The Risk Page 3

  “It’s true,” Potts says glumly. “I’ve been sucking.”

  Someone snorts.

  “You’re not sucking,” I assure him. “But yeah, you could afford to lay off the beer for a couple weeks. And you—” It’s Weston’s turn. “Time for abstinence on your part, too.”

  “Screw that. Sex gives me my superpowers.”

  I roll my eyes. I do that a lot around Brooks. “I’m not talking about sex. I’m talking about the party favors.”

  His jaw instantly tightens. He knows precisely what I mean, and so do our teammates. It’s no secret that Brooks like to indulge in a recreational drug or two at parties. A joint here, a line of cocaine there. He’s careful about when he does it and how much, and I suppose it does help that coke only remains in the blood for forty-eight hours.

  This is not to say I tolerate that shit. I don’t. But telling Brooks what to do is about as effective as talking to a brick wall. One time I threatened to tell Coach, and Weston said go ahead. He plays hockey because it’s fun, not because he’s in love with the game and wants to go to the pros. He could give it up in a heartbeat, and threats don’t work on someone who isn’t afraid to lose.

  He’s not the first to dabble in the occasional drug, and he won’t be the last. It does appear to be purely recreational, though, and he never does it on game day. But the after-party? All bets are off.

  “If you get caught with it or fail a piss test, you know what happens. So congratulations, you’re officially going clean until after the Frozen Four,” I inform him. “You feel me?”

  After a long, tense beat, his head jerks in a nod. “I feel you.”

  “Good.” I address the others. “Let’s focus on beating Princeton this weekend. Everything else is secondary.”

  Coby flicks a cocky grin in my direction. “And what are you giving up, captain?”

  My brow furrows. “What are you talking about?”

  “You call a team meeting. You tell poor McCarthy he can’t use his dick anymore, you take away Weston’s party favors, and you deprive Potts and Bray of their beer pong championship title. What are you going to do for the team?”

  A hushed silence falls over the apartment.

  For a second I’m speechless. Because is he for real? I score at least one goal a game. If someone else scores, it’s usually with my assist. I’m the fastest skater on the Eastern Seaboard, and I’m a damn good captain.

  I open my mouth to retort when Coby starts to laugh.

  “Bruh, you should’ve seen your face.” He grins at me. “Relax. You do plenty. You’re the best captain we’ve ever had.”

  “Aye, aye,” several of the guys call out.

  I relax. But Coby does have a point. “Look, I won’t apologize for wanting us to be focused, but I am sorry if I’m being harsh on you guys. Especially you, McCarthy. All I’m asking is for us to keep our heads in the game, can we do that?”

  About twenty heads nod back at me.

  “Good.” I clap my hands. “You can all take off now. Get some sleep and bring your A-game to morning skate tomorrow.”

  The meeting adjourns, the group dispersing. Once again, our neighbors are forced to suffer through the footsteps, this time the heavy stomps of two-dozen hockey players thudding down the stairs.

  “Dad, may I please go back to my room now?” Brooks asks sarcastically.

  I grin at him. “Yes, son, you may. I’ll lock up.”

  He flips up his middle finger as he dashes toward the bedrooms. Meanwhile, McCarthy lingers by the front door, waiting for me.

  “What am I supposed to say to Brenna?” he asks.

  I can’t tell if he’s angry, because his expression reveals nothing. “Just tell her you need to concentrate on the tournament. Tell her you guys will get together after the season.”

  They’ll never get together again.

  I don’t voice the thought, but I know it’s true. Brenna Jensen would never condone being “put on hold” by anyone, let alone a Harvard player. If McCarthy ends it, even temporarily, she’ll make it a permanent split.

  “Briar has won three national championships in the last decade,” I say flatly. “Meanwhile, we’re over here, winless. That’s unacceptable, kid. So tell me, what’s more important to you—getting mind-fucked by Brenna Jensen or beating her team?”

  “Beating her team,” he says immediately.

  No hesitation. I like that. “Then let’s beat them. Do what needs to be done.”

