by Elle Kennedy
I manage to shake myself out of it. “Hi,” I say, sticking out my hand. “What should I call you? Connelly or Jake?”
He gives me a long onceover, and I think he likes what he sees because his lips curve slightly. “Jake,” he says, and briefly shakes my hand before pulling his long fingers back. “You went to high school with Brooks?”
I don’t think I’ve ever heard anyone call Weston “Brooks” before. Granted, it’s his first name. But even his own parents referred to him as Weston.
“Oh yeah, we go way back,” I confirm.
“We used to party,” Weston says, flinging his arm around me again. “Which is perfect, ’cause we’re hitting up a party now. And you’re coming.”
I hesitate. “Oh, I…”
“You’re coming,” he repeats. “I haven’t seen you in like three years. We need to catch up.” He pauses. “Just don’t tell anyone there that you go to Briar.”
Jake’s interest is piqued. “You’re at Briar?”
“Yup. I know, I know, I’m the enemy.” I glance at Weston. “Where’s this party?”
“A friend’s place west of Cambridge. It won’t be too rowdy. It’s a very chill crowd.”
I haven’t gone out since New Year’s Eve, so the idea of being social and having a drink or two sounds appealing.
“I’m here with my friend,” I say, remembering Brenna.
Weston shrugs. “Bring her.”
“I don’t know if she’ll want to come. She’s a rabid hockey fan, and by fan, I mean she roots for Briar and hates your guts.”
He snickers. “I don’t care if she roots for the devil himself. This isn’t Gangs of New York, babe. We’re allowed to socialize with people from other colleges. I’ll text you the address.”
When I notice Jake still watching me, I ask, “Are you sure you don’t mind if we come?”
“Not my place,” he replies with a shrug.
I don’t know if he means it’s not his place physically or not his place figuratively, as in he has no right to object. But I’ll take it.
“Okay. I’ll find my friend and meet you guys there.”
11
Summer
“This is blasphemy,” Brenna hisses as we approach the front door of a detached house with a white clapboard exterior. She twists around, longingly glancing at the Uber that’s speeding away from the curb.
I roll my eyes. “C’mon, let’s go inside.”
Her feet stay glued to the porch. “Don’t do this to me, Summer.”
“Do what?”
“Bring me into the den of Satan.”
“Oh my God. And people say I’m a drama queen.” I tug her toward the door. “We’re going inside. Deal with it.”
Despite what Weston said about it being a chill night, the place is overflowing when we walk in without ringing the bell. The music’s so loud, no one would’ve heard the doorbell, anyway.
And despite Brenna’s almost comical expression of horror, the party instantly puts a big smile on my face. I don’t know what it is about music and merriment and crowds that never fails to lift my spirits. At one point in my life I thought about becoming an event planner, but I realized fairly fast that I don’t actually like planning the parties—I like attending them. I get enjoyment out of putting together an outfit, picking a makeup palette, accessorizing. Making an entrance, and then wandering around to see what everyone else is wearing.
Maybe I need to be one of those interviewers who stands on the red carpet and admires the clothes. All I’d have to do is stick microphones in people’s faces and ask who they’re wearing. Damn. That actually sounds like it would be fun. But I think it’s a bit too late to switch my major to broadcasting. I’d have to start all over again. Besides, I’ve never had much interest in being on camera.
“I don’t like this. Look at these goons with their smug faces,” she growls, jabbing her finger in the air.
At that exact moment, a tall guy with scrawny arms poking out of a Celtics jersey backs directly into her pointed finger. “Hey! What the—” His protest dies when he spins around and sees Brenna. “Forget I said that,” he begs. “Please, please keep poking me. Poke me all night long.”
“No. Go away,” she orders.
He winks at her. “Come find me after you’ve had a couple drinks.”
My jaw drops. “Ew. Now you definitely need to go away.”
As Brenna and I brush past him, I search the crowd for Weston or Jake Connelly but don’t see either one of them. I know Weston’s here already, because he messaged me about ten minutes ago.
