Page 4 of Trick Shot (Bainbridge Hockey #4)

Claire

I t’s been a long damn day. I’m enjoying my courses, and the fact that my classroom is a beach.

But the curriculum is a lot more demanding than I thought it would be.

Or maybe I just presumed that since half my classmates don’t actually show up to class, and that one of the TAs walked off in search of a better tanning locale, the actual coursework wouldn’t be quite so rigorous.

But it is. And since Kinsey didn’t record our actual data, a bunch of us ended up having to come back at the end of our other rotations just to get the work done.

Pete wasn’t on duty when I went back for round two, and I’m counting that as a win. But the fact that I missed dinner because I was redoing work I’d already completed? That goes in the loss column.

I have just enough energy to swipe my badge and let myself into my room. I’m mustering up the willpower to drag myself across the tiny space and crawl into bed. The dull throb of a headache has been surfacing for the past hour, and I know I need water, meds, and sleep, in that order .

Willing myself to function for just a few more minutes, I drain the contents of my water bottle and swallow my headache meds.

After turning off the lamp that must have been lighting up an empty space all damn day, I strip out of my bathing suit, slip on the t-shirt I slept in last night, tug on my satin sleep mask, and burrow under the blankets.

For about five glorious minutes, I lie in the dark and do my best to push the crappiness of this day into my mental trash dumpster.

The tension eases in my temples, until I hear the unmistakable sound of the door swinging open and slamming into the wall. What the hell?

“Just drop your stuff on her bed. It’s fine. I don’t know where she is, but it won’t take us long to get ready.”

Mandi’s voice cuts through my brain fog as I slowly force my eyes to open. I’m about to peel the covers away from my face and announce my presence when—oof!—someone unceremoniously dumps a hundred-pound laundry bag on top of me.

“The fuck?” I call out, scrambling to unearth myself from my cocoon and pulling my sleep mask off my face. “What did you just?—”

“Oh, shit, you’re here,” Mandi says, sounding disappointed, and not the least bit sorry.

“Yeah, I’m here,” I reply. “It’s my room, too.

And why the hell did you—” My words trail off as I realize it wasn’t a laundry bag that landed smack-dab on top of me.

It was a person. And not just any person.

Kinsey or Kissy or whatever the fuck her name is.

The tanning koala. “Get off my bed,” I tell her.

When she blinks her wide, lash-fringed eyes at me, I repeat my command. “Get. Off. My. Bed.”

“You don’t have to be a bitch about it,” Mandi mutters as the koala scurries to the other side of the room.

I read somewhere that koalas were vicious when provoked—not that I blame them—and all I can think about when I look at the clingy little rodent who had her claws all over Pete Santos on the beach today is that she isn’t vicious at all.

She’s cowardly. And a disgrace to her kind.

Mandi’s on her own bed, applying a thick layer of gloss to her already pouty lips.

Koala girl is riffling through Mandi’s makeup stash, pausing every few seconds to stare at me, as though she’s both fascinated and appalled.

I stare back, all too happy to confirm what I know is bouncing around her brain right now: Claire Fowler really is as much of a bitch as everyone says she is.

And maybe she’s right. I am being a bitch to her. But let’s not forget that she deserves it. She’s the reason my day went to shit, not to mention the fact that she literally leapt on me while I was trying to catch a fucking nap.

But yeah. I’m the bitch. Okay, Kissy the Koala. Whatever you say.

Mandi interrupts the glaring contest I’m having with her pint-sized friend. “Are you going to be here all night?” she asks.

“Am I going to be in my bed all night? Yes. Yes, I am.”

Mandi huffs. “Fine. I’ll crash somewhere else tonight.”

I don’t respond because it’s not like she’s doing me a favor. She’s not vacating the room to give me a break or let me sleep without interruption. She’s pissed because if I’m here, she knows she can’t bring some rando home like she did last night.

I mean, she can, of course. But then we’ll have a repeat of last night’s festivities, and no one wants that.

And no, I didn’t do anything terrible.

When they woke me up with their weird sex noises the first three times, I just rolled over and willed myself back to dreamland. But the fourth time Mandi faked an orgasm and did her impression of a whistling teakettle, I’d had enough.

When I was little, my nana had a cat named Mr. Bonks. He used to jump on the counter, even though he wasn’t supposed to. Every time he did, Nana would grab her trusty spray bottle and squirt him with a stream of water. He’d hiss and hop down.

