Page 5 of Body Check
He shakes his head. “Nah, but I can ask around. Somebody on the team has probably taken that class at some point.”
I spot a sign for Crowder Hall as we approach the library entrance. “It’s up ahead, and I’ll be fine if you want to head back. Shouldn’t you be bonding with your teammates or swimming in your pool?”
“My team,” he scoffs.
The tone in his voice has me stopping in my tracks. “Yeah. The hockey team you love? Your roommates? Your friends? Did something change drastically since yesterday?” I ask, teasing him.
My usually energetic brother looks serious. “Actually, yeah. Coach recruited two transfers. They’re the second-fucking-coming, apparently. Just what we need for an epic season. The new D-man is just as big as Santos and a fuck of a lot faster. And the center’s every bit as good as Will was.”
“Okay,” I say slowly. “Those sound like good things?”
“They’d be fucking great if the new guys weren’t total assholes,” Bran grumbles.
“You just met them. How do you know they’re assholes? Besides, you like everyone,” I say, looking for the next class on my schedule.
“We know them. It’s Dickhead and Blueballs, the guys I fucking hate from Woodcock. Okay, I don’t technically hate Balls, but he’s guilty through his association with Dick.”
I nearly drop my precious latte all over the sidewalk. “Dick and Balls are your new teammates?!” I’ve known about these guys since Bran started at BU. He loathes them, especially Dick. That guy’s a complete asshole. He tries to get my brother ejected from every game.
“Yep,” Bran says. “So I’m giving you the tour, and we’re taking the long way. Then I’m helping you unpack, and then we’re hitting Wolfie’s up for wings. The less time I have to spend with those two, the better.”
Normally, I’d hate to keep my brother from his friends and his house, but if Dick and Balls live there now, it’s not just a good idea. It’s a great one.
3
Dutton
Transferring to a new university at the beginning of junior year would probably be nerve-wracking for most people, but Blue and I are handling it just fine despite the fact that we have opposite personalities. My bestie is a social butterfly, but I’m a loner by nature and don’t require a whole damn roster of friends. Matter of fact, there are about five people I like, and they all tolerate me in return. That’s more than good enough for me. I don’t require a lot of human interaction. And I also don’t seek out pussy like it’s an alternative to oxygen. I’m no saint, but I’m also not here to fuck my way through campus. I’ve had a few relationships over the years, all monogamous, all long-term. After a few months, though, when girls realize they’re not going to change me from a surly bastard into Prince Charming, they bail.
Their loss.
I may not be Mr. Personality, but when I do something, I give it all I have. Doesn’t matter if it’s playing hockey or pleasing my partner. Life’s a game, and I’m going to win every damn round.
Pulling open the door to the Wolf’s Den, I stride inside for morning workouts. They’re pretty much an open gym,considering that we all have classes at different times, but that doesn’t bother me. The fact is, I’m here at the ass-crack of dawn because I’m more likely to have the place to myself and this unholy hour. I’ll make my way around the circuit of exercises, shower off, and head to my first class. After stowing my shit in my locker, I’m annoyed to discover that some other asshole prefers to work out at fucking daybreak, but when I see that it’s JT, the tension in my shoulders relaxes a little.
I give him a nod when I hop on the treadmill next to him to warm up. I don’t know him well, but I respect the hell out of him. The man can defend the net, and that’s all that matters to me. Patting my pocket for my AirPods, I curse silently when I realize I probably left them on my nightstand. Dammit. They are the single greatest invention in the world, not only for the music they provide, but for the fact that when I’m wearing them, people don’t talk to me. Holding out the futile hope that no one else will join us, I lock in on the screen in front of me and start to jog. It doesn’t take me long to feel my body loosening up as I get into the zone. When I step off the treadmill and take a swig of water, I see JT waving me over out of the corner of my eye.
“Mind giving me a spot?” he asks, and of course, I can’t say no. I’m an asshole, but I’m not a dick.
It takes me a second to wipe off the machine I was using, but when I make my way over to the bench JT’s on, he’s grinning as he adjusts the weight on the bar. “Nobody else is ever here this early. I’ve usually got to wait until seven to do any heavy lifting.”
I nod because I don’t have anything to say to that. Small talk is pointless to me. The man stated a fact, so I’m not going to argue with him, but I’m also not going to start chatting. Taking my position, I give a grunt that’s the universal weight room signal for,I’m ready when you are.
Instead of lifting the bar, he tilts his chin at me. “You good, man?” he asks.
Fuck me running, are we really doing this? I live by the firmly held belief that no one should have to talk until the sun comes up. Open hostility isn’t an option because I’ve got no beef with this guy. And while silence is my social go-to, he’s already called bullshit on that. If I stay quiet, he’ll just ask more questions.
Thinking back on all those etiquette classes my mom signed me up for back in middle school, I summon the dormant manners that have been embedded in me since early childhood. And yes, I’m aware that I’m being dramatic. It’s not fucking hard to make casual conversation. People like to talk about themselves, so all I need to do is steer the conversation toward things that interest JT. Pasting a smile on my face, I open my mouth and think of the first thing that JT might be interested in.“How’s your kid?”
As JT blinks, I realize that it is actually pretty fucking hard to make casual conversation, at least for me.
Clearing my throat, I make another attempt. “You’ve got a baby, right? Is it doing okay? Like, doing baby things?”
JT breaks into an easy smile. “Calla’s perfect. She’s four months old, and if you’re not careful, I’ll show you pictures. Fuck it, I’m showing you pictures anyway,” he says, sliding his phone out of his pocket. A few taps later, an image appears on the screen. It’s a well-known fact that babies look like aliens, so I’m surprised at how cute this kid actually is with her big eyes and wispy blond hair. She’s propped up on a bare shoulder that obviously belongs to JT’s girlfriend. With her rosy cheeks and o-shaped mouth, she looks like she could be in a commercial for baby lotion or baby food or whatever stuff babies need.
“She’s cute,” I say, unable to hide the shock from my tone. “But very slobbery.”
“No fucking kidding. I snapped this as I was headed out the door. Calla’s teething already, and no one at my house slept for more than an hour last night. As soon as I’m done here, I’mgonna head back so Maggie can get a few hours in before I have to get to class.”
