Offside: Rules of the Game Book 1
Offside: Chapter 44

On the way home a few hours later, I curled up against the passenger door, eyelids heavy with looming sleep. But that didn’t stop Chase from grilling me about my run-in with Luke.

As we drove, the streetlights cast flickers of shadows across Chase’s profile. Reluctantly, I gave him the whole story, including the part where Luke called me a slut. The more I spoke, the more his face clouded over with anger. Not just anger—rage. His grip on the steering wheel got tighter and tighter, the cords in his neck tensing to match.

“Then he drove away,” I finished.

“Fuck!” Chase smacked the steering wheel with his open palm. “I’m going to snap his neck like a twig.”

He drew in a breath and let out a low growl. “Maybe break his legs first,” he muttered, shaking his head. “Or his fingers. One at a time. Pull out some teeth with pliers too.”

After his verbal rampage, he fell silent for several moments. I stole a glance at him but didn’t know what to say. He was on a precariously short leash, especially given that he was operating a motor vehicle. It wasn’t that he was flying off the handle. Just the opposite. An eerie, overly quiet calm had settled over him. The kind that meant something lethal was brewing beneath the surface.

“I hope you know I’m not mad at you,” Chase said quietly. “Just at him and what he did.”

“I know.” But part of me felt strangely guilty that he was so upset.

“Has he texted you since I wrote him back from your phone?” His tone was unnaturally even. “I need the truth.”

“No.” Chase’s threats tended to put Luke off temporarily. It just never stuck.

“Are you sure?”

“Promise. I can show you if you want.”

“You need to block him, baby.”

“Good call.” I yawned. “I will now that I’ve moved.”

Chase added, “Better yet, change your number so he can’t contact you from someone else’s phone. And for the love of god, no more attending games alone. Please.”

“Deal. On both counts.”

Getting a new number would be a hassle, which was why I’d been resistant initially, but Chase was right—Luke wasn’t above using other people’s phones to contact me. I knew that from experience. A clean slate was worth the inconvenience.

The game thing might be trickier, but I would make it work somehow. I wasn’t eager to live through a repeat of what Luke did, either.

Chase turned onto the freeway entrance ramp. After shoulder-checking, he merged into the middle lane. I closed my eyes, snuggling against a black hoodie that I’d snagged from the back seat and folded into a makeshift pillow. It smelled like him. He probably wasn’t getting it back. Sorry, Carter.

A few more seconds of silence passed, then he sucked in a sharp inhale. “I’m sorry, I can’t get past this. Why the hell didn’t you call me? What if he’d hurt you?”

“A few reasons,” I said, eyes still closed.

“Like…”

“I guess part of me feels like it’s my fault.”

My fault for dating Luke in the first place; my fault for not handling him correctly and provoking him; my fault for going to the hockey game alone.

“James.” His voice softened. “That’s not even a little true.”

“How is it not?”

“You’re not responsible for anything that fucker does.”

It didn’t feel that way.

“That and I don’t want you to get yourself into trouble,” I said.

“One of these days I’m going to have to make good on my threats to him or they won’t mean anything.”

“Can you limit beating him to when you’re on the ice so you don’t go to jail?”

“Trust me when I say that I am trying very, very hard to do that. Counting down the days until I can demolish him,” he said. “But if he pulls something like that car thing again, he’s leaving in a body bag.”

“Chase.” I groaned.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “I can afford a top-notch lawyer. Call it self-defense or something, whatever.”

He paused. “Or maybe I should hire a hit man. It would be money well spent.”

I couldn’t tell if he was serious.

CHASE

Bailey dozed off after she spilled the ugly truth, which gave me fifteen minutes to breathe deeply and cool down before we got home.

Or at least to shift into quietly planning Morrison’s dismemberment while attempting to behave like a normal human, outwardly speaking.

I wasn’t upset with her—especially after she told me she felt like it was her fault. That admission had guilt smashing me in the face like a slapshot.

I hated him that much more for making her think that.

And I really fucking hated him for scaring her.

