by Elle Kennedy
“I want you.” I clear my throat, because I sound like I’ve been chain-smoking for a week straight. “Of course I want you.” I exhale in a fast burst. “I love you, Jake.”
The last boy I said those words to chose himself over me, repeatedly, and without a second’s thought.
But the man I’m saying them to now? I have faith that he’ll always choose me, always choose us.
“I love you, too,” he whispers, and the next thing I know he’s kissing me and, oh my gosh, I missed this so much.
It’s only been a few days, but it feels like years since Jake’s warm lips were pressed up against mine. I loop my arms around his neck, kissing him back hungrily until his husky groan bounces off the locker room walls.
“Christ,” he chokes out. “We gotta stop that. Now.” He glances at his crotch. “Fuck. Too late.”
I follow his gaze and laugh when I notice the massive erection straining behind his zipper. “Control yourself, Jakey. You’re about to play hockey.”
“Don’t you know? Hockey players are passionate and aggressive,” he says silkily.
“Ha. Right. I totally forgot.” There’s a big, dumb smile on my face, and it refuses to subside. I’m overflowing with happiness, a state of being that is completely foreign to me. I’m not sure I like it.
Nah.
I actually kind of love it.
“You should go,” Jake says reluctantly. “The team’ll be bursting in any second now. Are you staying for the game?”
I nod. “My dad’s here, too.”
“Seriously? Aw fuck, why’d you have to tell me that? Now I’ll feel extra pressure to perform.”
“Don’t worry, Jakey. I speak from personal experience when I say I’ve got nothing but confidence in your ability to perform.”
He winks. “Thanks, baby.”
“Oh, and don’t let this freak you out even more, but he wants to take us to dinner after the game.”
“Don’t let this freak you out even more?” Jake scrubs his hands over his face. “Jesus Christ. Just leave, babe. Leave now before you do any more damage.”
“Love you,” I say in a singsong voice on my way to the door.
“Love you too.” He sighs from behind me.
That big-ass grin is still plastered to my face when I walk out, and a disgusting spring to my step carries me down the corridor, as if I’m a character in a Disney movie. Oh no. I’m in trouble. Badass Brenna Jensen isn’t allowed to fall this hard for a guy.
It happened. Deal with it.
Yeah.
I guess this is my life now.
At the end of the hall, I turn the corner and my happy gait takes a bit of a stumble when I bump directly into Daryl Pedersen’s bulky chest.
“Whoa there, Nelly,” he says with a chuckle—which dies the second he recognizes me. “Brenna.” His tone is careful now. “Here to cheer Connelly on, I suppose?”
“Yup. I came with my dad, actually.” When his expression darkens, I try not to laugh. “We’re both rooting for you today, Coach.”
Although he’s momentarily startled, he recovers quickly and gives me a smirk. “You can tell Chad I have no need for his support. Never have, never will.”
“Still a sore loser after all these years, eh, Coach?”
His response is terse. “I’m not sure what you’re insinuating, but—”
“I heard you tried to bang my mother and she shot you down,” I cut in cheerfully. “And I’m not insinuating anything—I’m explicitly suggesting you were a sore loser back then, and you’re a sore loser now.” I shrug. “With that said, I’m still rooting for Harvard tonight. But that’s because of Jake, of course. Not you.”
Pedersen’s eyes narrow so much they resemble two dark slits. “You’re not like your mother,” he says slowly. I can’t tell if he’s pleased or disheartened by that. “Marie was a sweet southern belle. You’re…you’re not like her at all.”
I meet his disturbed gaze and offer a faint smile. “I guess I take after my father.”
Then I continue down the hall, my legs moving in that obnoxiously bouncy gait I can’t control, because my happy heart is calling all the shots, and all I want to do is get back to the ice and scream myself hoarse as I watch the man I love win his game.
Epilogue
Brenna
St. Paul, Minnesota
The last time I went to the Frozen Four, it was to cheer for my dad’s all-star crew: Garrett Graham, Summer’s brother Dean, and the two Johns—Logan and Tucker. And they won the whole damn thing. I was happy, of course, but nowhere near as ecstatic as I am during this Harvard versus Ohio State game.