I take Brenna’s arm and drag her toward what I hope is the kitchen. “I need a drink.”
“I need ten.”
I pinch the fleshy part of her forearm. “Stop being so melodramatic. It’s just a party.”
“It’s a Harvard party. Celebrating a Harvard win.” She shakes her head. “You’re turning out to be the most disappointing best friend of all time.”
“We both know you don’t mean that. I’m terrific.”
In the kitchen, we’re greeted by a blast of raucous laughter. The cedar work island is covered with various alcoholic beverages and stacks of red plastic cups and surrounded by a crowd of people, mostly male. No Weston or Jake, but the noisy boys at the counter are all big enough that they’re most likely hockey players.
Every single one of them sends an appreciative look in our direction, while the only females—two pretty blondes—narrow their eyes. Within seconds, they’re dragging two of the guys away, under the pretense that they want to dance. I assume it’s their boyfriends, and these chicks couldn’t have been any more obvious that they viewed Brenna and me as threats.
I’ve got bad news for them. If they’re this afraid their men will stray? It’ll probably happen. That lack of trust doesn’t bode well for their relationships.
A dark-haired guy in a gray Harvard hoodie checks us out and grins broadly. “Ladies!” he calls. “Come celebrate with us!” He holds up a bottle of champagne.
“Bubbly? Wow! You Hah-vahd boys are so fancy,” Brenna drawls, but I don’t think any of them pick up on her sarcasm.
Gray Hoodie grabs two empty glasses from a nearby cupboard—actual champagne flutes—and waves them at us. “Say when.”
Brenna begrudgingly slinks toward him and accepts a glass. Over her shoulder, she defends her actions to me with, “I’m a sucker for champagne.”
I hide a smile. Uh-huh. I’m sure she went over there for the bubbles and not the cute guy. At least, I think he’s cute. He’s got a mop of brown hair and a really nice smile. Plus, what I assume is a hard, ripped, lickable body underneath his sweatshirt and cargo pants.
God, I love athletes.
“Which one are you?” she asks him.
“What do you mean?”
“What name is on your jersey?”
He grins. “Ah gotcha. Number 61. McCarthy.”
She narrows her eyes. “You scored the tying goal in the third.”
McCarthy beams. “That was me.”
“Sweet wrist shot.”
My eyebrows soar. Wow. Is she actually complimenting him? I guess I’m not the only one who likes his smile—
“What’s the matter, your slap shot doesn’t have enough power behind it?”
Or not.
“Ouch,” he says with a mock-pout.
I should’ve known better than to believe she’d give a genuine compliment to a Harvard player. Still, I can tell she’s warming up to the party. Her hips, ever so slightly, begin moving to the dance beat blasting from the living room, and she seems more relaxed now as she sips her drink.
I’m about to take the glass McCarthy’s holding out to me when my phone buzzes in my purse. And keeps buzzing. I fish it out, realizing it’s a call. The display tells me it’s Hunter.
“Keep the bubbly on ice for me. I need to take this call.” I fix each guy with a stern look, holding two fingers up to my eyes as I drift toward the doorway. “Don’t do anythi
ng stupid,” I warn them.
“She’s in good hands,” McCarthy promises. “I’m a total gentleman.”
“He’s a virgin,” one of his teammates says.
McCarthy nods solemnly. “I am.”
Brenna narrows her eyes. “Are you actually?”
“Fuck no.” He smiles again, and oh man, he has dimples. This guy is frigging adorable.
When I’m across the kitchen in a quieter spot, I answer the call. “Hey, what’s up?”
“Where you at, Blondie?” Hunter demands. “Figured you’d be home by now.”
“I ran into an old friend after the game and he invited us to a party.”
In the living room, someone raises the volume of the drum and bass track that just came on, and I swear the walls start expanding and contracting like a beating heart. The music drowns out Hunter’s response.
“Sorry, what? I can’t hear you.”
Suspicion fills the line. “Where exactly are you?”
“Cambridge. I told you, I ran into a friend from high school. Oh hey, you probably know him too. Brooks Weston?”
