Face Offs & Cheap Shots (CU Hockey Book 2)
Face Offs & Cheap Shots: Chapter 4

Topher is playing a new game. It’s the let’s see how long he can ignore Beck game. Honestly, I’m surprised he’s managed to last three days.

When I provoke him, he smiles at me and walks away.

What the hell?

This is not how things are supposed to go.

I want to get under his skin.

“Hey, kid,” I say to one of the high schoolers I’m mentoring.

“Tamm.”

Right. Whatever. “Yeah, I need you to do me a favor. Can you start calling that guy”—I point to Jacobs—“Topher? Oh, and if you get all the other guys to do it, there’s a six-pack of beer in it for you.”

“R-really?”

“Yup.” Light beer. To share with the other guys. But I’m not pointing that out.

“Deal.”

Now to wait.

We finish out the practice session with the high school kids doing some easy and light skating drills. Jacobs and Rossi stay back to run through it with them while the rest of us are told to hit the showers.

As I leave the ice, I hear one of the kids call Jacobs Topher, and I am loving it. Until I hear his laugh.

I spin to replace Jacobs shaking his head, but he’s still laughing.

Unacceptable.

And so not worth a six-pack of beer.

All throughout my shower, I try to come up with other ways to get to dear old Topher, but I’m drawing a blank. It’s only when Jacobs and Rossi enter, I realize I’m the only one left and I’ve been in here for about twenty minutes.

I shut the water off and wrap my towel around me to go back to my cubby. I change into jeans and a T-shirt and then throw my CU hockey jacket over the top, but I’m stopped by Cohen on my way out.

I glance around the locker room. All the guys have wide smiles on their faces.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Cohen asks.

“It’s Friday. So … McIntyre’s?”

“Nuh-uh. Go sit your ass down.”

“O-okay.” I sit on the bench in my corner of the locker room. “What’s this about?”

Cohen and Martin roll the giant whiteboard from the corner and spin it around.

CUM CAPTAIN CHALLENGES, it reads across the top. Then it’s numbered down the sides with Post-it notes covering the actual challenges.

“Uhh … what the cum?”

Everyone snickers.

“Colchester U mountain lions,” Cohen says. “Duh.”

“Okay, but you do know mountain lions is two words, right? Otherwise I might have to question how you got accepted into this school.”

Cohen huffs. “Fine.” He grabs a marker and turns it into CUML. “Happy? Take all the fun out of it, why don’t you.”

“What’s going on?” Jacobs asks as he comes from the direction of the showers.

My gaze catches on the water dripping from his brown hair down his muscular torso. His muscles rival my own.

I’m bigger, maybe have a tiny bit more definition, but his arms are fucking veiny. Not, like a super-ripped bodybuilder, but there’s this one prominent vein from his shoulder to his elbow, and when did that happen?

Okay, that’s a weird thing to notice.

I avert my gaze to the stupid CUM board. Even with the L there now, it’s ruined forever.

The camp kids have to share the visitors’ locker room, while we have our domain to ourselves, so at least they’re not here to witness this humiliation.

“They’ve set our challenges,” I say and avoid looking in Jacobs’s direction as he dresses.

I’ve seen the guy naked a million times over the last three years. I don’t know why I have the sudden urge to compare his body to mine or why I’m fixated on that vein.

“All right. Let’s hear them.” Jacobs sits. I risk a glance in his direction, and thankfully he’s fully clothed now.

Cohen’s excitement is a little sad. He bounces around the locker room like a kid at Disneyland. “Okay, so there are five challenges, and each of them are worth between ten to thirty points depending on level of difficulty.”

Jacobs and I look at each other.

“Can’t we go one for one? Best out of five?” I ask.

“Agreed,” Jacobs says.

Wait, that seems too easy. I gasp. “We … see eye to eye on something? What … what is happening right now?”

“Points system it is.” Jacobs glares at me.

Yay! Finally! A typical Jacobs reaction. Took him long enough.

“I kind of agree with Beck,” Rossi says. “It says challenge number four and five are worth thirty points each. So, really, they’d only have to put in effort on those two to win.”

A few murmurs break out in agreement.

Cohen throws up his hands in defeat. “Fine. But I totally had a system.”

“You’re enjoying this way too much,” I say. He ignores me.

“Okay, first up.” Cohen rips off the first row of Post-its. “Drinking game.”

“Yeah, that won’t be happening,” Jacobs says.

“Scared I can drink you under the table?”

“Hmm, how about not wanting to be expelled for something that could be considered hazing seeing as there’s a no-tolerance policy for that shit on our campus? If one of us lands in the hospital with alcohol poisoning, half the hockey team will get kicked out of school. A captain should know that.”

Damn. He has a point.

Cohen grunts. “Why are you all determined to ruin my fun with this?”

I scoff. “Because this is all about you.”

“Duh.” Cohen folds his arms and rests the marker under his chin. “Okay, one pitcher of beer. Neither of you will die from, what, four drinks? We time it. The first to finish it wins.”

Jacobs’s lips flatten. “That works, but … what does drinking have to do with being captain?”

“Did we not just establish this isn’t about you guys?” Cohen asks.