The score is 3–1, Harvard. There are five minutes left. It only takes a second to score a goal, so yes, we don’t have it in the bag. It’s not a guaranteed win, and I’m not sitting here counting my chickens before they hatch. But I have a good feeling about it.
Beside me, Jake’s parents, Lily and Rory Connelly, are cheering themselves hoarse. They’re actually pretty fun to watch a hockey game with—Lily gasps any time anything happens, literally anything; Rory, after every hit, winces and proclaims, “Well, that’s gonna hurt tomorrow.” You can tell they’re not huge hockey fans. They don’t know much about the rules and they don’t seem to care. But any time Jake has the puck, they’re on their feet screaming their lungs out.
I wish Dad were here, but he’s watching the game at home in Hastings. However, he did call in a favor and arrange for this private box for us, which means we have the best seats in the house…and lots of privacy for Jake’s folks to cross-examine me.
During both intermissions, the questions came hard and fast.
Where did you meet Jake?
How long have you been together?
You know he’s moving to Edmonton, right?
Do you think maybe you’ll move there, too?
You could transfer schools, his mother had said, her expression so hopeful that I almost laughed.
When they turned their attention to the ice, I glanced at Jake’s friend Hazel and asked, “Are they always like this?”
She smiled wryly, answering, “This is kind of a big deal for them. Jake’s never had a real girlfriend.”
Okay, fine, I’m not going to lie—it warms my heart that I’m the first girl to meet Jake’s parents. Hazel doesn’t count; they treat her like a daughter. And, I’ll be honest, the girl’s been making an effort. She’s asked me about my classes, my interests, as if she genuinely wants to get to know me.
She doesn’t like hockey, though, and that’s always a strike. I still can’t believe I’m watching the most important game in men’s college hockey with three people who don’t like hockey. Figure that one out. On the bright side, my dad has been texting all evening with his thoughts on the game, which is nice.
I like our relationship now. It’s easy. And I haven’t heard from Eric since the night we went to rescue him. He’s barely even crossed my mind, in fact. I’m finally putting that part of my life behind me and focusing on what’s in front of me.
And what’s in front of me is incredible. It’s Jake, traveling like lightning across the glossy surface of the ice. One minute he’s at the center line with the puck, the next he’s in front of the crease taking a shot.
“GOALLLLLLL!” yells the announcer.
The entire arena goes absolutely bananas. It’s 4–1 now. Maybe I’m starting to count those chickens, after all. At least a couple of them. The eggs are cracking, anyway, and I can see a beak. Those chicks are coming, because it’s 4–1 and Harvard’s got this. My man’s got this.
Jake’s family is on their feet again, screaming. So am I. My phone buzzes about ten times in my pocket. It’s probably my father. Or maybe Summer, who’s also at home, watching the game with Fitz and the others, including Nate, who’s my friend again. Hell, the texts could even be from Hollis. He’s been very chatty with me since I saved his relationship with Rupi. They’re officially together now, and he really seems to enjoy telling peo
ple he has a girlfriend.
Which makes me wonder if, like Jake, Hollis never had one before. Either way, I’m happy for him. Rupi is nuts, but in a good way.
The clock winds down. I watch it with pure joy stuck in my throat, in my chest, in my heart. Jake deserves this. He deserves to end his college career with such a major win. He played brilliantly tonight, and I know he’s going to be equally brilliant in Edmonton.
As the buzzer goes off, the rest of Jake’s teammates fly off the bench and swarm the ice, and it’s pandemonium. The boys are overjoyed. Even Pedersen looks genuinely happy. Not in a smug ‘we won na-na-na-na-na-na’ way. In this moment, I can tell Daryl Pedersen actually loves his players and this game. He might play it dirtier than most, but he loves it just like the rest of us.
