Page 2 of Sin Bin (BU Hockey Season 2, #1)

Ollie

I wake up in a cold sweat every night from the same bad dream. It’s been this way for weeks now. We’re at a club. It’s me and my teammates, although the bar isn’t Wolfie’s, our usual hangout. It’s some nameless, vague club that only exists in my dream state, but is, of course, cool as shit.

I don’t hang out in dive bars.

Okay, I totally do.

But not in this dream.

In this dream, I’m with my guys and the night is ours. Drinks are flowing, the deejay is spinning banger after banger, and the dance floor is one big, filthy, beautiful orgy.

Everything is perfect.

Except it isn’t.

Something’s…off. It always takes me a while to figure out what the issue is, though it’s the same every time: my suit doesn’t fit. And really, I should wake up screaming at the exact moment I realize it because what the fuck? My suits always fit. And I always look damn good in them.

Yeah, yeah. Everybody says that.

But it’s actually, objectively true for me.

I look fan-fucking-tastic in a suit.

And even better out of one. Don’t take my word for it. The MyFans account I’ve had for two years now—the one that the powers that be at Bainbridge University don’t know about—is all the proof you need.

I go to great lengths—and sometimes really bendy ones—to keep my face hidden or out of the frame in every post. But my body? I show that shit off whether I’m dressed in a bespoke suit, a g-string, or a pair of bunny ears and some other guy’s boxers.

But in this dream, not even my chiseled abs can save me.

The shoulders on my jacket are too narrow. One sleeve is slightly longer than the other. The buttons don’t line up right. The seat of my pants is baggy and lax, despite the fact that my ass is a perfect peach. It’s delectable.

And, yeah, I’m still me, so I look hot. And no one else in my dream makes a comment about my suit. Either they don’t notice, or they don’t care.

But I do.

The discomfort shadows me everywhere I go—onto the dance floor, to get a drink at the bar, even just sitting at a table shooting the shit with my friends.

And it only gets worse as the night wears on.

I catch myself in a mirror and realize that my tie clashes with my jacket.

Or that I’m suddenly wearing my hockey jersey instead of a dress shirt, or that I’m wearing skates instead of shoes.

I hear the unmistakable sound of Mickey bouncing his way into the kitchen before I see him. That guy has more energy than a playground full of preschoolers.

“Hey, Cap.”

He takes a seat next to me at the kitchen island, a lock of hair falling over his left eye.

He’s grinning ear-to-ear like he just won the lottery, and I know why.

With all the work he’s put in this summer, and with Santos off the ice so he can finish his teaching certification, Mickey’s moved up in the ranks.

There’s no doubt he’ll get looks this year.

Plus, his best friend—and our star goalie—is sticking around for at least another year, which is great fucking news for all of us.

Not only that, but Mickey’s twin sister moved to town, and I know he’s glad to have her close.

So, everything’s sunshine and roses in Brannon Mikalski’s world right now.

The guy’s got no clue that with one little word—half a word, really—he pretty much summed up the reason my world feels like unfamiliar territory to me.

In my dreams, the suit’s not really the problem.

It’s the idea of leading my team. Plus, there’s the little fact that I’m not Captain.

Not yet, anyway. I lost the vote last spring to Will Franconetti, one of my closest friends and one of the best damn hockey players I’ve ever seen.

But when Will got called up by the pro team who’d drafted him, his spot was vacated.

And everybody assumes I’ll be the one to fill it.

I’m just not so sure I want to anymore.

I always saw myself as a leader. And okay, some may say I‘m an instigator, but, really, those two words have a lot in common. I’m the type of guy who can rally his team when the chips are down, whether that means pumping them up to take the lead on a close game in the last few minutes, or organizing a chip run because we’re low on snacks and we invited people over.

I always wanted to be named Captain. But now that title’s possibly within reach, I’m afraid it won’t fit. If I become the captain by default, I’ll feel like I’m wearing borrowed clothes or hand-me-downs.

I’m not above cruising through a second-hand store and I’ve got the vintage t-shirt collection to back up my claim.

But this is different than scoring a shirt or borrowing Dean’s favorite joggers only to find that my ass looks better in them. (It’s not my fault, I swear. Blame the peach.)

Wearing a title that isn’t really mine is going to feel like playing dress-up. I’m all for a good role play, but not when it comes to hockey. On the ice, I want to earn my spot, not have it re-gifted to me.

