I swallow my laughter.
Hollis lowers his big body onto the floor. Puppy dog, indeed. He’s wearing basketball shorts and a blue T-shirt that brings out the blue of his eyes. The shirt also hugs his impressive muscles, a sight that’s always a bit jarring for me. Mike Hollis is like an obnoxious kid in a hot guy’s body.
He slings an arm around Rupi’s tiny shoulders. “Yo,” he says.
I hide a smile. I swear, he’s so into her.
“See, you’re a puppy dog,” she informs him. “So silly and lovable.”
“I’m not silly and lovable,” he argues.
“Yes, you are.”
“No, I’m not. You can’t compare me to a puppy. You gotta pick something good. Like a stallion.”
“You can’t be a stallion unless you’re super hung,” I crack.
Audrey snorts.
Rupi glances at me in horror. “Brenna! You can’t make disparaging comments about a boy’s penis. It’s damaging to the ego. Just because Mike doesn’t have a stallion penis doesn’t mean—”
“Why are you talking about my dong?” Hollis interrupts. “Which you haven’t even seen, by the way.”
“I’ve touched it,” she says smugly, before patting his knee. “I was just telling everyone that our anniversary is coming up.”
Confusion washes over his face. “We have an anniversary?”
“Yes. Our one-month anniversary.”
“It hasn’t been a month.”
“Well, it’s been almost a month—”
“Two weeks!”
“Twenty days! That’s almost three weeks.” Rupi studies his face. “When is our anniversary, Mike?”
“What?”
I lean back in my chair and enjoy the show.
“When was our first date?” she pushes.
“Why would I know that?”
“Because you were there!” Rupi flies up to her feet and plants both hands on her hips. “You didn’t write down the date? What’s wrong with you?”
“What’s wrong with me? What’s wrong with you? Who writes down the date of a date?”
“It was our first date. Are you telling me it wasn’t worth remembering?”
Hollis stands too. At six-one, he towers over five-foot Rupi. And yet any bystander can see who really wields the power.
“You showed up here and dragged me to dinner,” he reminds her. “I didn’t even know who the fuck you were.”
“I really wish you wouldn’t curse at me.”
“Well, if wishes were horses we’d all be equestrians.”
“Ha!” Summer lets out a high-pitched laugh.
Daphne looks utterly fascinated. “What on earth does that mean?”
“That’s not a real saying,” I inform him.
“It’s a real saying,” Hollis growls. “My father uses it all the time.”
Summer grins broadly. “Oh my gosh, Mike, your father is as incomprehensible as you are.”
I glance over at her. “Where do you think he learned it from?”
Rupi doesn’t appreciate the digression. She takes an angry step toward him, and now the two of them are in each other’s faces. Hers is covered with that gunk, and his is bright red from frustration.
“I can’t believe you don’t care about our anniversary.” Rupi spins on her heel. “I need to reflect on this,” she declares over her shoulder. A moment later, we hear her stomping up the stairs.
Hollis turns to me and Summer. “Why did you do this to me?” he asks miserably.
“We like her,” Summer announces.
“Of course you do. Of course you fucking do.” He stalks out, too.
There’s a beat of silence.
“Do you think we can wash our faces now?” Daphne asks, grinning.
“Probably?” Audrey answers.
We pile into the hall bathroom where we take turns ridding ourselves of the mask. After I pat my face dry, I can’t deny that my skin feels insanely smooth.
“Rupi said you have to apply moisturizer immediately,” Daphne instructs.
“Lemme grab something.” As Summer disappears, the rest of us admire ourselves in the mirror.
“Oh my gosh, I really do have a pinkish hue,” Daphne raves.
“My skin feels amazing,” Audrey gushes. “We should package and sell this stuff.”
“We can call it Face Glue,” I suggest.
Daphne snickers.
Summer returns with moisturizer, and our skin routine is back in business. Even though they’re all the way upstairs, we can hear Rupi and Hollis yelling at each other. I really wish they’d come downstairs and do it in front of us. It’s such good entertainment.
