by Elle Kennedy
“It’s a good-luck charm. It brings luck to whoever is wearing it, not just me. Jeez. Don’t you know anything about charms and superstitions?”
“No!” she replies. “I don’t.” Despite the humor in her tone, her eyes soften. “But I’m willing to give it a shot if you think it will help.”
“I don’t think, I know.”
I sit at the edge of the bed, naked as a jaybird. I take her hand and slip the beaded bracelet onto her delicate wrist. It sits a bit looser on her than it does on me, and when she lifts her arm to admire it, it slides halfway down to her elbow.
“There,” I say with a pleased nod. “You’re all set.”
“Thank you. I’ll probably head over there and talk to him while you’re at—” Her face suddenly pales.
Mine does too, panic careening up my throat. Shit. Shit. I glance at the alarm clock, which confirms my worst fear. It’s nine thirty, and I’m an hour late for practice.
Coach doesn’t let my tardiness go unpunished. After I’ve suited up in the empty locker room, I sprint down the tunnel—on skates—and practically hurl myself onto the ice. My teammates are running a shooting drill, but Coach blows his whistle when he spots me. He doesn’t even let the guys finish what they’re doing. He abandons them mid-drill and skates over to me.
His dark eyes burn like hard, angry coals. “You’d better have a damn good excuse for this, Connelly. We’re facing off against Michigan in three goddamn days.”
My shameful gaze drops to my skates. He’s right. This was a colossal screw-up on my end. The regionals are being held in Worcester this weekend. We’re the number-one seed, playing Michigan, the number-four seed. But that doesn’t mean we’re guaranteed a win. Anything can happen in the national tourney.
“My alarm clock didn’t go off,” I lie, because the alternative is not an option. I was having sex with Chad Jensen’s daughter who I’m pretty sure I’m in love with. Coach would have an aneurysm.
“That’s what Weston said probably happened,” Coach mutters.
I force myself not to send a grateful look in Brooks’s direction. He didn’t come home last night, otherwise he would’ve been pounding on my door earlier reminding me about morning skate. And obviously Brooks knows that Brenna is staying with us, so I’m beyond relieved he kept his mouth shut about it with Coach. I make a mental note to stop calling him Bubble Butt around the house. At least for a few days.
“I’m sorry. It won’t happen again. I’ll set three alarms tomorrow.” Fortitude rings in my voice. The reason I gave for being late is bogus, but that doesn’t alter my determination to never let this happen again.
“You’d better.” Coach spins around and blasts the whistle a couple times. “McCarthy! You’re up!”
Practice is particularly draining, since I’m going out of my way to kick ass. I need to make up for what happened this morning, to absolve myself of this cardinal sin.
I’ve only been late to practice twice in my entire athletic career—and to put that in perspective, that career began when I was five years old. Both times I was late occurred in high school. The first time, I had the stomach flu, yet I still dragged myself out of bed and drove to the rink. I was thirty minutes late and my coach took one look at me and ordered me to drive right back home. The second time, the coast was hit by an unexpected blizzard and I woke up to a foot and a half of snow outside the door. I spent most of the morning shoveling the driveway and trying to dig our cars out. And even then, I was only forty minutes late.
Today? There was no stomach bug, no blizzard. I was an hour late because of a girl.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m not blaming Brenna. And despite my complete dissatisfaction with myself, I don’t entirely regret what happened this morning. The sex was goddamn spectacular. It was our first time without a condom, and I shiver at the memory. Her tight heat surrounding me…fuuuck. So hot and so good.
I’m about to leave the ice when I glimpse a familiar figure waving at me from the stands. Fans are allowed to come and watch us when it’s an open practice, like today’s.
I execute a sharp turn and skate the opposite direction from the boards. Hazel descends the steps, her blonde braid swinging as she walks. She’s wearing a light jacket, and, as usual, her fingers are stacked with rings, including the one I got her for Christmas. She smiles at me through the plexiglass, reaching the little door on the boards at the same time I do.