The silence that follows is thick with accusation.
“Hunter?”
“Are you kidding me right now? You’re at a Harvard party?”
“Yes, and before you start lecturing me about fraternizing with the enemy, don’t bother. I already got the speech from Brenna.”
“This is unacceptable,” he growls. “You can’t party with the assholes who beat us tonight.”
“Why not?”
“Because!”
I smother a laugh. “Here’s the thing about sports, sweetie. Sometimes you win games and sometimes you lose them. It would be really petty—not to mention stupid—of you to hate every single player on every single team that’s ever beaten you.”
“We hate Harvard,” he says stubbornly.
“They’re not even your official rivals! That’s Eastwood College.”
“This is America, Summer. College hockey teams are allowed to have more than one rival.”
My laughter spills over. “May I go now, Hunter? I’m ignoring Brenna because of you.” Although a quick glance reveals that she’s not missing me at all. She’s giggling at something McCarthy is saying.
Den of Satan, my ass. She’s enjoying herself.
“Fine, you can go.” He sounds adorably grumpy. “But for the record, I wish you were here.”
A strange warmth fills my tummy. This flirtation with Hunter is confusing. I liked kissing him, but I live with the guy now. And I also live with Fitz, who I’m still attracted to despite how badly I want to punch him in the dick.
Like I said, confusing.
“You could always come here if you want,” I offer.
A loud snicker echoes in my ear. “To the fiery pits of Lucifer? No fucking way.”
Jee-zus. Do all Briar hockey fans think Harvard is Dante’s Inferno, or is it just the weirdos in my life? Harvard is a perfectly respectable school with a perfectly respectable hockey team that just happened to beat Briar tonight. Get over it, people.
“We’re having peeps over, anyway,” he adds. “That’s the other reason I called, to give you a heads-up.”
“Okay, cool. I’m—”
“Finally!” a familiar voice booms from the far doorway. “Where’ve you been!”
I grin as Weston strides into the kitchen. When I gesture to my phone and hold up a finger to indicate I’ll be a minute, he shrugs and turns to his teammates. “Beer me.”
“I have to go,” I tell Hunter. “I’ll see you at home.”
Catching up with Weston is a blast. We hole up in a room off the main living area, which might’ve been a dining room at one point but is now a second living room with two overstuffed sofas, a couple of armchairs, and a massive glass coffee table. Weston’s on one end of the couch while I’m perched on the arm of it. The music’s not as loud in here, which means we don’t have to shout as we fill each other in on what’s happening with the classmates we’d lost touch with.
On the other side of the room, Brenna looks mighty cozy in McCarthy’s lap. It’s obvious he’s super into her. He’s got an arm slung around her and a hand resting on her thigh as they peer at something on her phone. I’ve glimpsed them kissing a few times since they sat down, and I’ve had to fight a smile each time.
There’s no way I’m not rubbing this in her face later.
“Your friend is a smoke show,” Weston tells me.
“Right? And she’s fun to be around too.” I find it hard to believe that Brenna and I met only yesterday. I feel like I’ve known her forever.
“Speaking of fun…” Winking, he leans toward the table and taps out a line of the white powder I was pretending not to notice.
I’ve been around cocaine more times than I’d like to admit. It’s the preferred party favor for prep school kids with time on their hands and cash to spare. I tried it once at a party in junior year, but it wasn’t my thing. I prefer the warm buzz of alcohol to that frenetic, wired sensation.
I’m not surprised to see Weston doing it, though—he always did enjoy his blow. So did most of the Roselawn hockey guys, for that matter. Dean once told me that coke and hockey players are synonymous, and now I’m wondering if any of the Briar guys dabble in it too. I hope not.
Weston snorts his line, then rubs his nose and shakes his head a few times as if trying to clear it of cobwebs. “Sure you don’t want?”
“Not my jam,” I remind him. I take a sip of my beer. “Don’t you ever worry about drug testing?” My brother got fucked his last season thanks to a random drug test that was sprung on him.