Instead, we’re provided with entertainment in the form of Hunter arriving home. He looks sexier than usual. Maybe because his dark hair is rumpled and there’s a seductive gleam in his eyes.
He’s exuding so much swagger, I have to ask, “Got laid?”
“A gentleman doesn’t kiss and tell.” He winks before heading for the kitchen.
“Could you grab the yellow pitcher from the fridge, please and thank you?” Summer calls after him. “We need refills!”
“Sure thing, Blondie.”
“Huh.” I look at Summer. “You two seem better.”
“We are,” she confirms. “I think it’s all the sex he’s having. The endorphins are making him warm and fuzzy.”
Hunter reappears and sets the plastic margarita pitcher on the coffee table.
“So who was the lucky lady tonight?” I tease.
“No one you know. Some girl at a bar in Boston.”
“Classy,” Audrey says.
He rolls his eyes. “We didn’t fuck in the bar.”
“Does bar girl have a name?” Summer asks as she tops off everyone’s glasses.
“Violet.” He shrugs. “Not to be a dick, but don’t bother remembering her name. She kicked me out like two minutes after the sex.”
I can’t help but laugh. “Cruel woman.”
“Nah. Made my life easier,” he admits. “I didn’t want more than one night, anyway.”
“Classy,” Audrey repeats.
Now he chuckles. “Right. I’m a horrible person for wanting a one-night stand, but she’s not a horrible person for wanting the same thing. Makes perfect sense to me.”
I change the subject, reaching for my margarita. “You ready for the game this weekend?” I ask him.
“Ready as we’re ever going to be. They’ll be tough to beat, though.” The intensity in his voice is promising. At least his head is in the game, and not on all the girls he’s hooking up with. “If we can find a way to contain Jake Connelly, stop him from wrecking us, then we’ve got a good shot.”
Ha. If they find a way to not be wrecked by Jake, I’d love to know it. God knows I haven’t found the solution.
29
Jake
Every player prepares differently for a game. Some guys are obsessive about their superstitions, like Dmitry, who got a paper cut once and went on to shut out the opposing team, so now he gives himself a paper cut before every game. Or Chilton, who needs his mom to say, “Break your leg, Coby!”—those exact words, because in high school it won his team a state championship.
Me, I just need my trusty beaded bracelet and some silence. I need to sit quietly and get my head ready, because hockey is as mental as it is physical. It requires laser focus, the ability to react mentally to any situation, any obstacle. And there’s no room for self-doubt on the ice. I have to trust my brain, my instincts, my muscle memory, to create opportunities and bring on a desired outcome.
This entire season, I haven’t given any pep talks. The guys don’t expect it of me. They know that when I’m hunched over on the bench, not looking at them, not saying a word, it’s because I’m mentally preparing.
Everyone stands to attention when Coach strides into the locker room. He sweeps his gaze over the uniformed bodies crowding the space. “Men,” he greets us.
We tap our sticks
on the floor in a hockey salute. We need to get out there for our warmup skate, but Coach has a few words to say first.
“This game is the single most important game you play this season. We beat Briar, we go to the national tourney. We beat Briar, we’re one step closer to bringing home a national title.” He rumbles on for another full minute, pumping us up, telling us we need to win, growling that the title belongs to us, that we need to bring it home. “What are we gonna do?” he shouts.
“Bring it home!”
“Can’t hear you.”
“Bring it home!”
Coach nods in approval. Then he throws me a curveball. “Connelly, say a few words.”
My head jerks up in surprise. “Coach?”
“You’re the captain, Jake. Say something to your team. This could be the last game of the season. Hell, your last game at Harvard.”
Fuck, I don’t like that he’s messing with my ritual. But I can’t object, because unlike nearly every other athlete in the world, Coach doesn’t believe in luck or superstition. He believes in skill and hard work. I suppose I admire that philosophy, but…respect the rituals, dammit.
I clear my throat. “Briar’s good,” I start. “They’re really good.”
“Great speech!” Brooks breaks out in hearty applause. “Standing ovation!”
