Play the Game: A New Adult Hockey Romance (Golden Boys Hockey Book 1) Read online

  Play the Game

  Emma Tharp

  Copyright © 2021 by Emma Tharp

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  About the Author

  Also by Emma Tharp

  One

  Stella

  He has to be kidding me.

  “I’m not kidding, young lady,” Dad says. “You need to make sure this year is better than last year. No more mess ups. Straight As or say goodbye to your trust fund."

  Why does my father still call me a young lady? I’m nineteen. And what mess ups, exactly? Getting a C minus in bio lab last semester? Part of me thinks that’s not even what he’s really upset with. No, this must because I broke up with my "perfect" boyfriend. I can think of worse things, but I don't dare argue with my dad. It never ends well. There’s no winning with him.

  I paint on a smile, the one of a willing victim, and bring my salad bowl to the sink and set it in. “Sure. I’ll do better this semester.”

  “Stella.”

  I turn and lean against the counter, giving him my full attention. “Yes, sir?”

  Dad drops his paper under his hard stare. He straightens his posture in the high gloss, upholstered Italian leather chair. The painting sitting on the wall directly behind him is an eighteenth-century French piece worth a small fortune.

  “I’m serious,” he says. “If you don’t meet my expectations this semester, we’re cutting you off.”

  “Richard,” my mother calls from the living room where she’s taking down each pristine ornament off the Christmas tree and placing each one in their respective boxes. “I’m sure Stella is trying her best.”

  My jaw goes slack. My dear mother, the perfect Stepford wife, rarely speaks out of turn, and never in one of her daughters’ defense. Maybe the Baileys she added to her first and second cups of coffee this morning, and the wine with lunch, has loosened her lips. Whatever the reason, I’m impressed.

  “Cynthia, please stay out of this.” His tone is blunt and final. “Stella needs to work harder. She’s pre-med. They don’t let just anyone into medical school. I’ll be keeping a close eye on her this semester.”

  Dad, the dictator, growls and brings his paper back up, ending our conversation.

  “Understood,” I mumble and speed walk out of the kitchen and away from the weight of Dad’s expectations. “I’m going upstairs to finish packing.”

  “Thanks,” I mouth to my mother as I pass her in the living room.

  She gives me a slight nod. Her pale green eyes, just like mine, dart from me to where my father still sits in the dining room. It’s clear she regrets speaking out. I hope for her sake there isn’t too much hell to pay for her actions.

  What’s most unfortunate for me is that my father can keep track of me. Every single grade, absence, or misstep. I’m enrolled for my second semester of second year at Boston College—and he’s the dean.

  A small oversight on my part. I should’ve applied to other colleges.

  I don’t usually get bad grades and I try to make good decisions, but my father only accepts perfection from myself and my older sister, Catherine. Which has never been a problem for her, since she’s a stuffy perfectionist, just like him, and currently in her third year of law school. Dad is so very proud of Catherine. Maybe that’s why she’s the recipient of any scrap of love he gives out…because that love is certainly never freely given.

  Once inside my room, I huff out a sigh and close the door with a little extra oomph. Any clothes remaining in my closet, I toss into my suitcase and zip it shut. I can’t get out of here fast enough. Christmas break has been a long, boring four weeks at home, and I’m more than ready to drive the thirty minutes back to the sorority house and to freedom. Or, more freedom than these four walls allow. I’m never going to be completely free in Boston, near the dictator.

  For now, I’ll go along with his demands and authority, because I don’t want to be cut off. I’m not sure I would know what to do. I’ve never had a job, and now isn’t the time to try and find one. Not with my demanding school schedule. For now, I’m stuck.

  My cell pings. It’s a text from Harper, my sorority sister.

  Where are you? We’re heading to the hockey game in an hour. You coming?

  No. I think I’ll sit this one out.

  Wait a minute. You texted me last weekend wanting to go out. Now’s the time.

  Eff. What do I do? I’m not a huge fan of hockey. A bunch of sweaty guys getting in fistfights all the time is not my definition of fun. And there’ll definitely be an after-party; there always is. A terrible idea with tomorrow being the first day back at classes and my father breathing down my neck for good grades. I shouldn’t go.

  Maybe next weekend.

  I don’t think so. Get your pretty little ass back here and come with us.

  It’s so tempting. I’ve been desperate for social interaction after being cooped up at home. All of my sorority sisters will be back now. I can pull this off, right? If I stay in control, there’s no harm. Just because I go to a party doesn’t mean I have to get drunk. One or two drinks, just to be social.

  Screw it. I’m in.

  I’ll meet you there.

  As long as Dad doesn’t find out, I’ll be fine.

  Skates scrape along the ice, and cheers break out across the arena as I search the place, looking for my friends. After I texted Harper that I would be joining her and a few of my sorority sisters, I said my goodbyes to my parents with promises of stellar grades this semester. Mom’s hug was huge, while Dad gave me little more than a backward glance. Then I drove straight to the game.