Tomorrow was supposed to be my rest day, and now Morrison had fucked that up too, because I had serious amounts of aggression to work out on the ice or in the gym. Maybe both.

Or I could replace his address and take it out on the source…

Also planned to consult Ward and Ty about orchestrating the most damaging on-ice hit possible that wouldn’t land me a suspension or expulsion from the league. Still needed to mull that one over. Maybe get out the whiteboard and draw up some diagrams evaluating potential plans of action, optimizing speed, and leveraging angles. Watch some videos online, like compilations of the NHL’s most devastating hits. You know, research that shit and really get it right.

I pulled into the visitor parking for Bailey’s apartment building and shifted into park. As I did, the truck lurched slightly, causing her to stir. Bailey let out a tiny, adorable groan and pushed herself upright, stretching sleepily.

“Sorry,” I said quietly. “We’re home.”

She unbuckled her seat belt and turned to me, still bleary-eyed with sleep. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m good.” I had to put the Morrison thing on ice for the time being. I wouldn’t let that creep ruin my night with her.

We headed upstairs to change and get ready for bed in a pattern that was nearly automatic by now. I knew everything down to the color of her toothbrush. She even had her own drawer at my place. I didn’t recognize myself, but that was a good thing.

Climbing under the covers, I threw an arm around Bailey, and she nestled against me with a hand splayed on my stomach. She was wearing one of my shirts; she had a rotation of them now, and it was, as always, fucking adorable. And her blond hair smelled faintly of her fruity shampoo, which, oddly enough, was a turn-on for me. Probably because it brought about visions of her naked and wrapped around me while I pulled it.

God, I was in deep.

“I know we said we’d go for round two,” she murmured, “but I’m pretty wiped out between the move and the late night.”

“I figured after you fell asleep on the way home.” I chuckled. “I’m bagged too, much as I hate to admit it.”

All of today’s heavy lifting had taken its toll. I could have rallied if she wanted—it wasn’t like I’d turn her down, ever—but I was tired.

Bailey pulled the soft white comforter higher around her body, shivering. The room felt fine to me, but as usual, she was cold. Her bare feet told me as much, because they were pressed up against my calf like blocks of ice.

“Thanks for helping me today.”

“Of course,” I said. “I’m just glad you’re moved.”

She turned onto her stomach and propped herself up on one elbow to face me. Her blond hair fell in front of her face, and she brushed it away with her free hand.

Our eyes met, and her lips tugged at the corners, a small smile forming on her perfect mouth.

Everything shifted, like the earth moving on its axis.

It felt like the moment before our first kiss, before our first real sleepover, before we had sex for the first time. One of those slivers of time I’d remember forever, going into it as one person and leaving as someone else.

Her expression sobered as her green-gold eyes traced my face, lips slightly parted. She looked nervous for a split second, and her brow furrowed before she spoke.

“I love you,” she said softly.

She beat me to it.

A rush ran through my body. The only time I’d ever felt something even remotely comparable was when I was drafted, but even that didn’t compare—partly because, on some level, I always knew that would happen.

But in the scheme of my life, I never expected her.

“I love you, James. I’ve known that for a while.”

For once in my life, I’d managed to filter something. I was fairly certain I’d gotten there first, although it took me a while to figure out what the hell was going on.

Her face brightened, her smile returning. “Really?” She shifted, moving closer to me and placing a soft, warm hand on my bare chest.

“Yeah.” I tucked a stray piece of hair behind her ear. “I wanted to make sure you were there too before I said anything. But it’s not a big secret, anyway. Pretty sure half the state knows how I feel by this point.” I leaned in, my mouth hovering above hers. “Feels good to say it, though.”

She smiled against my lips. “Sure does.”

The week flew by in a blur of classes, practice, and dryland. In addition to her usual heavy workload, Bailey was consumed with completing some massive scholarship application that required an essay, references, and a million other time-intensive items. Between our conflicting schedules, we barely had time to see each other.

To make matters worse, Coach Miller was all over me again, which I couldn’t understand because my grades were fine and so was my performance. I could barely breathe without him looking in my direction.