Coby snickers loudly.
“Can it, Bubble Butt. I wasn’t done.” I clear my throat. “Briar’s good, but we’re better.”
My teammates wait for me to go on.
I shrug. “I was done that time.”
Laughter rings out all around me, until Coach claps his hands to silence everyone. “All right. Let’s get out there.”
I’m about to shut my locker when the phone I left on the shelf lights up. I crane my neck to take a peek, and a satisfied smile tugs at my lips. It’s a message from Brenna, wishing me good luck. There’s also one from Hazel, offering the same sentiment, but I’d expect it from Hazel. From Brenna, it’s unprecedented.
“Coach, my dad’s calling,” I lie as I catch Pedersen’s attention. “Probably wants to wish us luck. I’ll just be a minute, okay?”
He gives me a suspicious look before muttering, “One minute.”
As he and my teammates lumber toward the tunnel, I call Brenna. But I don’t get the greeting I expect.
“Why are you calling me?” She sounds outraged. “You should be on the ice warming up.”
I chuckle. “I’d think you’d be happy to hear that I’m not out there.”
“Wait, is everything okay? You’re still playing, aren’t you?” Concern echoes over the line.
“Yes, I’m still playing. But I saw your text and I wanted to make sure you’re not in danger.”
“Why would I be in danger?”
“Because you said good luck. I assumed someone was holding a gun to your head.”
“Oh, don’t be a brat.”
“So you were seriously wishing me good luck?”
“Yup.”
“Did you mean it?”
“Nope.”
“Who’s the brat now?” I hesitate. “Look…whatever happens tonight, I don’t want to stop seeing you.” Then I hold my breath and wait, because I genuinely don’t know what she’ll say.
I know what I want her to say. I want her to say that she hasn’t been able to get me off her mind since we slept together, because I haven’t gotten her off my mind since we slept together. The sex was unreal. So goddamn amazing. And that was our first time. If it’s that good when we don’t even know each other’s turn-ons yet? When we don’t know exactly how to get each other off? Means it’s only going to get better. That blows my mind.
“I want to keep seeing you,” I press when she still hasn’t answered. “Do you want to keep seeing me?”
There’s another delay. Then she sighs. “Yes. I do. Now get out there so we can kick your ass.”
A smile cracks my face in half. “You wish, babe.”
I shut the locker and turn around, flinching when I spot Coach in the doorway.
Shit.
“Babe, eh?” Coach mocks. “You call your father ‘babe’?”
I release a weary breath. “I’m sorry I lied.”
“Connelly.” He grabs my shoulder when I reach him. Even with my padding on, I can feel the steel in his grip. “That girl…whether or not you’re serious about her…you have to remember, she’s Jensen’s daughter. You need to consider the possibility that she’s playing mind games with you.”
Hazel said the same thing. But I think they’re both being paranoid. Brenna doesn’t play games. “I’ll take that into consideration.” I force a smile. “Don’t worry, it won’t affect my performance on the ice. We got this.”
* * *
We don’t got this.
From the second the puck drops, the game is a complete clusterfuck. It’s speed and aggression. It’s two teams that aren’t competing for a win, but competing to fucking kill each other. The hits are brutal, and I suspect the refs are letting a lot of calls go because of the high intensity of the game. It’s hockey the way it’s meant to be played. With absolute abandon.
The fans are losing their minds. I’ve never heard the arena this alive. Screams, cheers, and boos crash together in a symphony that fuels the adrenaline coursing through my veins.
Despite all that, Briar is outplaying us. They’re fast, particularly Davenport. And Nate Rhodes? I don’t know what he’s been putting in his Wheaties, but holy shit. He gets the first goal of the game, a bullet that Johansson has absolutely no chance of stopping. Even I’m impressed by it, but one look at the fury reddening Coach’s eyes and I know I can’t let that slide.
“You gonna let them do that to you?” Coach roars at us. “You gonna let them do that to you in our house?”
“No sir!”