“Hey. What are you doing here?” I ask.
“I didn’t get to properly congratulate you for winning this weekend.” Her expression becomes rueful. “You were a bit occupied, what with that little scene between your coach and your girlfriend.” The last word—girlfriend—has a slight bite.
I stifle a sigh. “Yeah, that was awkward, to say the least.”
“Anyway, I owe you a celebratory meal, so I thought I’d surprise you with brunch at that place we both like in Central Square.”
“Sounds good.” I hope she doesn’t notice that I’m not as enthusiastic as I usually am at the idea of eating food. I’m just eager to see Brenna and find out if she spoke to her father yet. “Let me hit the locker room and I’ll meet you out front in ten.”
A short while later, Hazel and I are seated across from each other at a small table in the cheesy breakfast place we discovered sometime last year. It’s called Egggggs, and although all the dishes have silly names and the way-too-colorful decor is an assault on the eyes, the food is actually excellent. Or eggcellent, as Hazel likes to say.
“Thanks for surprising me,” I tell her as I set down my menu. “Please don’t tell me you showed up at eight thirty, though.”
She blanches. “God, no. The world doesn’t exist before nine a.m., remember?”
A waitress comes by to take our orders. And we’ve been friends for so long that I know exactly what Hazel’s going to get before she even says it—two eggs, scrambled. Brown toast. Sausage, because she’s the one person in the world who doesn’t like bacon. And coffee, two sugars, no milk or cream. And I’m sure she knows my order, too: whatever the biggest breakfast on the menu is, because I’m a total pig.
I wonder what Brenna’s breakfast preferences are. She’s eaten eggs and fruit for breakfast since she started crashing with me, but I wonder what she’d order at a place like this. Probably makes me a massive loser, but I’m excited to find out. I’m enjoying getting to know her.
Hazel and I catch up as we wait for our food, but it’s all very surface level. We talk about our classes and hockey, her mom’s new boyfriend, how neither of my parents showed up for the conference finals. That last one still grates. I’m used to them being no-shows, but I had really hoped they might surprise me this time, especially because it was such a big game.
We’re about halfway done with our meals when Hazel sets down her fork and demands, “So are you with her now?”
“You mean Brenna?”
“Who else would I mean?”
I chuckle. “Yes. I guess I am. She’s actually been staying with me and Brooks since the finals.”
My friend is shocked. “You’re living together?”
“We’re not living together,” I answer quickly. “She’s just crashing at my place until hers is ready. She got flooded out.”
Hazel is quiet for a beat. She picks up her coffee. Takes a long sip. “This is very serious,” she finally remarks.
Slight discomfort makes me shift in my seat. “It’s not ‘very serious.’ It’s just…” I rely on my trusty motto. “It is what it is.”
“Yeah, and what it is, is serious, Jake. I don’t think you’ve ever had a girl spend one night at your place, let alone several nights.” She watches me pensively. “Are you in love with her?”
I fidget with my fork, pushing some hash browns around on my plate. My appetite is slowly abandoning me. I don’t like talking about this. Or rather, I don’t like talking about it with Hazel. For a while now, it’s felt as if she’s passing judgment on me, disapproving of my actions, and I’v
e never felt that way in all the years we’ve known each other. Even when I did dumb shit like get wasted at a party and throw up in her bushes, or indulge in a one-night-stand, I didn’t feel judged. But I do now.
“It’s fine, you don’t have to tell me,” she says when I remain silent.
“No, it’s… It’s awkward for me, I guess,” I say sheepishly. “I’ve never really been in love before.”
Something akin to pain flashes on her face, and suddenly I’m reminded of Brenna’s insinuation that Hazel has feelings for me. There’s no way that can be true, though. Wouldn’t she have given some indication of it in all these years? Before Brenna planted the idea in my head, it hadn’t crossed my mind, because Hazel never once acted like she was into me.
