“Sorry, Coach,” the desk jockey mumbles.

I stare at them both. “You two know each other?”

“Yeah, kid used to play for me. Sammy Albertson, class of 2012.”

Damn, now I really wish Albertson was the one who pulled us over. I could’ve just name-dropped and gone on my merry way. Just my luck that I got the cop with the chip on his shoulder.

“And you,” Coach says, turning to a sour-faced Jenk. “Unless the kid’s dick is out and inside someone’s mouth, it ain’t considered lewd conduct. Make wiser choices next time.”

“Tell your player that,” Jenk says snidely. “He can’t be swerving all over the road.”

“I was stuck,” Demi pipes up. “Hunter was trying to—”

Coach raises a hand to silence her, and, like all of his players, Demi falls in line. “Any paperwork we need to sign?” he barks at Jenk. “Any fines to pay?”

“No, I’m letting them off with a warning as a courtesy to—”

“Good, let’s go,” Coach interrupts. He nods his head, and Demi and I scamper after him like baby geese following their mommy.

Outside the tiny station, Coach zips up his coat. It still hasn’t snowed once this winter, but the temperature is finally turning frigid. Coach’s breath escapes in white puffs as he says, “Your Land Rover wasn’t impounded because the tow truck’s ETA was a couple of hours, so it’s still on Ninth Line. I’ll drive you over to it.”

“Thanks, Coach.”

“And I want you to go straight home, you hear me?”

“Demi lives on campus,” I say, shaking my head. “I need to drop her off first.”

“I’ll do it,” he snaps before stalking toward the curb, where his Jeep is parked.

Demi turns to me in alarm. “Should I be worried he might murder me on the drive home?” She pauses. “I can’t remember if my show has an episode called Coaches Who Kill.”

“You’re probably okay.”

“Probably?”

I shrug. “He’s more pissed at me than you. I’m the one who dragged him out of bed.”

“True.” She flips up the fur-lined hood of her parka, and plants one hand on her hip. “And for the record, none of this would have happened if you’d agreed to rebound me.”

“It still would’ve happened.” I smirk at her. “Only difference is, you would’ve actually been blowing me.” I instantly regret saying that, because the thought of my dick stuffed in her mouth is so torturously enticing I almost groan out loud.

“No,” she counters, “we wouldn’t have been anywhere near your car. We would’ve been warm and cozy in my bedroom, with no Tinder profiles and no distractions. Just you and me and a big comfy bed and my mouth on your penis. I want you to think about that!” she taunts as she flounces off to Coach’s vehicle.

Right. As if now I’ll be able to think of anything but.

And think about it I do. All week long.

Normally I’d be pumped and focused on the upcoming game, but by the time Friday rolls around, I can’t even remember who we’re playing against. My concentration is shot, not only because Demi’s gotten under my skin, but from the constant ragging I’ve been getting from my teammates all week.

I had no choice but to fess up about the jail incident, because Brenna had breakfast with her father the morning after and Coach Jensen decided to be an ass and told his daughter. And obviously Brenna opened her big mouth, and now I’m Hunter Davenport, the guy who got arrested for receiving a blowjob while driving. The worst part is, I didn’t even get the blowjob.

Demi’s also been teasing me about it, only she’s taking things a step further than my teammates. Since experiencing my “move,” she’s launched a campaign to end my celibacy, as evidenced by the text she just sent.

DEMI: Have a good game tonight! I hope you score! Speaking of scoring, have you considered breaking your vow?

I sigh at the phone. See? I should be mentally prepping for the game right now. I’m in the visitors’ locker room at…Boston College. Right! That’s who we’re facing tonight. I should be thinking about the game, not Demi Davis.

ME: I told you, it ain’t happening.

HER: You wouldn’t even consider it? For lil ole me?

Someone smacks me between the shoulder blades. “Hey, now. Stop fantasizing about the road head, captain.”

I turn to find Matt grinning at me.

“Seriously, though, nice,” he praises.

“You’ve said that to me at morning skate every day this week.”

“Yeah, because it’s nice. Always wanted road head.”

“Me too,” I say dryly. “Like I’ve been telling you every day, nothing happened. Demi’s earring got stuck on my pants.”

“I’ve gotten road head,” Conor drawls as he unbuttons his white dress shirt.

“You’ve gotten head everywhere,” I shoot back.

“That’s not true. I’ve never gotten…” He strains his brain trying to offer up a blowjob-free location.

“Having a little trouble there?” Matt hoots.

Chuckling, I peel off my own clothes and begin to suit up. My phone dings again and I realize I didn’t respond to Demi.

HER: Sorry. I’ll stop talking about this. I know it makes you uncomfortable.

ME: No, sorry, I’m just gearing up. Gotta go, talk later.

I add a kissy face and then tuck the phone in the pocket of my discarded pants. Once I’m in uniform, I sink down on the bench to put on my skates.

Conor sits beside me. “What are you doing after the game? We were going to have some people over. You in?”

“Sure. I’ve got nothing else going on.”

He slants his head pensively. “Are you seriously not doing this sex thing or are you fucking with all of us?”

“Not since April,” I confirm.

“Christ. That’s intense. I’d probably lose my mind if I couldn’t bust a nut.”

“I never said I’m not busting nuts.” I release a gloomy sigh. “I’m just doing it solo.”

“Still. Sounds like a hellscape.”

I can’t help but snicker. “It’s not that bad. I’m actually getting used to the perpetual blue balls.”

“Jesus!” Bucky interrupts, walking over with a Saran-wrapped stinky Pablo in one hand and a cellphone in the other. “Have you seen this shit? Pablo’s Insta account reached ten thousand followers. Someone just DM’d asking if we’d do a sponsored post for an age-defying moisturizing cream.”

My jaw drops. “Is that a joke?”

“No joke.” Bucky shakes his head in disbelief.

“Age-defying cream?” Alec pipes up, looking confused. “How do you defy age?”

“And what the hell does that have to do with an egg?” Conor cracks. “Are we supposed to slather moisturizer on his little pig face and pose him for a photo shoot?”