  With a nod, McCarthy walks out the door. I lock up after him.

  Do I feel bad? Maybe a little. But anyone can see that he and Brenna aren’t destined to be together. She said as much herself.

  I’m simply speeding up the inevitable.

  3

  Brenna

  “Where have you been? I called you three times, Brenna.”

  My dad’s brusque tone never fails to raise my hackles. He speaks to me the way he speaks to his players—curt, impatient, and unforgiving. I’d like to say that it’s always been this way, that he’s been barking and growling at me for my entire life. But that would be a lie.

  Dad didn’t always snap at me. My mother died in a car accident when I was seven, which thrust my father into a maternal role as well as a paternal one. And he was good at both. He used to speak to me with love and tenderness on his face and in his voice. He’d pull me onto his lap and ruffle my hair and say, “Tell me how school was today, Peaches.” His nickname for me was “Peaches,” for Pete’s sake.

  But that was a long time ago. Nowadays, I’m just Brenna, and I can’t remember the last time I associated the words “love” or “tenderness” with my father.

  “I was walking home in a downpour,” I reply. “I couldn’t pick up the phone.”

  “Walking home from where?”

  I unzip my boots in the cramped corridor of my basement apartment. I rent it from a nice couple named Mark and Wendy, who both travel quite a lot for work. Add to that my separate entrance, and I can go weeks without having any interaction with them.

  “From Della’s Diner. I was having coffee with a friend,” I say.

  “This late?”

  “Late?” I crane my neck toward the kitchen that’s even tinier than the hallway and glance at the clock on the microwave. “It’s barely ten o’clock.”

  “Don’t you have your interview tomorrow?”

  “Yes, so? Do you think me getting home at nine thirty means I’m going to sleep through my alarm?” I can’t keep the sarcasm out of my tone. Sometimes it’s difficult not to snap at him the way he snaps at me.

  He ignores the taunt. “I spoke to someone at the network today,” he says. “Stan Samuels—he runs the master control booth, solid fellow.” Dad’s voice becomes gruff. “I told him you were coming in tomorrow and put in a good word for you.”

  I soften a little. “Oh. That was nice of you. I appreciate that.” Some people might feel awkward about calling in favors to get ahead, but I have no problem using my father’s connections if it helps me secure this internship. It’s hyper competitive, and although I’m more than qualified—I’ve worked my ass off to be—I’m at a disadvantage because I’m female. Unfortunately, this is a male-dominated field.

  The broadcasting program at Briar offers official work placements for students in their senior year, but I’m hoping to beat everyone to the punch. If I can land a summer internship at HockeyNet, there’s a fair chance I’ll be able to continue working there for my senior placement. That means an advantage over my peers and a potential job when I graduate.

  My end-game has always been to become a sports journalist. Yes, HockeyNet is only a decade old (and the originality coffers must’ve been running low the day they chose their name), but the network covers hockey exclusively, and when it launched, it filled a deep void in the sports coverage market. I watch ESPN religiously, but one of the major complaints about it is its lackluster hockey coverage. Which is egregious. I mean, in theory, hockey is the fourth major sport in the coun
try, but the bigger networks often treat it as if it’s less important than NASCAR or tennis or—shudder—golf.

  I dream of being on camera and sitting with those analysts at the big boys’ table, breaking down highlights, analyzing games, voicing my predictions. Sports journalism is a tough route for a woman, but I know my hockey, and I’m confident I’ll slay my interview tomorrow.

  “Let me know how it goes,” Dad orders.

  “I will.” As I cross the living room, my left sock connects with something wet, and I yelp.

  Dad is instantly concerned. “You all right?”

  “Sorry, I’m fine. The carpet’s wet. I must have spilled something—” I stop when I notice a small puddle in front of the sliding door that opens onto the backyard. It’s still raining outside, a steady pounding against the stone patio. “Crap. There’s water pooling at the back door.”

  “That’s not good. What are we dealing with? Runoff directing water into the house?”