“That’s a big deal,” she says quietly. “Being in love for the first time. This entire thing is monumental whether you want to admit it or not.”
“I wouldn’t call it monumental.”
“You’re in a relationship. Relationships are huge.”
Christ, I wish she’d stop using words like huge and monumental. “It’s really not the big deal you’re making it out to be,” I say awkwardly. “We’re just going with the flow right now.”
My friend snorts. “The mantra of fuckboys everywhere.”
“I’m not a fuckboy,” I return with a dark scowl.
“Exactly. You’re not. Which means this isn’t about going with the flow. You’re in this. You’re dedicated to this girl, and that is a big deal, because you’ve never been in a real relationship.” She sips her coffee again, watching me over the rim. “You sure you’re ready for this?” she asks, her tone light.
My palms are unusually damp as I pick up my own coffee cup. “I can’t decide if you’re purposely trying to freak me out,” I say dryly.
“Why would you be freaked out? I’m simply asking if you’re ready.”
“Ready for what exactly?” I ask, then release a clumsy laugh and hope she didn’t notice how confused I sounded just now.
She’s right—I haven’t been in a real relationship before. I’ve fucked a lot of women. I’ve had some flings that lasted a few weeks or months. But I never developed deep feelings for anybody until Brenna. I never wanted to say the L-word to anybody until Brenna.
“Jake.” There’s a note of pity in her voice, which gets my back up. “Relationships are work. You realize that, don’t you?”
“What, you’re implying I’m incapable of working hard for something?” I roll my eyes and point to my chest. “Hello, going to the NHL over here?”
“Which raises another issue,” Hazel says. “And tell me, how is that going to affect this relationship? She’s a junior. She has another year at Briar. And you’re going to be in Edmonton. How exactly is this going to work?”
“People make long-distance relationships work all the time.”
“Yes, they do, but those are even harder. Now we’re talking about twice the work. Twice the effort to try to make the other person feel like they’re still a priority for you even though they’re in another country. And now we’re at our next issue—how can she possibly be a priority when you need to be focusing on the new job?”
An itchy sensation crawls up my spine. Hazel raises some good points.
“Which brings me to my last concern,” she announces, as if she’s presenting a thesis titled Why Jake Connelly Will Make A Shitty Boyfriend. “Hockey is your life. It’s all you’ve ever cared about. You’ve worked your ass off to get to this point. And I still have reservations about Brenna. Despite what you think, I still think she had an ulterior motive when she got together with you.”
“You’re wrong,” I say simply. At least that’s the one thing I’m certain about. Everything else…not so much.
“Fine, maybe I am. But am I wrong about the fact that you spent, what, seventeen years concentrating on hockey and preparing for this moment? You’re about to make your professional hockey debut. I guarantee that a long-distance relationship will distract you, and it’ll frustrate you, and you’ll end up spending an inordinate amount of time thinking about this girl and obsessing and assuring her you still love her when she reads articles or sees pictures on the blogs of you and whatever puck bunny throws herself at you that week.” Hazel shrugs, cocking a brow at me. “So I repeat, are you ready for this?”
35
Brenna
I’m just grabbing my coat in the entryway when Jake walks into the apartment. I hadn’t even realized he was on his way home, so his sudden appearance startles me. “Jeez!” I exclaim, laughing in relief. “You scared me.”
His gaze softens. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to.”
“How was practice? Is Pedersen royally pissed?” I still feel awful that Jake was late this morning. Obviously it’s not entirely my fault—it takes two to tango-bang. But if I’d remembered he had morning skate, I would’ve made a point to shove him out of bed.
“Yeah, he was none too pleased. Worked me extra hard, but I deserved it.” Jake shrugs out of his jacket and hangs it up. Then he rakes both hands through his hair. “I take it you haven’t gone to see your dad yet?”
“No. I was actually on my way out now.” I texted Dad to let him know I was coming, and his response was I’ll be here. With my father, that could mean I’m here and ready to talk, or I’m here to yell at you some more. It’s really a crapshoot.
