The Game That Breaks Us (12 page)

I run.

I run, and I run, and I fucking
run
.

I lift weights. I even try some yoga shit. I do everything Coach tells me to do, and he still won’t let me on the ice.

“Coach,” I cry, clasping my hands together as I beg. “
Please
. I need to get out there.” I point to the ice where the team glides around, doing warm ups. 

Coach glares at me, hands on his hips. “You know I don’t tolerate whininess. Get back in the gym and run another five miles.”

My hands clench into fists at my sides. I would never admit this out loud but I’m close to tears. I need to get out there on the ice. I feel like a fucking drug addict needing their next hit. The passion I feel for hockey outweighs everything else, and to not be able to do it for
months
is torture. I lift my hands to my hair, pulling on the short strands.

“I’m losing my fucking mind, Coach.”

His eyes narrow on me further. “Don’t make me make it ten miles, James.”

Oh, fuck. He called me by my last name.
“I’m going, Coach,” I grumble, heading back through the tunnel. 

I make a beeline for the locker room and ram my fist into one of the metal lockers. 

Again. 

And again.

And again.

I collapse onto the floor, breathing heavily.

This is killing me. I know Coach has my best interests at heart but
fuck
I really don’t give a damn. I’ve worked so hard, he knows this, but he’s still punishing me.

I know he’s probably trying to teach me some powerful lesson here about self-control or some bullshit. 

I pick myself up off the floor and go back into the gym. I know if I don’t do the five miles Coach will somehow find out—he knows
everything
—and I’ll only give him more ammunition against me. 

I finish my run, shower, and go back to the arena so I can watch the end of the guys’ practice. Even if I can’t be on the ice, it feels good to be close to it.

Coach shouts orders at them, being particularly rough with the freshman. They’re smaller and slower than the seasoned players. They’ll get there, though, they always do.

Coach notices me but doesn’t acknowledge my presence. I half expect him to yell at me to go run again or something, but he doesn’t.

After another twenty or so minutes, he calls it a day and the guys head off the ice to shower. 

Coach looks up at me from the bench and says one word. “Soon.”

One month at school and I haven’t died yet, so I guess that’s good. 

College is hard, though. So much harder than I expected. Books, TV, and movies make it out to be all fun and games, parties every night and no homework. Oh, boy, that couldn’t be farther from the truth. 

I barely get to see Elle or Ryland since I’m always cooped up in my room doing homework or pretending to be Bennett’s girlfriend. It surprisingly hasn’t been that bad. Bennett gets brownie points for being the best fake boyfriend ever. He makes sure I always have coffee and something to eat since he knows I forget when I’m busy studying. I don’t much enjoy the times when we have to go out and put on a show for the world—Bennett makes sure to be extra gropey then and I know it’s more to mess with me than to actually put on a show for the media—but I endure it because I know it’s what I agreed to in the first place. 

A knock sounds on the door, and I go to open it. Bennett grins. 

“How fares the young maiden? I bring thee sustenance.”

I roll my eyes. “You’re ridiculous.” I close the door behind me and he sits on my bed while I sit back down at my desk. Taking the to-go bag from him, I look inside.

“Turkey club with avocado and chips,” he tells me before I can figure it out on my own. 

 I pull it out and spread the items on the little space I have on my desk.

He looks around. “Where’s Elle?”

“No clue,” I say. “She said she was going to study in the library, but I have a hard time picturing her actually doing that.”

“So she’ll be gone a while?” he asks.

I open the chip bag and pop one in my mouth. “Most likely.”

He kicks off his shoes and lies back on my bed, making himself at home. “Should I put a sock on the door then?” He grins, wagging his brows.

“What?” I ask, and then a moment later it dawns on me. “Ugh! God! You’re such a guy!” I throw a chip at him. It lands on his chest and he picks it up, shrugs, and eats it. 

“You’re so easy to rile up.” He grins. “It amuses me.”

“Well
stop
.” I bite into my sandwich. “Thanks for the food, but if you’re going to keep distracting me you can go. I have homework to do.”

He clucks his tongue. “That’s no way to talk to your boyfriend.”

“
Fake
boyfriend,” I remind him.

“Speaking of—” he sits up and grabs one of my many pillow, glaring at the ruffles “—have you decided what you want in exchange?”

I look away from him at my laptop screen. “I haven’t decided yet.”

I’ve thought of one thing, but voicing it scares me.

Bennett seems to sense this. “What is it, Grace?” He asks. “What do you
want?”

My eyes slowly fall back to him. “It’s stupid.”

“Nothing’s stupid,” he argues. “Tell me.”

“This really is stupid,” I argue.

He levels me with a look. “Spit it out, Princess.”

Princess
. Again it sounds like an insult. “I want two things.”

He raises a brow. “And they are?”

“I want you to let me shop for you—I can only handle seeing you in so many t-shirts and jeans. You need some variety.”

