The Deal (Off-Campus #1)(18)
“I don’t need a ride.”
“That’s what cabs do. They give you rides.”
“I don’t need a ride from you,” I amend.
“You’d rather pay ten bucks to get home instead of accepting a free ride from me?”
His sarcastic remark is right on target. Because yes, I most certainly trust a campus-employed cabbie to drive me home more than I trust Garrett Graham to do it. I don’t get into cars with strangers. Period.
Garrett’s eyes narrow as if he’s read my mind. “I’m not going to try anything, Wellsy. It’s just a ride home.”
“Go back to the party, Garrett. Your frat brothers are probably wondering where you are.”
“Trust me, they don’t give a shit where I am. They’re only interested in finding a tipsy chick to stick their dicks in.”
I gag. “God. You are disgusting, you know that?”
“Nope, just honest. Besides, it’s not like I said I’m looking to do that. I don’t need to get a woman drunk for her to sleep with me. They come to me sober and willing.”
“Congratulations.” I yelp when he snatches the phone out of my hand. “Hey!”
To my amazement, he turns the camera toward his face and snaps a picture.
“What are you doing?”
“There,” he says, handing the phone back. “Feel free to text that sexy face to your entire contact list and inform them I’m driving you home. That way if you show up dead tomorrow everyone will know who did it. And if you want, you can keep your finger on the emergency call button the whole time in case you need to call the cops.” He heaves out an exasperated breath. “Can I please take you home now?”
Although I’m not excited about standing outside alone and coatless to wait for the taxi, I still put up one last protest. “How much have you had to drink?”
“Half a beer.”
I raise my eyebrows.
“My limit is one,” he insists. “I’ve got practice tomorrow morning.”
My resistance crumbles at his earnest expression. I’ve heard a lot of rumors about Garrett, but none involving alcohol or drugs, and the campus cab service is notorious for taking its sweet ass time, so really, it won’t kill me to spend five minutes in a car with the guy. I can easily give him the silent treatment if he annoys me.
Or rather, when he annoys me.
“All right,” I concede. “You can take me home. But this doesn’t mean I’m tutoring you.”
His smile is the epitome of smug. “We’ll discuss it in the car.”
6
Garrett
Hannah Wells is into a football player. I can’t wrap my head around it, but I’ve already offended her once tonight, so I know I have to tread carefully if I’m going to win her over.
I wait until we’re in my Jeep and buckled up before I voice the cautious question. “So, how long have you wanted to fu—make love to Kohl?”
She doesn’t answer, but I can feel her death glare boring into the side of my face.
“Has to be a fairly recent thing since he just transferred two months ago.” I purse my lips. “Okay, let’s assume it’s been a month.”
No answer.
I glance over and see that she’s glowering even harder now, but even with that forbidding expression, she still looks hot. She’s got one of the most interesting faces I’ve ever seen—her cheeks are a little too round, her mouth a little too pouty, but combined with her smooth olive skin, vivid green eyes, and the tiny beauty mark over her top lip, she looks almost exotic. And that body…man, now that I’ve noticed it, I can’t un-notice it.
But I remind myself that I’m not driving her home in the hopes of scoring. I need Hannah too much to screw it up by sleeping with her.
After practice today, Coach pulled me aside and gave me a ten-minute lecture about the importance of keeping my grades up. Well, lecture is too generous a description—his exact words had been “maintain your average or I’ll shove my foot so far up your ass you’ll be able to taste my shoe polish in your mouth for years to come.”
Like the smartass I am, I asked if people actually still use shoe polish, and he responded with a string of colorful expletives before storming off.
I’m not exaggerating when I say that hockey is my entire life, but I guess that’s bound to happen when your father is a fucking superstar. The old man had my future planned out when I was still in the womb—learn to skate, learn to shoot, make it to the pros, the end. Phil Graham has a reputation to uphold, after all. I mean, just think about how badly it’d reflect on him if his only son didn’t grow up to be a professional hockey player.
Yes, that’s sarcasm you’re detecting. And here’s a confession: I hate my father. No, I despise him. The irony is, the bastard thinks everything I’ve done has been for him. The intense training, the full-body bruises, killing myself twenty hours a week in order to better my game. He’s arrogant enough to believe that I put myself through all that for him.
But he’s wrong. I do it for me. And to a lesser extent, I do it to beat him. To be better than him.
Don’t get me wrong—I love the game. I live for the roar of the crowd, the crisp air chilling my face as I hurtle down the ice, the hiss of the puck as I release a slap shot that lights the lamp. Hockey is adrenaline. It’s excitement. It’s…soothing, even.