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  “I liked the way his hands felt on me,” she continues in a throaty voice, and suddenly every man at the table is eating up her every word. “I liked his lips…his fingers…”

  A strangled cough comes from Adam the freshman. I silence him with a deadly glare. He gulps down some beer.

  “I guess you’ll have to find other hands and lips and fingers to keep you occupied,” I tell her.

  When Coby opens his mouth, I glare at him before he can volunteer his body parts. His mouth promptly slams.

  “I told you, you don’t get to make decisions for me,” Brenna says coolly.

  “I didn’t make any decisions for you. McCarthy made up his own mind.”

  “I don’t believe that. And I don’t appreciate you interfering in my life.”

  “I don’t appreciate you interfering with my players,” I retort.

  My teammates’ heads swing back and forth from me to Brenna.

  “Are we really going to have this argument again?” she asks in a bored tone. Her index finger trails down Coby’s arm.

  His eyes glaze over.

  Shit. Brenna is not only smoking hot, she’s also magnetic as hell. And her perfect ass is currently pressed up against the crotch of a hockey player who’s full of pent-up aggression and anticipation for tomorrow’s semifinals.

  “Did you come here to yell at me, Hottie? Because that’s not going to bring poor, sweet McCarthy back.” I’m goading her. Mostly because it’s fun to see her dark eyes smolder with anger, like two hot coals burning in a fire pit.

  “You’re right. I’m not going to get McCarthy back. So I guess it’s time to find a replacement.” Her fingertips reach the hand that Coby placed on her hip. She laces their fingers together, and I frown when I glimpse her thumb rubbing the inside of his palm.

  I think he might actually groan. The music muffles the sound, but his tortured expression tells me he’s not unaffected. I glower at him. “Focus, man. She’s just playing a game.”

  “It’s not a game. I think your boy here is hot.” She tosses her silky hair over one shoulder and slants her head to meet Coby’s appreciative gaze. “What’s your name?”

  “Coby.” Gravel thickens his voice.

  Oh fuck. We’re in trouble. He’s looking at her as if she’s already naked. Hell, I think everyone in the bar is.

  “I’m Brenna,” she coos. “It’s so nice to meet you.”

  “So nice,” he echoes, visibly gulping.

  Brenna grins at me, and then unlaces their fingers and slides her palm up Coby’s beefy chest. She presses it to the Harvard logo that’s decaled onto his gray sweatshirt, her palm flattening over his left pec. “Your heart’s beating so fast. Is everything okay?”

  “Everything’s just fine.” He’s completely under her spell. From beneath heavy eyelids, he admires the curves of her body. Then he shifts in his chair, probably because he’s sporting a massive hard-on.

  “Focus on me, Chilton,” I order. “Don’t let her lure you to the dark side.”

  “Don’t listen to him, Coby. I mean, do you really want Connelly to run your life? He’s such a buzzkill. Who likes a buzzkill, right?” She snuggles closer to him. “So what do you like to do other than play hockey? Do you like to dance?”

  “Love it,” he mumbles. His gaze is glued to her chest.

  I know for a fact he’s got zero moves. “Coby, don’t fall for this. She’s not interested.”

  They both ignore me.

  “We should go dancing sometime. We’ll have so. Much. Fun.” She strokes his pec before gliding her hand up to his bearded chin. She strokes that, too. “I’d bet having our bodies so close like that would make your heart beat even faster.”

  Adam starts coughing again. Beside him, Dmitry looks utterly captivated. They all do. Brenna has that effect on men.

  I scowl at Coby. “She’s teasing you. This is payback for my perceived crimes against her.”

  Brenna smirks defiantly. “Actually, I happen to find Coby incredibly appealing.”

  “I’m sure you do,” I drawl. To the dumbass whose lap she’s on, I offer more encouragement. “You can do this, man. Crawl out of the darkness.”

  When he finally speaks, the words are strangled, as if they’re being pried out of his mouth by force. “Sorry, Jake. I think I love her.”

  She laughs, easily sliding off his lap.

  Coby shoots to his feet, too. “We should go dancing tonight,” he says eagerly.

  I sigh. “Weak bastard.”

  With a sigh of her own, Brenna gently touches my teammate’s arm. “Sorry, babes, but Connelly was right. I was playing you.”

  He gawks at her. “For real?”

  “For real. I was manipulating you, and I apologize for that. You were an unwitting pawn in this little chess game between me and your captain.”

  Coby looks so disappointed I have to choke down laughter. I don’t feel sorry for him, though. I did warn him.

  Brenna turns to me. “See how easy that was?” She shakes her head irritably. “The only reason I’m not crying over this McCarthy thing is because it was a temporary arrangement. But let this serve as a warning to you, Connelly. Stay out of my life. My love life, my sex life, my life in general. You have no right to force someone to break up with me. That’s just childish.”

  “And what you did right now wasn’t childish?” I challenge.