The adrenaline kick sends me diving over the wall with Brooks and Coby. It’s our power line, and there’s a reason we call it that. Brooks is the Incredible Hulk when he’s on the ice. He delivers body checks that are bone jarring. Coby has a mean elbow and can battle against the boards better than anybody. I win the faceoff, but rather than pass, I deke out Fitzgerald and skate forward. I wait for the others to cross the blue line before sending a pass back to Coby, close to center.
He skates around the net, stops for a second, then flies out. He shoots and misses. Davenport almost gets his stick on the rebound, but I give him a shove and it’s my stick that connects with the puck. I shoot and miss. The puck bounces toward Brooks, who shoots and misses. A deafening roar goes through the stands.
Jesus fucking Christ. Three fucking shots, denied, denied, denied, and since when did Corsen get this fucking good? I’m growling in frustration when Coach calls to change it up, and off the ice we go.
Breathing hard, I sit on the bench next to Brooks. “What the hell is going on here?”
“I don’t know,” he mutters. “Corsen’s not usually that fast with the glove.”
“Just gotta keep hammering him, tire him out.”
Brooks gives a grim nod.
Coach appears behind us, clamping a hand around Weston’s shoulder. “Get us a power play,” he orders.
I tense up, because any time Coach encourages Brooks to draw a penalty, there’s real potential for tempers to fly. Our line returns to the game, and Brooks is immediately out for blood. In the faceoff, he starts taunting Davenport, who’s crouched to the right of Nate Rhodes. Mike Hollis is at Rhodes’s left.
I’m too focused on the puck to register what Brooks says, but whatever it is, it summons a feral growl from Davenport. “Go fuck yourself,” the sophomore spits out.
“Enough,” the ref shouts.
Once again I win the faceoff. I snap the puck to Brooks, who muscles his way into Briar’s zone. He snaps it back to me, but I don’t have a shot. The D-men are protecting Corsen and the net like the fucking Kingsguard in Game of Thrones. I need an opening. I need—
The whistle blows. I didn’t see what happe
ned, but I turn to find Hollis shouting something at Weston.
It’s a high-sticking call, and Hollis is hauled into the penalty box. Brooks and I exchange a look. He did his job. Now it’s time to do mine.
Our line stays out for the penalty kill, but we don’t need much time. Briar is a man down, and although they manage to ice it right off the faceoff, the moment we get the puck back? Stick a fork in them cuz they’re done. I deke out Davenport and release a shot that even Corsen and his new glove skills can’t stop. The lamp lights and relief ripples through me.
The score is tied.
“Good job,” Coach says when I swing over the wall.
I pop out my mouth guard, a piece of equipment that isn’t mandatory, but I value my teeth, thank you very much. My breathing is labored, chest sucking in and out, as I watch my teammates speed by. That was exhausting. My shift lasted more than three minutes, which is unheard of.
“Get your shit together,” I hear Heath growling to Jonah.
I glance down the bench, frowning deeply. “We got a problem?” I call to the younger guys.
“Nah, it’s all good,” Heath says.
I’m not convinced. Jonah’s angry gaze is glued to the action in front of us, but I can’t quite pinpoint where his anger stems from. Maybe he took a dirty hit and is pissed at the player who got away with it.
Dmitry’s line manages to hold Briar off. When McCarthy flops down beside me, I pound his shoulder with my glove. “Good hustle,” I bark.
“Thanks.” He blushes at the compliment, and I know he’s trying hard not to grin. I don’t throw out praise haphazardly, so my teammates know that when I praise them, I really mean it.
His obvious happiness brings a rush of guilt to my throat. Brooks got in my head the other night about “doing the right thing” with McCarthy. I’d already made the decision to tell him that I’m seeing Brenna, but I’m waiting until after the game. I didn’t want to take the chance that the news might distract him from the finals.
Coach changes up the lines again. Now it’s me and Brooks, and Coby’s been swapped out for Jonah, a right-winger who’s excellent at taking advantage of rebounds. There’s almost an immediate offsides call. At the whistle, I skate over and get in position.
The Risk: Briar U Page 27