“Blow leaves your system after forty-eight hours, babe.” Weston rolls his eyes. “You’d have to be real dumb to get caught.” He plants a hand on my knee, but there’s nothing sexual about the gesture. “So how you liking Briar? Better than Brown?”
“Classes haven’t started yet, so I can’t say one way or the other. The campus is gorgeous, though.”
“You living in the dorms?”
“No, I moved in with a few of Dean’s friends. Actually, one of them is Hunter Davenport, your old Roselawn teammate.”
“No shit! You’re shacking up with Davenport?”
“Platonically.”
“No such thing.”
I’m about to argue when I feel a subtle shift of energy in the room. Jake Connelly has just entered, and let me just say, the man’s got presence. He strides in holding a bottle of Sam Adams, stopping in front of the armchair opposite our couch. The guy currently occupying the chair shoots up instantly. Connelly calmly takes his place.
His dark-green eyes flick in Brenna’s direction as he sips his beer.
Brenna is momentarily distracted from McCarthy. She takes in Jake’s dark jeans, black Under Armour shirt, and Red Sox cap. “Connelly,” she says curtly. “Good game.”
He gives her a contemplative look. There was no sarcasm in her tone, but I think he senses the difficulty with which she voiced the praise. “Thanks,” he drawls. Takes another sip of beer.
McCarthy tries to get her attention by whispering something against her neck, but her eyes remain on Jake. And his remain on her.
“Where do I know you from?” he says thoughtfully.
“Hmmm. Well, are you able to hear any of your hecklers when you’re on the ice? Because I’m usually the one screaming obscenities at you,” she offers helpfully.
He sounds amused. “Got it. Briar puck bunny.”
“Ha! They wish.”
“You hang around the team. I’ve seen you.”
“Got no choice.” She tips her head in challenge. “My dad’s the coach.”
Jake is completely unfazed.
McCarthy, on the other hand? Utterly appalled. He jolts upright, causing Brenna to nearly fall face-first on the carpeted floor. Proving he’s at least a gentleman, he regains his grip on her, then eases her onto the armchair before jumping to his feet.
“Why didn’t you say someth
ing?” He turns to Weston in betrayal. “Why didn’t you warn me?”
“Who cares, man. She’s good people.”
“I told her about my busted knee! Coach wasn’t gonna put it on the injury report next week. What if she snitches to her father?”
“So?” Weston’s still not concerned.
“So next thing I know, one of his goons is slashing my knee, you know, oops! It was an accident, and suddenly I’m done for the season.”
“My dad runs a clean program,” Brenna retorts, rolling her eyes. “No Tonya Hardings on the roster.”
Weston snorts. Connelly grins, and damned if that doesn’t make him even more attractive.
“Also?” she continues. “This isn’t the CIA, and I’ve got better things to do with my time than spy on a bunch of college hockey players for my father.”
McCarthy loses some of his bluster. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” She rises from the chair. “I came here tonight to chill with my friend, have a few drinks, and maybe fool around with a cute guy.”
His expression becomes hopeful. “We can still fool around.”
She throws her head back and laughs. “Sorry, big boy. That ship sailed when you practically threw me across the room because of my cooties.”
A couple of his teammates whoop with laughter. Poor McCarthy is not as amused.
To my surprise, Connelly intervenes. “Don’t listen to her, man. She was never going to hook up with you.”
Brenna raises her eyebrows. “I wasn’t, huh? I don’t think you know me well enough to make that call.”
He stares at her, his tongue coming out to moisten the corner of his mouth. It’s extremely sexy. “You’d never sleep with a Harvard player.”
She stares back for several seconds before capitulating. “You’re right. Never in a million years.” Her gaze shifts toward me. “Time to go, crazy girl. I’ll get us an Uber.”
Probably a good idea. I lean in to give Weston a kiss on the cheek. “It was so good to catch up,” I tell him. “And thanks for the invite.”
“Any time. Hopefully we’ll hang out again now that you’re in the Boston area.”
“Absolutely.” I stand up and glance at Jake. “Have a good night.”