  “How would I know? Do you think I studied the runoff situation before I moved in?” He can’t see me rolling my eyes, but I hope he can hear it in my voice.

  “Tell me where the moisture is coming from.”

  “I told you, it’s mostly around the sliding door.” I walk the perimeter of the living room, which takes about, oh, three seconds. The only wet spot is near the door.

  “All right. Well, that’s a good sign. Means it’s probably not the pipes. But if it’s storm-water runoff, there could be several culprits for that. Is the driveway paved?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Your landlords might need to consider drainage options. Give them a call tomorrow and tell them to investigate.”

  “I will.”

  “I mean it.”

  “I said I will.” I know he’s trying to be helpful, but why does he have to use that tone with me? Everything with Chad Jensen is a command, not a suggestion.

  He’s not a bad man, I know that. He’s simply overprotective, and once upon a time he might’ve had reason to be. But I’ve been living on my own for three years. I can take care of myself.

  “And you’ll be at the semifinals on Saturday night?” Dad asks briskly.

  “I can’t,” I say, and I’m genuinely regretful about missing such a vital game. But I made these plans ages ago. “I’m visiting Tansy, remember?” Tansy is my favorite cousin, the daughter of my dad’s older sister, Sheryl.

  “That’s this weekend?”

  “Yup.”

  “All right, then. Say hello for me. Tell her I look forward to seeing her and Noah for Easter.”

  “Will do.”

  “Are you spending the night?” There’s an edge to the question.

  “Two nights, actually. I’m going up to Boston tomorrow, and heading back Sunday.”

  “Don’t do—” He halts.

  “Don’t do what?” This time, it’s my tone taking on that sharp edge.

  “Don’t do anything reckless. Don’t drink too much. Be safe.”

  I appreciate that he doesn’t say, “Don’t drink at all,” but that’s probably because he knows he can’t stop me. Once I turned eighteen, he couldn’t force me to abide by his curfew or his rules anymore. And once I turned twenty-one, he couldn’t stop me from having a drink or two.

  “I’ll be safe,” I promise, because that’s the one assurance I can give with confidence.

  “Bren,” he says. Then stops again.

  I feel like most conversations with my father go like this. Start and stop. Words we want to say, and words we don’t say. It’s so hard to connect with him.

  “Dad, can we hang up now? I want to take a hot shower and get ready for bed. I have to wake up early tomorrow.”

  “All right. Let me know how the interview goes.” He pauses. When he speaks again, it’s to offer some rare encouragement. “You got this.”

  “Thank you. Night, Dad.”

  “Night, Brenna.”

  I hang up and do exactly what I told him—take a scalding-hot shower, because the twenty-minute walk in the rain chilled me down to the bone. I’m redder than a lobster when I emerge from the cramped shower stall. My little bathroom doesn’t have a bathtub, which is a shame. Hot baths are the absolute best.

  I don’t like sleeping with wet hair, so I do a quick blow-dry and then rummage around in my dresser in search of my warmest PJs. I settle on plaid pants and a thin long-sleeve tee with the Briar University logo on it. Basements tend to be cold as a rule, and my apartment is no exception. I’m surprised I haven’t come down with pneumonia in the seven or so months I’ve lived here.

  As I get under the covers, I pop my phone out of its charger and find a missed call from Summer. I have a feeling she’ll call again if I don’t respond, probably five seconds after I fall asleep, so I preemptively ring her back before she can ruin my good night’s sleep.

  “Are you mad at me?” is how she greets me.

  “No.” I curl up on my side, the phone balanced on my shoulder.

  “Even though I set you up with Jules and vouched for him?” Her voice ripples with guilt.

  “I’m an adult, Summer. You didn’t force me to say yes.”

  “I know. But I feel terrible. I can’t believe he didn’t show.”

  “Don’t worry about it. I’m not the least bit upset. If anything, I dodged a bullet.”

  “Okay, good.” She sounds relieved. “I’ll find someone even better to hook you up with.”

  “You most certainly will not,” I say cheerfully. “You’re officially relieved of your matchmaking duties—which you bestowed on yourself, by the way. Trust me, babes, I have zero issues when it comes to meeting men.”