  The crowd chants, creating a wave of vibration through the place. The energy lightens the foul mood my father put me in this afternoon. As bad of an idea as it was to come here, I’m glad I did.

  Harper throws her arms around me and I sink into the hug. “You made it.”

  “It was hard to find you. I didn’t realize you’d be so close to the glass.” I wave toward my other friends seated down the row.

  She winks and points at the bench full of players. “Best view in the house.”

  A player, number twenty-one, storms toward the bench. He hurls his legs over the boards, rips off his helmet, and throws it on the ground. The coach yells something at him. In return, the player jams his fingers through his sweaty, wavy brown hair and plops down on the bench. He crosses his arms and growls under his breath, and a warmth tingles through my body as he flicks his gaze over his shoulder, catching my eye before returning to his seething.

  “Damn, he’s hot.”

  “He is,” Harper says.

  “Did I say that out loud?”

 
She grins as she hands me an extra Coke in her hand. “You did. Diet, no ice, by the way.”

  My cheeks warm, and I sip the Coke in an attempt to reset, but I can’t take my eyes off the player. Maybe hockey isn’t so bad, if this is what the players look like…

  Heck, even in his agitated state, he throws off a sexy vibe. It’s that bad boy, hyper-masculine thing that my dad would never approve of. It’s in his essence, and it’s impossible to look away, even as he sits facing the ice.

  Who are you, number twenty-one?

  Harper nudges my shoulder. “Close your mouth and wipe off the drool, girl.”

  “What?” I break away my gaze, and redirect my attention to Harper, who gives me a knowing smile.

  “Someone has your attention. Thought you don’t like hockey players.”

  “I don’t,” I reply quickly, but even I can hear the lie in my voice. I mean, it wasn’t a lie a week ago, but now…

  She shakes her head as the crowd starts to cheer. “Sure.”

  Twenty-one is back on the ice, skating hard toward the net. A player from the other team’s defense is hot on his heels, but he can’t catch up. Twenty-one’s legs drive him hard, his attention focused on controlling the puck and propelling himself forward.

  I wonder what that level of concentration would look like in the bedroom.

  Before the defenseman has a chance to get to him, twenty-one winds his stick back and lunges forward. He whacks the puck hard and buries it in the back of the net.

  The crowd explodes in roaring applause.

  Harper grabs my arm, and we both jump up and down, clapping our support. “See, aren’t you glad you came?”

  I nod without taking my eyes off twenty-one as he skates around the perimeter and pumps his fist. The rest of his teammates crowd around him in celebration.

  We win the game, and the contagious positive energy follows me and my girlfriends out of the arena to my white BMW. As many of my sorority sisters as will fit pile in, and I drive us to a convenience store to pick up some girly drinks. Sophia, the only one of us that’s of legal drinking age, heads inside to buy what we need. Then we make our way to the frat house hosting the after-party.

  Harper, in the front seat, pops open a hard seltzer and cranks the music. “Want a sip?”

  “No, I’m good.”

  She waves the can in front of my face. “Just one little sip. It’s mango. So delicious.”

  I swat her hand away. “I’ll wait until we get there. It’s less than two minutes out.”

  She shrugs as if it’s my loss and chugs the rest of it.

  No, sometimes my friends aren’t the best influence.

  We pull up in front of the frat house, the lawn littered with people. It’s an unseasonably warm night for January in Boston. People are outside to take advantage.

  We get out of the car and make our way toward the house. Some of my girlfriends are loud, stumbling and slurring from pre-gaming earlier.

  A group of guys stand on the porch, pumping the keg to fill their cups.

  When my eyes land on number twenty-one, birds flap their wings in my belly. From the light of the porch, I catch the frown on his face. His displeasure seems to be pointed in our direction, but why?

  Harper grabs my arm and pulls me along. "Let's go inside."

  I follow her lead, even though what I really want to do is march up to twenty-one and ask him what his problem is.

  In the kitchen, I'm greeted by Big Ted, a linebacker from the football team who sweeps me up in a big hug. "Good to see you guys. Come here."

  Harper and I follow him to the counter where he lines up a few shot glasses and fills them with tequila.

  I wave my hand. "No, thanks."

  Harper nudges my shoulder and lifts her shot. "Come on. One or two shots won’t kill you."

  "Yeah. We beat St. Lawrence.” Big Ted flexes his enormous biceps and smirks at me. “It's a big day."

  There's no way I'm getting out of this shot. Instead of fighting it, I grab the cup and tap it with my friends’ before I slam it back. The warm liquid burns the back of my throat.

  "No limes?" I ask.

  Big Ted shrugs and refills the cups. "One more."

  "Yeah!" Harper yells.