My phone buzzes again. I finish hugging Jake’s parents and then reach to check it. I assume it’s from my dad, but it’s a voice-mail alert. Which tells me the previous buzzing was a phone call. And either I’m hallucinating or that actually says ESPN on the caller display. Probably a telemarketer with one of those speeches—“Is your cable provider giving you all that ESPN has to offer?”
But a telemarketer wouldn’t leave a message. Would they?
“Guys, excuse me for one sec.” I touch Lily’s arm and walk several feet away to check the message.
The moment the caller says her name, I almost faint.
“Brenna. Hi. It’s Georgia Barnes. Sorry to call you on a Saturday evening, but I’m working late to organize my new office. I wanted to touch base with you now, because starting Monday I’ll be absolutely swamped. I got your number from Mischa Yanikov, the stage manager at HockeyNet. But let’s keep that between us, because I don’t know if grabbing your number off your résumé and giving it to a competitor was all that kosher. But it’ll be our little secret.”
My heart starts beating faster. Why is Georgia Barnes calling me? And what does she mean she’s at her new office? At ESPN? Does she work there now?
Her next sentence solves that mystery.
“Anyway, the press release hasn’t gone out yet, but I’ve officially left HockeyNet. ESPN made me an offer and, let’s just say I’d be stupid not to accept it. They’re letting me hire my own assistant, and I’d love for you to come in and interview for the position. If you do get the job, I’m aware you’re still in college, so obviously in the fall we would need to discuss a schedule that suits you better. Maybe this could be a work placement or—I’m getting ahead of myself. For all I know, you interview terribly and that’s why Ed Mulder let you go. But I have a feeling that’s not the case.”
Her confident chuckle makes me smile.
“Anyway, give me a call when you get this.” She recites her number. “I’d love to schedule an interview. I think you’d be a good fit for this position. All right. Talk soon. Take care.”
The message ends and I stare at my phone in shock.
“Everything okay?” Hazel comes up beside me.
“It’s fine.” I shake my head a few times. “It’s all good.”
All good? No. It’s better than I could ever imagine. I have an interview at ESPN to work as Georgia Barnes’s assistant. And Jake just won the national championship. This is the greatest day of my life.
All I want to do now is get downstairs so that mine is the first face Jake sees when he exits the locker room. I’m officially his groupie. But that’s okay, because he’s my groupie. We root for each other. We’re good for each other. And I can’t wait to find out what the future holds for us.
* * *
The End
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The Play is coming October 7, 2019.
* * *
The Chase
The first standalone book in the Briar U series is now available! Enjoy this excerpt from The Chase…
* * *
Fitz
* * *
“Dance with me?”
I want to say no.
But I also want to say yes.
I call this the Summer Dilemma—the frustrating, polar reactions this green-eyed, golden-haired goddess sparks in me.
Fuck yes and hell no.
Get naked with her. Run far, far away from her.
“Thanks, but I don’t like to dance.” I’m not lying. Dancing’s the worst.
Besides, when it comes to Summer Di Laurentis, my flight instinct always wins out.
“You’re no fun, Fitzy.” She makes a tsking noise, drawing my gaze to her lips. Full, pink, and glossy, with a tiny mole above the left side of her mouth.
It’s an extremely hot mouth.
Hell, everything about Summer is hot. She’s hands down the best-looking girl in the bar, and every dude in our vicinity is either staring enviously or glowering at me for being with her.
Not that I’m with her. We’re not together. I’m just standing next to her, with two feet of space between us. Which Summer keeps trying to bridge by leaning closer to me.
In her defense, she practically has to scream in my ear for me to hear her over the electronic dance music blasting through the room. I hate EDM, and I don’t like these kinds of bars, the ones with a dance floor and deafening music. Why the subterfuge? Just call your establishment a nightclub, if that’s what you want it to be. The owner of Gunner’s Pub should’ve called this place Gunner’s Club. Then I could’ve turned right around when I saw the sign and spared myself the shattered eardrums.
Not for the first time tonight, I curse my friends for dragging me to Brooklyn for New Year’s Eve. I’d way rather be at home, drinking a beer or two and watching the ball drop on TV. I’m low-key like that.