But even with staying busy, my thoughts weighed me down. It was like carrying a gigantic bag of hockey equipment around all week, metaphorically speaking.

I debated for several days over whether to do it. Weighed the pros and cons. Considered talking to Bailey first. Ruled that out. Tried to listen to my conscience. Wrestled with what my conscience said versus what my brain knew. Went back and forth several times. Asked Ward and promptly disregarded his advice because it didn’t align with what I wanted to do.

Finally, I pulled the trigger.

After getting Palmer to pass along Derek’s contact info, I had to do a shit ton of arm twisting via text to get him to meet me for a simple beer.

Dick.

I slid into the dark green vinyl booth, facing the front so I could watch for Derek when he arrived. Maybe this was a little hypocritical after giving Bailey a hard time about hiding the Morrison thing, but it was for a good cause. She’d understand.

Hopefully.

Plus, I did warn her that I was nosy.

Ten minutes later than we’d agreed, Derek pushed open the wooden double doors of O’Connor’s and crossed the room to my table. He flopped down into the booth across from me, giving me a wary look. His head-to-toe uniform of blue and gray Bulldogs gear was probably intentional, meant to remind me that we were still firmly on opposite sides.

“What do you want, Carter? Is this about Bailey?”

Pretty cold reception from someone who—according to Bailey—was willing to give me a chance, but whatever. I guess he was singing a different tune when she was around.

“And here I thought Bailey said you were going to make nice.”

“I still don’t trust you,” he said.

That was mutual. But, moving on. I was willing to be civil. We didn’t have to be best friends.

Our server appeared, and we quickly ordered a pint of beer each. The same beer, actually—Half Moon Pale Ale from the local Rockwood Brewery.

Maybe he would chill out after he had a drink. Nah, probably not. Aside from Morrison and Paul, I didn’t really hold grudges, but Derek took things much more personally than I did. Our bad blood went back pretty far too; right to the beginning of my freshman year, when I discovered how easy he was to rile up on the ice. Plus, he was really pissed after I got him thrown out of that game last spring.

I didn’t want to jump right into it, so I made a half-assed attempt at conversation about hockey and the weather while we waited for our drinks to arrive. It was painful. I wasn’t a fan of small talk at the best of times, let alone when the person across from me openly hated my guts.

My limited supply of patience dwindled quickly.

“What’s going on with your parents?” I placed my forearms on the table and angled closer.

Derek frowned. “What do you mean?”

“The house and money situation,” I said. “Your sister was pretty vague with me. How bad is it?”

“Well…it’s not great.”

Our server returned, setting down two cardboard coasters and placing the beers on top before leaving again.

“Elaborate.”

Derek looked into his beer, hesitating. “I don’t want to tell you anything Bailey doesn’t want you to know.”

“Tell me anyway. Maybe I can help.”

He snorted. “What, do you have a money tree?”

I don’t know, asshole. Does a hefty trust fund count? Christ. Was he always this salty or was I special?

“Maybe I do,” I said. “How bad?”

Derek’s expression shifted from overt hostility to poorly concealed embarrassment. “I don’t know specifically. I just know they’ve fallen behind on everything.” He shrugged, picking up his glass. “Living on one income for six months will do that.”

So her dad hadn’t been laid off recently. I wondered, given that he was a teacher, and it was partway through the school year. Dammit, James. Why was she trying to save face with me?

“Plus, they used up all their savings back when Bailey—” He caught himself.

Um, what’s this now?

“When Bailey what?” I leaned over the table, elbows spread across the top, prompting him.

Derek looked at me, wide-eyed, like a goalie caught in the line of an oncoming puck without his pads. I guess an inability to lie well ran in the family. “Uh, nothing. Never mind.”

I took a sip of my beer, pretending to let that Bailey thing slide. Even though I sure as hell wasn’t.

“Are they in foreclosure?”

He shook his head. “Not yet.”

“They’re behind on the loan payments?”

“The mortgage is in default. They have a few more weeks before it goes into foreclosure.”