Jacobs groans so loud I can hear him all the way over on my side of the locker room. “Okay. Let’s get this over with.”

“To McIntyre’s!” Cohen yells and leads us out of the locker room.

The guys on high school duty split off as soon as we leave the arena, making Cohen promise to send videos of the shenanigans.

“No video,” Jacobs and I say at the same time.

I fold my arms. “We’re agreeing on way too much in a short period. We don’t want to mess with the space-time continuum.”

This time, he’s able to rein it in and smiles as he walks away.

This is so weird.

We hit McIntyre’s, and Cohen immediately goes to the bar to order two pitchers of beer.

Rossi and Martin push Jacobs and me toward a booth and force us to sit opposite each other. The others crowd around us.

I assess my competition and think I have the advantage. Jacobs rarely goes out, and when he does, especially at McIntyre’s, he’s not a big drinker. I’ll occasionally see him at a kegger drinking like there’s no tomorrow, but compared to me … I’d say I’m more seasoned in that department.

Years of binge-drinking at frat parties and European clubs is about to work in my favor.

Cohen places the drinks in front of us. “Ready? Hands on the table. You can’t move them until I say go. No spilling. No vomiting.”

We do as he says.

“Aaaand …”

Anticipation builds. I’m ready to go for this.

“Shit … where’s my stopwatch app?”

I slump.

“Do you need a stopwatch if the winner is who finishes first?” Jacobs asks. “I thought you had a system.”

Cohen grumbles something under his breath. “Fine. Just … Go.”

There’s a blink of pause for us to realize he gave the go-ahead.

I get to my jug first, block out the rest of the world, and drink. The cheap beer has a god-awful bitterness to it that I try not to gag on. Still, I’m determined to win this thing, so I relax my throat and swallow it down as fast as I can.

When I place the empty jug back on the table, Jacobs is still drinking.

“Well, there’s one point to me.” I burp and all I can taste is that gross bitter aftertaste. I shudder. “What kind of beer was that? Tasted like ass.”

“You know what ass tastes like?” Cohen asks.

“Just your momma’s,” I mumble.

He slaps the back of my head.

“Does that make us done here?” I stand and the bar wobbles. Probably shoulda had some dinner first.

The ground stabilizes, and I try to walk it off, but a big hand pushes my chest, and I fall back onto the seat.

“Not done yet.” Cohen takes out his phone. “Challenge number two.”

“You have that shit on your phone as well?”

He shows me the screen which is a photo of the board without the Post-it coverings. It’s only a flash, but I swear I see the word streaking on there.

Great. They’d joked about it, but I didn’t think they’d follow through on that one.

Should’ve known different.

“Now, we all know how Grant was good at picking up,” Cohen says. “And he’s a bit of a player … well, he was until Zach. So, the guy to score the most phone numbers wins.”

“But that’s so unfair,” I point out. “Jacobs is practically a virgin, and I already have half the phone numbers in this place.”

“Oh, game on.” Jacobs walks away saying something about practically a virgin my ass.

Even though it’s a Friday night, this is a college town, so the bar isn’t as busy as it usually is during a semester, but that’s not going to stop me from beating Jacobs at this challenge either.

If I get two challenges in the bag, I only have to win one of the other three. And maybe I’ll get out of streaking.

Not that I’m against being naked. I just prefer not to be while running across campus.

There’s a couple of girls hanging by the bar, so I zero in on them and put on my charming smile. I’m definitely not new to this.

I chat to them for a bit, offer to buy them drinks, and I walk away five minutes later with both their numbers.

Yeah, I’m so winning this one too.

I’m in the middle of talking with the next woman on my hit list, and she is all woman. Like, a cougar woman. Late thirties easy. But hey, a number is a number.

While she rambles about whatever, Jacobs catches my eye behind her. He’s talking to a group of guys who are wearing Boston hockey jerseys.

If he wants to waste his time talking hockey, that’s fine by me.

I get the cougar’s number and then go to move on when Cohen taps my shoulder.

“Time’s up. But it has been so much fun watching you hit on a woman old enough to be your mother.”

“I got three numbers.”

“Nice.”

Back at our table, I stare at Jacobs expectantly.

“Eight.”

I balk. “What? No fucking way. How?”

“I got game.”

“No, you don’t.”

He scowls, and I love it. “What would you know?” he snaps.

“How did you get that many numbers?”

“Six of them were those guys over there.” Cohen points to the hockey fans. “Told them he does hockey coaching as a side hustle and is looking for clients.”

“That doesn’t count. You got two girls’ numbers. I win.”

“Hey, Cohen never said we had to get girls’ numbers. If Grant was doing this, he wouldn’t have limited himself.” Jacobs shrugs. “Think outside the box, Beck.”

“Technically, he’s not wrong,” Cohen says.

“One win each, then?” Jacobs asks.

Cohen nods.

“This is bullshit,” I protest.

“Now, now, Beck. A captain can’t be a sore loser.” Jacobs turns to Cohen. “What’s next?”

The evil glint in Cohen’s eyes lets me know exactly what’s next. And now I can’t afford to let Jacobs win another one.

“You’ll replace out tomorrow night.”

Streaking it is.