“You know, they warned me you were a curmudgeon, but I didn’t believe it until now.”
“Who’s they?” I ask suspiciously. “And hey, wait. I’m not a curmudgeon.”
“Hmmm, you’re right—the term is kind of dated. Let’s go with Groucho.”
“Let’s not.”
“No-Fun Police? Is that better?” Her expression is pure innocence. “Seriously, Fitz, what do you have against fun?”
An unwitting smile breaks free. “Got nothing against fun.”
“All right. Then what do you have against me?” she challenges. “Because every time I try talking to you, you run away.”
My smile fades. I shouldn’t be surprised that she’s calling me out in public. We’ve had a whopping total of two encounters, but that’s plenty of time for me to know she’s the type who thrives on drama.
I hate drama.
“Got nothing against you, either.” With a shrug, I ease away from the bar, prepared to do what she’s just accused me of—run.
A frustrated gleam fills her eyes. They’re big and green, the same shade as her older brother Dean’s eyes. And Dean’s the reason I force myself to stay put. He’s a good friend of mine. I can’t be a jackass to his sister, both out of respect for him, and for fear of my well-being. I’ve been on the ice when Dean’s gloves come off. He’s got a mean right hook.
“I mean it,” I say roughly. “I have nothing against you. We’re cool.”
“What? I didn’t hear the last part,” she says over the music.
I dip my mouth toward her ear, and I’m surprised that I barely have to bend my neck. She’s taller than the average chick, five-nine or ten, and since I’m six-two and used to towering over women, I find this refreshing.
“I said we’re cool,” I repeat, but I misjudged the distance between my lips and Summer’s ear. The two collide, and I feel a shiver run up her frame.
I shiver too, because my mouth is way too close to hers. She smells like heaven, some fascinating combo of flowers and jasmine and vanilla and—sandalwood, maybe? A man could get high on that fragrance. And don’t get me started on her dress. White, strapless, short. So short it barely grazes her lower thighs.
God fucking help me.
I quickly straighten
up before I do something stupid, like kiss her. Instead, I take a huge gulp of my beer. Only it goes down the wrong pipe, and I start coughing like it’s the eighteenth century and I’m a tuberculosis patient.
Smooth move.
“You okay?”
When the coughing fit subsides, I find those green eyes dancing at me. Her lips are curved in a devilish smile. She knows exactly what got me flustered.
“Fine,” I croak, just as three very plastered guys lumber up to the bar and bump into Summer.
She stumbles, and the next thing I know there’s a gorgeous, sweet-smelling woman in my arms.
She laughs and grabs my hand. “C’mon, let’s get out of this crowd before it leaves bruises.”
For some reason, I let her lead me away.
We end up at a high table near the railing that separates the bar’s main room from the small, shitty dance floor. A quick look around reveals that most of my friends are drunk off their asses.
Mike Hollis, my roommate, is grinding up on a cute brunette who doesn’t seem to mind in the slightest. He’s the one who insisted we make the drive to Brooklyn instead of staying in the Boston area. He wanted to spend New Year’s with his older brother Brody, who disappeared the moment we got here. I guess the girl is Hollis’ consolation prize for getting ditched by his brother.
Our other roommate, Hunter, is dancing with three girls. Yup, three. They’re all but licking his face off, and I’m pretty sure one has a hand down his pants. Hunter, of course, is loving it.
What a difference a year makes. Last season he was uneasy about all the female attention, said it made him feel a bit sleazy. Now, it appears he’s perfectly cool taking advantage of the perks that come with playing hockey for Briar University. And trust me, there’re plenty of perks.
Let’s get real—athletes are the most fuckable guys on most college campuses. If you’re at a football school, chances are there’s a line of jersey chasers begging to blow the quarterback. Basketball school? The groupie pool doubles and triples in size when March Madness comes around. And at Briar, with a hockey team that has a dozen Frozen Four championships under its belt and more nationally televised games than any other college in the country? The hockey players are gods.