I’d simply applied that same principle last night.

In this case, the unruly cat was the bro-dude groping my roommate and the water was a can of diet cola I grabbed from the minifridge.

I guess being doused with ice cold sugary soda wasn’t on his kink list, because he darted out of our room faster than Mr. Bonks had ever jumped off the counter.

Satisfied that I’ll have some peace and quiet tonight, I pull the covers back over my head and close my eyes. Unsurprisingly, my headache has returned. But these two should be leaving shortly, and that means sleep is within my grasp.

I can still hear bits of their conversation, and because I don’t actually care that some guy on the baseball team likes to get his dick sucked with an ice cube, I bury my head under my pillow and think good thoughts.

I think about how delicious a cup of coffee from Drip will taste once I get back on campus. The coffee in the dining hall is weak and watered down and I miss the liquid fuel that Theo brews daily back at school.

I think about seeing Holland and catching up on the last few weeks of our lives.

Granted, Holland’s stories are guaranteed to be better than mine.

She finally admitted her feelings for the guy she’s been in love with since they were kids.

As for me? Well, explored the medical properties of plankton.

And that’s basically as awesome as falling madly in love.

I think about swimming with actual dolphins tomorrow. That alone is worth putting up with Mandi and her bullshit.

I do not think about Pete Santos. Or how his gray BU Hockey tee stretched across his broad chest. I don’t think about his dark brown eyes or the way he’s always sporting a genuine smile. And I don’t think about what it must feel like to be wrapped up in his warm, solid embrace.

Nope. I don’t think about that at all. And I definitely don’t drift off to sleep wondering if his full bottom lip tastes as good as it looks.

Nope. Not me.

The blare of heavy metal music jolts me from my restful slumber.

The fuck is Mandi doing now? It’s got to be my rotten luck that she brought home a drummer—and his drum kit.

Peering out of my nest of blankets, my sleepy eyes scan the room.

It’s still blessedly dark in here and even though I would swear there’s a live concert raging in some corner of this room, I can see for myself that my dorm is empty.

Maybe I should feel bad for maligning Mandi. Nah. I’m sure she’s done something annoying that I just haven’t discovered yet.

I’m about to descend back into my sleep cave, half-convinced that I dreamt the thrash metal concert, but then it starts up again, impossibly louder this time.

There’s no way to ignore it, or the growl that emanates from my stomach, reminding me I missed dinner.

So, with no other choice, I climb out of bed and tug on some shorts.

Slipping my feet into slides and pulling my hair back into a messy bun, I grab my bag and head out in search of food.

With any luck, Battle of the Bands will be over when I return.

I can feel my phone buzzing in my bag, but I can’t hear it.

I can’t hear anything as I walk down the hall toward the stairwell.

When I make it to the common area by the elevators, my questions are answered.

Well, some of them, anyway. There are at least fifty people in the cramped space, and one of them is playing deejay.

There’s so much happening in front of me that my eyes don’t know where to focus first. There’s a guy doing a Conga line all by himself, a couple girls sucking the face off the dudebro Mandi hooked up with last night, and a guy having a full conversation with the drapes hanging from one of the windows. In his defense, they’re pretty drapes.

There’s a line for the elevator and the stairwell is on the other side of the common area.

It’s maybe fifteen feet away, but right now that journey is daunting.

My headache is back with a vengeance and my stomach will soon begin to eat itself.

My ears are ringing, and my head feels like it’s being squeezed by a vise.

I’m a little woozy and a lot hangry. I have got to get out of here.

Taking a deep breath, I prepare myself for the arduous trek ahead. My eyes on the glorious exit sign above the door, I weave my way through the room, expertly dodging Conga guy and sidestepping a couple making out in the middle of the floor.

Thirty seconds later, my headache hasn’t waned, but I’m blissfully alone.

Until I get to the landing on the next floor.

A gaggle of college kids have set up camp right here on the steps. And they are taking up every inch of available space. They’ve got blankets and snacks and board games and it looks like the slumber party of some ten-year-old’s dream, but I am not in the mood.

And let’s be honest: I’m never in the mood. But tonight, I can’t even muster up the energy to pretend.

“This has to be against fire code,” I say, rubbing my temples.