“Do you need to leave right this second or do you have a minute to chat?”
I refrain from furrowing my brow. Chat? And why does he keep running his hand through his hair? Jake’s not usually so fidgety. Anxiety flutters in my stomach. “Sure. I’ve got a minute. What’s up?”
He heads into the living room, gesturing for me to follow. I do, but I don’t feel great about it. Because now I’m noticing the slump of his shoulders. He’s lacking his usual confidence and that worries me.
I allow the concern to surface. “What’s going on?” I ask quietly.
“You know I was late for practice today,” he starts.
Didn’t we just go through this? I study his troubled expression. “Right. You were late, and…?”
“So it was a disservice to my team.” His long fingers comb through his hair again. The dark strands are becoming increasingly rumpled. “We’re one game away from potentially playing in the Frozen Four. Two games away from potentially winning the whole damn thing.” He bites his lip. “I can’t afford to be late for practice.”
Guilt floods my body again. “I know. I guess what we can take away from this is…no more morning sex?” I offer in a lame attempt at a joke.
Jake doesn’t even crack a smile.
Uh-oh.
I lower my butt onto the arm of the couch. He remains standing.
“When the playoffs first started, I told everybody on the team they had to make sacrifices. I told Brooks he couldn’t party. Told Potts and Bray they couldn’t drink. Enforced a drink limit on the other guys.” He gives me a pointed look. “Forced McCarthy to end it with you.”
My stomach continues to churn.
“And they all did it without question. They put the team first.” He shakes his head, clearly miserable. “I used to put the team first, too. But I’ve completely lost my head since I met you.”
I’m starting to feel sick. I don’t need to be clairvoyant to know where this is heading, and I can’t fucking believe it.
Last night, I was more vulnerable with him than I’ve ever been with anybody else. I told him about the pregnancy and the miscarriage, the emotional breakdown, the broken relationship with my father. I sliced myself open and said, Look, here it is. Here I am.
For the first time in a long time, I allowed myself to be soft.
And this is the result?
My eyes are stinging. I press my lips tightly together. I don’t say anything, because I’m scared I might cry, and I refuse to show any weakness.
“I forced everyone to get rid of their distractions. Which makes me a total hypocrite, because I wasn’t will
ing to give up mine.”
“And I suppose I’m yours?” I’m surprised—and rather proud—by how steady my voice sounds.
“You are,” he says simply. “Since I met you, you’re all I think about. I’m fucking smitten.”
My poor, confused heart doesn’t know how to react. Does it soar because Jake—a guy I admire and respect and who I’ve been falling hard for—admitted to being smitten with me? Or does it sink because he’s acting as if that’s a bad thing?
“And that’s why I think we need to cool it.”
It sinks. My heart greets my stomach and they both begin to ache.
“I can’t ask my guys to place all their focus and energy on the team if I’m not willing to do the same. So maybe when you go to your dad’s today…” Jake trails off, awkwardly sliding his hands in pockets. “Maybe it would be better if…”
Another harsh dose of reality settles in.
“…if you just stayed there,” he finishes.
“You want me to leave?” I say flatly.
“I’m going to be spending every waking hour of the next three days preparing to beat Michigan. That’s all I’m allowed to think about, Brenna. You being here is a distraction. We already saw that this morning.” His voice sounds tortured. “I need to be there for my team.”
What about me? I want to shout. Why can’t you be there for me?
But I know better. There’s no way in hell I’m revealing my internal devastation over this. I revealed myself to him last night, and today he’s dumping me.
Lesson learned.
“Hockey needs to come first for me right now.”
And that’s when I hear it—the tiniest flicker of dishonesty. Is he lying? His expression is so pained and unhappy that it’s obvious he’s not jumping for joy at the idea of breaking up. But I’m not about to beg anybody to be with me. I’m going to take his reasons at face value. Because I’m an adult and I don’t play games. If he’s telling me it’s over, then it’s fucking over.