He chuckles. “Okay, and the second thing?”

“The
main
thing,” I emphasize, “is that I want … I want you to teach me to be bad.”

His eyes widen in surprise. “What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean. I just …” I look away and take a breath before looking back at him. In a softer tone, I say, “I’ve always done the right thing. Never drinking too much or staying out past curfew. Like you said, I’m
the good girl
, but is that really me? I don’t know, because I’ve never given myself the chance to be something else.
Help me
.”

He stares at me for a moment. “But won’t that be counter intuitive to the whole fake boyfriend and girlfriend thing? I mean, if you start acting bad, then …” He trails off and shrugs.

“Bennett,” I nearly beg. “I need this. We’ll be careful, and I’ll still look like the perfect little girlfriend in front of the media. Okay?”

He sighs and scrubs his hands down his face. “Okay. Don’t make me regret this.”

“Never,” I say, grinning from ear to ear now that he agreed.

He stands up. “We might as well start lessons now.”

“I have homework.” I point at my computer screen.

“I thought you wanted to be bad?” he reminds me. “A bad girl would leave it.”

I make a face. This is going to be harder than I thought.

“Change into something a little less … covered up.” He points to my shirt. 

“So, in other words, I better borrow something of Elle’s?”

“Precisely.” He grins. “You catch on fast.”

“Where exactly are we going?”

“Out.”

“Thank you for the ambiguous answer. That really helps me, Bennett.”

He strides over to Elle’s closet and rifles through it. “Here, wear this.” He thrusts a black garment at me. I hold the dress out, looking it over. It has a high collar—pretty much a turtleneck—but the modesty ends there. It’s sleeveless with one of the highest slits I’ve ever seen. 

“No. No way.” I shake my head. 

He holds out another dress. “It’s this or that.” 

I gasp. The other dress he holds has a million cutouts all over it, like someone attacked it with scissors. Something tells me Elle’s exactly the type to do just that. 

“I’ll go with this one,” I squeak, clutching the first dress he gave me a little tighter for fear that he might snatch it out of my hands. “Leave so I can change.” I wave my hand at the door.

He puts the other dress away and crosses his arms over his chest. “We’ve technically been dating, what? A month now? I’m pretty sure everyone assumes we’ve seen each other naked. It’d be weird for me to wait outside.”

I stare at him open-mouthed. Is he for real?

“We’re fake dating,” I remind him. “Now get out. Don’t you need to change anyway?”

He looks down at what he wears. “Eh, you’re probably right,” he agrees. “I’ll meet you on your dorm steps in thirty minutes.”

“Make it an hour. I have to do my makeup and hair.”

“
Right
. An hour. Don’t flake on me, Wentworth.”

“Don’t make me regret this,
James
.”

He grins at me over his shoulder, reaching for the door. “You’re the one that wanted to be bad, remember?”

Before I can respond, he leaves.

I shake my head at the closed door. Something tells me I’m not ready for what he has planned.

An hour later, I meet Bennett outside. He sits on the stairs leading up to my dorm, speaking furiously into his phone.

“I
understand
,” he hisses. “Fuck you, you insolent prick. I’m not the one in the wrong here. Don’t forget what I know.” He clicks the phone off and looks up to find me. He rubs tiredly at his eyes. “How much did you hear?”

“Not much,” I whisper softly. “What was that about?”

“Nothing.” He looks away from me, his jaw tense. I want to argue, because
something
is definitely going on here, but I keep my mouth shut. Bennett and I aren’t really boyfriend and girlfriend, and I’m not even sure if we’re really friends. I mean, I
think
we are, we spend enough time together, but … He stands and smiles at me, but his eyes are still haunted. “You look nice. Beautiful.”

“Thanks.” I smile back. I’d spent a while on my makeup, getting the smoky eye just right—don’t even get me started on winged eyeliner, that takes
for-freaking-ever
. On my lips I’d done a daring red—not my norm, but I figured I might as well—and for my hair, I straightened it and pulled it back into a sleek ponytail. “You don’t look too bad yourself.”

“I know.” He winks.

Bennett’s dressed nicer than I’ve ever seen him in a white button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up and tucked into gray dress pants. The shirt and pants cling to his muscles, and I’d have to be dead not to notice. His reddish-blonde hair has grown longer since the first time I saw him and falls just the slightest bit over his forehead. He’s hot—
really
hot—but unfortunately, he knows it and his cockiness grates on my nerves. 

Bennett holds my hand as we walk over to the garage where he parks his car. It’s all part of the ruse that we’re really a couple. He does it every time we’re in public. The disgusted looks I get from other girls are beyond annoying. They hate me because they think I bagged one of the most eligible bachelors in the state. They don’t realize it’s fake, but even if it wasn’t, I don’t know why women have to be so petty and jealous. We should have each other’s backs, not be clawing at each other’s throats. But it’s the way things are, and I doubt they’ll change.