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We stand in our respective stalls with the waist-high partitions, so I still see him from the corner of my eye. That’s how I can sense his eyes on me as I drag both hands through my wet hair to wring the water out.
“What?” I say irritably, looking toward his stall.
“Would it kill you to be a little more complimentary during practice?”
“Toward you? What, you want me to stand there and stroke your ego?”
“No, not toward me. I don’t need that shit. I mean the other guys.”
“Really.”
“Yes. Woody and Tierney were nailing those face-off drills. And Larsen killed it during our last game with that laser beam of a shot.”
“Yeah, and how often do you compliment the Eastwood guys?” I counter.
“There is no ‘Eastwood guys’ anymore,” he says in frustration. “You’re all Briar.”
“Cool—how often do you compliment the new Briar guys? Because from where I stood, Lindley was doing the sickest moves in practice yesterday to deke you out. Were you patting him on the back for that?”
Case has the decency to look contrite. “Whatever,” he mutters.
“Just saying.” I shrug. “It goes both ways, bro.”
“Fine. I’ll make an effort too. Is that what you want to hear?”
“I don’t want to hear shit. You’re the one who started talking.”
“All right, got it. Great chatting with you as always, Ryder.”
I turn my gaze away. I simply can’t bring myself to be amenable to this guy. The truth is, it’s his responsibility, because at the end of the day, this is his house. We’re still the trespassers. He’s the one who needs to bridge the gap, not me.
I towel off, quickly going to change into my street clothes. Case does the same, pulling a tank top over his head. He’s got a couple of tattoos on his arms. After two months sharing a locker room with him, I’ve seen them before. The one on his right bicep is a cross but doesn’t give an overly religious vibes. It’s Celtic style with lots of ornate flourishes. Case puts on a black and silver Briar hoodie, turning his back to me.
I wonder if that’s what Gigi’s into, dudes with tattoos. Although I suppose it doesn’t really matter, because she isn’t screwing him anymore, now is she?
Nope. She’s certainly not.
I lace up my shoes and grab my backpack. I sling it over my shoulder and head to the media room, Case at my heels.
Coach Jensen stands at the projector. Everyone’s already seated, chattering to each other. As Case and I take our seats, Coach starts the meeting.
He opens his laptop. “Something’s come to my attention,” he says, his gaze conducting a sweep of the room. “Normally, I wouldn’t address this because it’s none of my goddamn business.”
Okay. Curiosity piqued.
“But I was informed, because of the new rules regarding both appropriate campus conduct and potential mental health issues, we have to provide you with adequate information if something like this should arise.”
“What the hell’s happening?” Beckett sounds amused.
Jensen gives us a grim look. “Let’s begin. Firstly, I didn’t create this PowerPoint. I just want you to know that. I’ve got better ways to spend my time.”
Chuckles echo through the room.
He clicks the laptop, and the header slide comes on.
PORN ADDICTION AND YOU
Someone hoots loudly.
“The fuck is this?” Trager demands.
“I was not born yesterday,” Jensen begins. “Sex is a thing. Porn is a thing. It’s available on every phone. I get it. I can’t say I think it’s healthy, because, you know, go find a real woman. Or man,” he throws out. “Or both. Whatever you’re into. I don’t see how watching porn for hours on end is good for you, but as long as it’s in the privacy of your bedroom, fine. Go nuts.”
“Pun intended,” someone says.
“Pun not intended. I don’t make puns. To summarize—in your bedroom? Great, I don’t give a shit. But the consumption of pornography on university grounds, which includes libraries, is not something the faculty condones.”
“Dude, he’s talking about you,” Rand blurts out, his head swiveling toward Shane. Then he starts laughing his ass off, and for some reason, Coach allows it to happen.
Rand is in hysterics, curled over the tabletop, broad shoulders shuddering.
Even I can’t fight it. I hide my own laughter behind my fist.
Shane levels me with a murderous glare.
I press my lips together. Though I do feel a spark of guilt along with the humor. We both know this is my fault. Word of his library porn exploits has gotten around. Meanwhile, he was only covering for Gigi and me.
“Gonna fucking kill you,” he whispers ominously.
“With that said, a point was raised that someone who does do this on university grounds might not possess the proper impulse control and perhaps there might be a deeper issue here, so, and I’m not going to name names here—Lindley,” he says pointedly.
The room breaks out with laughter.
