A chorus of five-year-olds answers me with high-pitched cheers.
I’ve done it.
But then I spot it.
In the back of the room. Inflating slowly. Towering higher and higher by the second.
A dinosaur bounce house.
Every child’s party entertainer’s nightmare.
Five-year-olds, sugar, balloons, and a giant T-Rex they can physically launch themselves into?
This is going to be a long two hours.
Chapter 3
“Mr. Stanley Cup has a problem,” Erik declares, bursting into the room with that stupid plastic crown on his head. He hasn’t taken it off since he won the Hockey Fun Run three days ago, and at this point, I’m convinced he showers in it. Might even sleep in it.
Either way, the whole look screams, ‘I missed out on prom king, so now everyone else has to suffer.’
I don’t give him more than a second glance. If I do, that means I’m validating the nickname—Mr. Stanley Cup. My father’s nickname. God, I hate it. I don’t want to be called that. We might have the same cheekbones, but that doesn’t mean I want to be remembered by his legacy branding.
I want to make my own.
“Unbelievable,” Erik gripes, waltzing through the kitchen before he sprawls himself across the back couch, effectively declaring it his throne since no one else can get around his 6’4” frame. Not that any of us wants to sit there anyway. No, we’ve all been giving it a wide berth since Alex caught Erik getting head on that couch last week.
“I make a royal announcement.” Oh, Erik’s still talking. “And you peasants don’t even blink. Fine. I guess this is a crisis I’ll have to deal with on my own.”
“Were you planning on elaborating on the crisis, or is this just your weekly reminder that you crave attention?” Dash deadpans from the armchair, his gaze not moving from the TV. Can’t say I blame him—Tate Sorenson is about to score his three-hundredth homer.
Erik gasps, clutching his chest. “I was pausing for dramatic effect.” He flourishes his hand. “But fine, since patience is dead in this dorm, I’ll get to the point.” He clears his throat. “Scotty can’t get laid.”
Silence.
That’s what he’s met with when he looks at Cade, Dash, me, Alex, and Brooks. Literal silence—because none of us want to deal with his drama today.
“Erik,” I warn after a beat.
He doesn’t even flinch at my glare. Of course he doesn’t. Instead, he raises his hands. “Look, SC. I didn’t want to call you out in front of the boys—”
“And yet—” Alex pipes up from the kitchen, where he’s spreading peanut butter on toast next to his pile of notes. The guy’s been studying them religiously over breakfast even though the semester has only just started. “—that’s literally what you’re doing, and wearing that crown doesn’t make it noble, or less weird.”
Erik’s mouth drops open, his crown tilting as his gaze flits between us. “Really. You’re calling me out now?Me?The only person who’s even been remotely successful at bringing a girl back is me.” His eyes widen, and he pulls himself up. “Wait a minute, is this a team-wide issue? Is that why you’re all pissed about the couch? I expected issues for Scotty—girls are afraid of his fame—but you?”
He sizes up our dirty-blond teammate and lets out a disbelieving laugh. “I mean…seriously? I thought there’d be an entire line of girls vying for the McDonnell dick like it was a Black Friday sale.”
“You know what?” Brooks says from the corner, scratching his immaculately trimmed beard. His eyes are dark, and he’s no doubt judging every single one of us. “I’m going to formally opt out of this conversation.”
“Motion denied.” Erik points dramatically at Brooks. “The Covey Crushers is a brotherhood. It’s a sacred union, and nothing builds trust like helping Mr. Stanley Cup get laid after the most humiliating meet cute of all time.”
“Wait,” Cade raises his finger, watches Tate Sorenson strike out, and then draws his attention to Erik. “Is this about the girl from the fountain?”
“Yes!” Erik claps. “The Queen of the Dripocalypse, if you will.” I roll my eyes. Only he would be so extra when describing a girl I accidentally pushed into a fountain with my dick.
“Her name is Laura, and Scotty barely spoke to her,” Alex says, shooting me this soft, sympathetic look that feels like a pat on the head. As much as I like him, and think he’s a solid linemate, he’s absolutely not helping the situation.
“You’re kidding, right? He pushed her into a fountain and admitted to staring at her in class,” Erik counters.
