not very fun, and my day is wide open for entertainment.

Me

Would rather see a pic of it covering yours. Wearing another dude’s cum is hot.

I don’t expect an immediate reply because it is the ass crack of dawn, and I’m about to shred some ice, but I can’t help myself when the little notification icon pops up.

Buzzkill

You’re disgusting. Keep your nastiness away from Julian.

I cover my burgeoning smile with my hand, a sort of giddiness rising within me. The nickname is fitting. Good choice, me.

Me

Didn’t hear any complaints last night. Dude is pretty nasty himself.

Buzzkill

Do you call all of your playthings ‘dude’, asshat?

Me

Nope. Some are gals. Pals. Buddies.

Buzzkill

Fuck off.

Me

You texted me, remember?

That’s the end of that conversation apparently, and good thing, too, because Micky is giving me some serious murder eyes.

Whoops. Looks like I’m the only one not dressed yet.

I’m a winger, and though I didn’t get much ice my freshmen year and only saw game time a handful of times last year, I give practice my all each and every time.

At first, it was a desperate need to prove myself, to be seen by the team. By coach. But that desperation has faded.

Now, it’s one hundred percent the adrenaline.

It’s fucking fun squaring off with these guys. Even more-so when I get to play the other teams. Micky keeps me on my toes, forces me to stay engaged, and while everyone else is groaning through their buckets of sweat, I’m already stripped down and plotting out how to spend my afternoon.

I don’t have class until eleven, so I’ve got two hours to kill.

“Hey.”

Micky’s hard tone cuts through my bubble of excitement.

I cock my head, and his stone-eyed stare softens. “Coach wants to have a chat with you before you leave.”

With a roll of my shoulders, I give my roommate a thumbs up, which earns me an eye roll.

My track pants are comfy and my hoodie is cozy, and I’m all set to go out and do something when I step foot in coach’s office and feel every individual drop of blood in my body dip toward freezing.

Coach Archer has an air about him. Something stern and dangerous, but not the kind of danger that I like to straddle. The man is akin to an entire den of vipers.

Usually that energy is tightly caged off the ice, but right now I’m sensing some neon flashing warning signs.

What the heck could I have done? Haven’t missed practice. Haven’t been late. Okay, I’ve been a little space-casey thanks to my texts with Julian and Blanchard, but still. I’m present and working my ass off.

“Wanted to see me, coach?”

If looks could kill, I would be six feet deep in a heartbeat.

“Why is this the first I’m hearing about an academic probation?”

The quick slash of words makes me wince.

Probably because I got the letter in the summer and stashed it as far back in my dresser drawer as possible in hopes of forgetting it exists.

And I kind of did.

“It’s not as bad as it sounds,” I say, holding my hands up in as placating of a manner as I can. Friendly, easy smile. “My GPA just dipped a little close to the cutoff line.”

Coach’s nostrils flare, and I don’t think I’m making this any better for myself.

“I’ve got it under control.”

He raises his brow. Wrong answer apparently. “Do you?”

Hockey is all I’m really here for. Not because I see a future in the majors, but because it’s one of the few things in life that brings me joy. That excites me.

My first year, I was able to float by on required courses. Second year, I was really big on my undeclared major status and ‘playing the field’.

This year, my counselor said my scholarship would be on the line if I didn’t pick a degree.

A pretty simple Creative Arts degree sounded easy enough. I had a couple miscellaneous courses under my belt already.

Turns out the Music Theory class I’d taken and flunked last semester did bad things for both my GPA and my degree plans.

“Two things I don’t tolerate on this team are lying and secrets,” Coach says. “Your teammates and I need to be able to trust you when I send you out to the ice.”

“I didn’t want to worry anyone.” Which is partially true. ‘Anyone’ was just mostly myself. Thinking about losing my spot is a real bummer. I don’t like being bummed if I can help it.

“Unfortunately for you, Hale, that’s exactly what a team does. I’ll be grabbing bi-weekly progress reports. If you don’t have passing marks, you don’t play the next game.”

My groan is mostly internal, but the piercing stare tells me it was at least a little bit external, too. Not that he isn’t being totally reasonable, but c’mon. Just let me flunk and flail in peace.

I end up spending most of my dead time in the quad.

There’s a big ole willow tree between two of the buildings—and I mean big like a D&D monster in disguise—that calls to me.

Lying beneath it and listening to the every day chatter, the rustle of leaves and scuff of shoes, feeling the wind roll across my face, it’s all the perfect recipe for a much needed nap.

Only I’m halfway to dreamland when my phone buzzes in my pocket.

Julian

Save me from the boredom that is English Composition.

Me

Sadly. Can’t. Music Theory is about to kick my ass for a second time. Music is supposed to be fun.

When my phone lights up a minute later, the smile that sprouts wilts in an instant.

Buzzkill

Why am I not surprised you’d fuck up something as simple as enjoying music??

First of all, rude. I can enjoy music. I just don’t enjoy analyzing it.

Second, double rude because I sent that text to Julian. Not his nosy, bossy roommate/boyfriend-lite.

Me

What are you? His shadow?

Buzzkill

I’m the friend keeping him from losing marks over texting in class.

Me

Oh, but if you get marks, it’s fine?

Buzzkill

I can ace this class with my eyes closed. Trouble or not. Now fuck off. I’ve confiscated his phone.

Me

Wow. That is some unhealthy lack of boundaries you’ve got there. Gonna keep him by the balls while you’re busy riding his ass?

Several minutes pass with no response.

Okay, Hale. Too far.

Or he just really has no interest in talking to me.

Not that it should matter, because he wasn’t who I set out to talk to in the first place.

I tip my head back and close my eyes, letting the breeze roll over me and wipe the day’s frustration away with it.

There’s nothing I can do about any of it now except do better going forward. Ace my class—err, well, pass it at least. Don’t engage in idle banter with someone who surely wants me to conspicuously fall off the edge of a cliff.

Relax. Keep my head down. Make it through one mini disaster at a time.

In all fairness, this was not my fault.

Not directly.

Okay— yes —I was probably— definitely —more careless than I intended to be.

I was doing my due diligence and trying to be semi-prepared for class. Not like I was trying to culture myself because a certain someone insinuated I knew jack all about music.

So what if I was skipping through the CD at record speed. All the songs were boring, and I just wanted to find one that didn’t suck. How was I supposed to know the damn thing would jam and break and I’d have to ask a store clerk for help?

There was also no way in hell for me to know that the exact store clerk I’d get would be Malachi freaking Blanchard .

Fool around with his best friend and suddenly I can’t escape the guy.

How many people are going to look at me today like they want me to eat shit and die?