In other words, right before Christmas. Fuck.

A sinking feeling settled in the pit of my stomach. I didn’t even want to go home for Christmas to deal with my catastrophe of a family. And yet, it was all Bailey wanted—but might not get.

“So that’s why they’re selling the house.”

“Yeah, they’re hoping to sell before the bank takes it,” he said.

Double fuck. I was no realtor, but even I knew hardly anyone was buying houses around Christmas. Especially in the midst of an economic recession.

“Can they get out of default before the deadline?” I asked. “Do they have anyone they can hit up for the cash?”

Derek sighed, avoiding my eyes. “Probably not. But they won’t take your charity, if that’s what you’re trying to get at.”

“Would they take an interest-free loan?”

“Doubt it,” he said.

Did he actually doubt it, or did he just not want the help to come from me?

“They could pay me back once the house sells.”

Assuming it did sell and assuming they could afford to pay me back once it did. Hopefully, they weren’t underwater too. But I wouldn’t offer anything I wasn’t willing to part with permanently.

He looked at me warily, studying me with eyes that were a darker, duller version of Bailey’s—more brown, less green. Then he shook his head slightly, like he was ruling it out.

“To be clear,” I said, “unlike your dick friend Morrison, my help won’t come with strings. I don’t want Bailey to have to worry about this. And I definitely don’t want her parents to lose their home at Christmas.”

Derek’s jaw tensed, probably because of the Morrison jab.

I wanted to ask him whether he was aware of the texts that fucker was sending his sister. Or the millions of other terrible things he’d done to Bailey. But covering that would take all night—and those were just the things she’d told me about. They were the tip of the hockey stick.

“B would be pissed at you for going behind her back about this,” he said.

He was right, but the alternative was worse. I hoped Bailey would agree, at least once she forgave me. She’d never been really mad at me before; it was hard to say.

“Let me worry about that,” I said. “How much is the mortgage, do you know?”

“Around three thousand a month.”

“Do you think fifteen grand would help?”

His eyes widened. “You’re going to cut a check for fifteen grand like it’s nothing?”

Why did everyone think Morrison was the only person in the world with any cash? Because he rubbed it in their faces constantly? We weren’t all tacky assholes. And fifteen thousand dollars wasn’t that much money. It was well spent in this case, anyway.

“Would it help or not?” If it did, maybe they could hang on and sell the house in the new year. “Or do you need more?”

“I mean, yeah. Fifteen would help.” Derek shifted his weight, clearly uncomfortable with the idea of accepting it.

“Okay,” I said. “See if you can get them to take it.”

“Where am I supposed to pretend I got it from?”

“Say you borrowed it from a friend. Or hit it big at the casino.” I shrugged. “Tell them you won a fucking beauty pageant. I don’t care. That’s for you to figure out.”

He actually had the nerve to glare at me. I glared back. Why were we having a pissing match over this?

“What’s the alternative here?” I gestured with one hand. “Come on.”

In the end, he might shoot me down, but I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t at least try.

“If you’re going to help, I think you should tell Bailey,” he said. “It’s only right.”

Irritation sparked within me, and I clamped down on the urge to argue with Derek about what was right—like standing up for one’s sister to a monster. Right now, my priority was the money. Arguing with Derek over Morrison wouldn’t help get him on my side.

“Why? So she can say no?” I raised my eyebrows, waiting, but he didn’t have a comeback to offer.

There was a weighty pause.

“Look,” I said. “I’m going to lend you some money. Between us. Whatever you do with it after that is your business. Pay me back whenever you can. No rush.”

His light brown eyebrows went wide. “You’re serious.”

“Dead serious. I can send you a transfer later today.”

“Fine.” Derek sighed, looking away briefly. “But this doesn’t mean we’re good. I’m doing it for my sister.”

“And so am I. Give me your email address and banking information.” I unlocked my phone and handed it to him over the table. He took it from my hands, tapping at the screen and handing it back to me with a sour look on his face.

“I’ll send it when I get home.”

“Thanks,” he said.