  Before I can object, Harper puts the cup in my hand.

  "Okay. But this is the last one," I say before shooting this one back.

  Harper looks around the room. "Where is Sophia? She has the seltzers."

  Big Ted leans down and produces two beers from a cooler that’s sitting next to him. "Here you go. To tide you over until you find your friends."

  "Cheers." Harper takes one of the beers and hands me the other. She pops hers open and takes a long swallow. "Let's go into the living room. I love this song."

  A loud booming rhythm vibrates the floor in the living room. We find our sorority sisters in a circle, dancing to the music.

  I open my beer and chug half of it before I join my friends. Letting loose is exactly what I need. No longer in my father's stifling presence, I finally begin to relax.

  When I drain my beer, Sophia hands me a hard seltzer, and we make our way into the dining room where we’re promptly invited to play a game of beer pong with a group of frat boys.

  I never claimed to be any good at this game, but I have a damn good time trying.

  When a sudden chill runs up the back of my neck, I shiver and turn my head. My muscles stiffen when my eyes land on twenty-one. He's standing stock-still, his handsome face expressionless, his dark gaze locked on mine.

  What is his problem?

  Maybe it's time I find out. I drain the rest of my liquid courage, square my shoulders, and stroll up to him.

  The damn birds in my stomach flap their wings harder with every step I take.

  His gaze rolls up and down me as I close the distance from the beer pong table and where he stands wordlessly.

  As I get closer, his good looks are magnified. He's taller than I thought he would be, at least six three, and he has an impressive, toned, muscular build, all broad shoulders that vee down to his waist. I bet he has a six pack. My mouth waters. His eyes are navy, dark, and bottomless. His dark eyebrows frame his strong, square jaw and sharp, straight nose.

  I stop just short of getting too close. I don’t want to invade his personal space…unless he wants me to.

  "Hi.” My voice has a shaky, slurred quality I didn't realize was there until I opened my mouth. I don’t know what else to say, so I mention the next thing that grabs my attention: a small cut across the side of his jaw. Angry, red, and barely scabbed over. "What happened there?”

  When I point to what I mean, he rubs at the slash a few times with his hand, making it redder. "I had a run in with someone’s stick at the game."

  I meant to ask him what his problem was, why he was staring at me. But I’ve become so entranced by his brutal beauty that I stand here pointing out his injuries to him. And I just can’t seem to stop.

  "Looks like it could get infected if you don't take care of it." My hand lifts of its own volition toward his face, but I halt my movement right before it makes contact.

  My chest rises and falls with the desire to touch him, but the dark and dangerous vibe he’s giving off has me shoving my hand in my pocket. Twenty-one doesn’t look like he would take too kindly to a random girl touching him.

  “If you’re done worrying about my face, was there another reason you came over here?”

  Yikes. This is not going well.

  “I just wanted to say, uh, great game. I saw you score.” I hiccup and cover my mouth.

  Smooth move, Stella.

  "Thank you," twenty-one says, his tone flat. “How much have you had to drink?”

  I hiccup again, but this time, I glue my lips shut and swallow it. “I’m not really sure. Too much, though.”

  I really shouldn’t have let Harper and Big Ted talk me into the shots.

  His thick, dark eyebrows pinch together. Is he…judging me? He doesn’t even
know me. Certainly not enough to show disapproval over my drinking habits. We are, in fact, at a party, where this type of thing often happens. I don’t know why he seems so pissy about it.

  We stand there, staring at each other. Tension prickles the air between us, and it sets me on edge, weakening my legs.

  "Is there anything else I can do for you?" His dark eyes are so cold, I shiver.

  "Nope." I pop the P. "Really nice meeting you."

  I take a few steps backward and bump into the staircase, whacking it with my elbow.

  “Shit,” I mutter to myself, completely embarrassed.

  Instead of humiliating myself any more, I spin around and head back to my friends at the beer pong table.

  "That guy is a complete asshole," I tell Harper as I rub my elbow.

  "Who?"

  I point over my shoulder. “Number twenty-one."

  "Screw him." She hands me a shot glass full of brown liquid. "Looks like you need this more than me."

  I suck the thing down. The sharp oak flavor is like fire burning its way to my stomach. The second I taste it, I know it's a bad idea. I hiccup again and cover my mouth as bile rises up the back of my throat.

  It’s too hot in here.

  Oh, no.

  I dart toward the closest bathroom and find the door locked. I jiggle the handle, but it doesn’t give.

  Shit.

  There's another bathroom upstairs, but the back door is closer. I sprint toward it and rush outside. The cold wind is like a slap across my face, sharp and eye-opening. I run toward the back corner of the yard, away from everyone, sink to my knees, and throw up.

  When I'm done heaving, I rest my head in my hands and curse myself. All that alcohol and nothing to eat since my salad at lunch. A recipe for disaster.