  “Yes, you’re good at meeting them. But dating them? You suck at that.”

  I’m quick to protest. “Because I’m not looking to date anybody.”

  “Why not? Having a boyfriend is awesome.”

  Sure, maybe when your boyfriend is Colin Fitzgerald. Summer is dating one of the most decent guys I’ve ever met. Intelligent, kind, astute, not to mention hot as fuck.

  “Are you and Fitzy still obsessed with each other?”

  “So obsessed. He puts up with my crazy, and I put up with his dorkiness. Plus, we have the best sex ever.”

  “I bet Hunter loves that,” I say dryly. “I hope you’re not a screamer.”

  Hunter Davenport is Summer and Fitz’s roommate, and he was recently rejected by Summer. She agreed to go on a date with him, only to realize her feelings for Fitz were too strong to ignore. Hunter didn’t take it well.

  “God, you have no idea how hard it is to try to be quiet when Fitz is doing his magical magic to my body,” Summer says with a sigh.

  “Magical magic?”

  “Yes, magical magic. But if you’re worried that Hunter is lying in bed listening to us and weeping inconsolably, don’t be. He’s got a different girl over here every night.”

  “Good for him.” I snicker. “I bet Hollis is green with envy.”

  “I’m not sure Mike’s even noticed. He’s too busy mooning over you.”

  “Still?” Dammit. I was hoping he was done with that.

  I briefly close my eyes. I’ve committed some asinine acts in my life, but hooking up with Mike Hollis is high on that list. We were both drunk out of our minds, so all we did was share a sloppy make-out session and I fell asleep while giving him a hand job. It definitely wasn’t my finest moment, nor was it all that memorable. I have no idea why he’d want a repeat.

  “He’s smitten,” Summer confirms.

  “It’ll pass.”

  She giggles, but the humor dies quickly. “Hunter is being a jerk to us,” she admits. “When he’s not screwing anything in a skirt.”

  “I guess he was really into you?”

  “Honestly? I don’t think it’s about me. I think it’s about Fitz.”

  “I can see that. He wanted to fuck Fitz,” I say solemnly. “I mean, who doesn’t?”

  “No, you brat. Fitz straight up lied when Hunter aske
d if he had a thing for me. Hunter views it as a betrayal of the bro code.”

  “The bro code is holy,” I have to concede. “Especially among teammates.”

  “I know. Fitz says there’s a lot of tension at practice.” Summer moans. “What if affects their performance in the semifinals, Bee? That means Yale will move on to the finals.”

  “My dad will straighten them out,” I assure her. “And say what you will about Hunter, but he likes to win hockey games. He won’t let a beef over some girl—no offense—distract him from winning.”

  “Should I—”

  A buzz in my ear mutes her question.

  “What was that?”

  “Text message,” I explain. “Sorry, keep going. What were you saying?”

  “I was wondering if I should try to talk to him again.”

  “I don’t think it’ll make a difference. He’s a stubborn ass. But eventually he’ll put his big-boy pants on and get over it.”

  “I hope so.”

  We chat for a while longer, until my eyelids grow heavy. “Summer. I’m going to sleep now, babes. I’ve got that interview in the morning.”

  “Okay. Call me tomorrow. Love you.”

  “Love you, too.”

  I’m about to turn off the bedside lamp when I remember the text. I click the message icon and narrow my eyes when I see McCarthy’s name.

  Hey, B. It’s been really awesome chilling with you, but I need to take a step back for a while. At least till playoffs are over. Gotta focus on the game, you know? I’ll give you a call once everything settles down, k? xo

  My jaw falls open. Is this a joke?

  I read the message again, and, nope, the content doesn’t change. McCarthy actually ended it.

  It appears that Jake Connelly just declared war.

  4

  Brenna

  I can usually hold my own in most situations. I’ve never suffered from anxiety, and nothing really scares me, not even my father, who’s been known to make grown men cry with one look. That’s not hyperbole—I saw it happen once.