Even if being named Captain would go a long way toward proving to my dad that I’ve matured and that I have what it takes to be a leader and get the job done.

Mickey’s been shoveling cereal down his throat, but after a few minutes of rapid-fire food consumption, it dawns on him that I haven’t spoken. “You okay?” he asks, a scoop of soggy, sugary cereal heaped on the spoon that hovers next to his mouth.

“I’m good,” I lie, stretching my arms above my head before hopping off my stool to rinse my plate before tossing it in the dishwasher. “Just tired. Last night was fun, though.”

Mickey smiles, remembering our escapades.

The school year won’t officially start for a few days, but he and I moved into our brand-new digs last week.

That’s right. We no longer live in the shithole that was the hockey house.

We also had to move out of our temporary home, The Playhouse.

Living in the theater house was fun, but it turns out you actually have to major in drama to keep living there.

That’s a no.

Luckily, Booker came in clutch. Just like he saved our asses on the ice a million times, he saved us from the fate of moving back to the dorms by gifting this house to the hockey team with a few conditions.

Booker Zabek’s great-great-great-great grandfather founded Bainbridge University over a hundred years ago, and built the house I’m now living in.

It was originally a chapel, but I have a feeling my teammates and I will cancel out any holiness that might still be present.

That’s probably the only fun we can have since one of Booker’s conditionsis that we live with a house manager.

It’s a smart move, considering that we basically destroyed our last house.

Our new place is sweet. It’s probably three or four times its original size by now, and I can guarantee that Booker’s ancestor didn’t envision the pool, the hot tub, or any of the shenanigans that have occurred in either place over the years.

As for Booker, he’s got a condo in Santa Fe now, but when he starts making that pro dough, I have no doubt he’ll have a house every bit as nice as this one.

I’m happy for him, and not just because he’ll be raking in the cash.

Playing professional hockey is his dream.

Strangely enough, even though I love being a Bainbridge Wolf, I don’t have any aspirations of playing for a living.

I don’t have the size or the speed to keep up at that level, and I’m the kinda guy who’d rather go out on top (or on bottom, depending… it has its advantages, trust.)

Honestly, I’m not really sure what my dream is.

I always planned on joining the family real estate business, but my dad doesn’t think I have what it takes to be taken seriously in his world, so I’ve got a year to figure out a new path or convince him that I have more skills beyond doing body shots and carrying an entire bar around in my backpack.

“Are the new guys getting here tomorrow?” Mickey asks, breaking me out of my thoughts as he pours more cereal and milk into his bowl. I swear he goes through a box a day.

“That’s what I heard,” I tell him. I’m not the type to micromanage, so I didn’t dig too deep. Since classes start later this week, I figure our roommates all have to move in eventually.

“Cool,” Mick says, nodding and slurping. “Dean’s on his way and Jenksy’s moving his shit in this afternoon. Can we put him on the third floor? He takes the longest fucking showers known to man.”

I shrug. “We should probably draw rooms out of a hat, like at the old place. That seems fair, right? And we’ve gotta leave space for Liza and Fallon.”

Mickey’s eyes bug out. “Fallon’s moving in? Dude, you are so screwed.”

I roll my eyes. “She’s not moving in, but don’t you remember? That was one of Book’s conditions. She has to have a room here in case she ever wants it. I think Book said the room next to the den is hers, and he left some boxes in there for her if she wants them. As for Liza?—”

Mickey cuts me off. “Are we just gonna skip over the part where you’re totally screwed because you not-so-secretly lust after Booker’s sister and she loves to turn you down?”

“She doesn’t turn me down,” I hedge.

“The last time you asked her out she told you to chew rocks and choke on them,” Mickey supplies unhelpfully.

She really did say that, though. “I think she’s been hanging out with Claire a little too much.

Those two are a bad combination.” I love that my buddy Pete found his happily ever after.

Hell, I’m the one who got those two together in the first place.

Claire Fowler is the undisputed queen of insults, though, and I think she’s taken a protégé.

“Anyway,” I continue, pouring coffee in a travel mug, “Liza said she’ll be here in the morning. We should probably let her pick her own room, huh? Or maybe she could take the one across from Fallon’s? That way she runs less of a risk of seeing us strolling around naked.”