  “Oh, it was. I don’t deny that. I absolutely stooped to your level, because I was trying to prove a point. If you mess with my life, I’ll mess with yours. Keep accusing me of distracting your guys, and guess what, I’ll start doing it. And based on what I just saw, it won’t be difficult at all.” She pats Coby on the shoulder. “Again, I’m truly sorry for involving you. For what it’s worth, I think you’re wicked hot, and I have this friend—Audrey—who I kind of want to set you up with. You’re exactly her type.”

  Coby’s expression brightens. “Really?”

  Brenna holds up her phone. “Smile. I’ll text her a pic of you and see if she’s interested.”

  I watch in total disbelief as Coby actually stands there and poses for a picture. He flexes his biceps, for fuck’s sake. And then, to add insult to injury, he says, “Thanks.”

  The idiot is thanking her. Christ. My teammates are unbelievable.

  Brenna slides her phone into her purse and seeks out my gaze. “Enjoy the rest of your night, Jakey.” She gives me a wink. “And don’t forget… If you mess with me, I mess right back.”

  7

  Jake

  I find myself in the kitchen at three in the morning chugging a glass of water at the sink. I’m not sure what woke me up. Maybe the thunder? It started pouring when Brooks and I got home from the bar and hasn’t stopped since. Not even a lull.

  Or maybe it’s guilt that jolted me out of my slumber. I’d never admit it to Brenna, but…I do feel bad about sticking my nose in her business. When she’d confessed to liking McCarthy earlier, I can’t deny I felt like a total jerk.

  “Oh!” a female voice squeaks. “I didn’t realize anyone else was up.”

  I lift my head in time to see a shapely figure skid to a stop about six feet away. Either the shadows are playing tricks on me, or she’s wearing nothing but a thong. She takes a few steps forward, a curtain of blonde hair swinging behind her. The kitchen light flicks on, and yup, she sure is topless. Her tits are on full display for me.

  “I’m sorry,” she says. “I thought I’d be alone in here.”

  Yet for all her protests, she doesn’t make an effort to cover up.

  And since I’m a man, I can’t help but stare at her chest. She’s got nice boobs. They’re on the small side, but cute and perky, with pale-pink nipples that are currently puckered from being exposed to the air.

  But the coy twinkle in her eyes puts me off. Although I hadn’t heard anyone come in, I assume Brooks invited her over. And since she’s practically naked, I assume she and Brooks aren’t exactly pulling an all-night study sesh in his bedroom. Whi
ch means she definitely shouldn’t be looking at me like that.

  “You’re crashing with Brooks tonight?” I ask as I rinse out my glass.

  “Mmm-hmmm.”

  I wrinkle my forehead. “When’d you get here?”

  “Around midnight. And before you say it, yes, it was a booty call.”

  I resist the urge to shake my head. Brooks Weston is something else. Making out with one chick all night, and then booty-calling another.

  “Do you mind getting me a glass? I don’t know where anything is.” She licks her lips. “I’m thirsty.”

  She’s thirsty, all right.

  I open the cupboard, grab a drinking glass, and hold it out. Her fingertips brush my knuckles suggestively as she accepts it. “Thank you.”

  “No prob.” I withdraw my hand. “You look cold,” I say with a pointed glance to her nipples.

  “Actually, I’m feeling really hot right now.” She giggles. “And you’re looking it.”

  “Looking what?”

  “Hot.”

  I try not to raise my eyebrows. This chick is bold. Too bold, considering whom she came to see tonight. “Weren’t you just with my roommate?” I nod toward the corridor.

  “Yeah? So?”

  “So you probably shouldn’t be telling some other guy he’s hot.”

  “Brooks already knows what I think about you.”

  “Does he.” An itchy feeling crawls up my spine. I don’t like the idea of people discussing me. And I seriously hope I’m not part of whatever kinky games the two of them play behind closed doors.

  She pours herself a glass of water from the filtered dispenser in the fridge. Then she stands there and drinks, topless, no care in the world. She’s got a gorgeous body, but something about her rubs me the wrong way. It’s not the brazen attitude. I like outspoken girls. Girls who bust my balls. Like Brenna Jensen—she’s the very definition of bold, and she doesn’t make me want to sprint out of the room.

  This girl, on the other hand…

  “What’s your name?” I ask warily. I don’t know where the distrust in my gut is coming from, but her presence is unnerving me.

  “Kayla.” She takes another long sip, propping one hip against the granite counter. She’s completely unfazed by the fact that she’s wearing teeny panties and nothing else. “We met before,” she tells me.

  “Did we?”

  Visible displeasure darkens her eyes. Yeah, I don’t imagine this is a girl who likes being forgotten. But I genuinely have no recollection of meeting her, ever.

  “Yes. At Nash Maynard’s party?”

  “You go to Harvard?”

  “No. We talked about that at the party, remember?” she says tightly. “I’m at Boston University?”

  I draw a blank. There’s a black hole in my memory where this alleged interaction is supposed to be.

  “Babe,” a sleepy voice drifts from the hallway. “Come back to bed. I’m horny.”

  I give her a dry smile. “You’re being summoned.”

  She grins back. “Your roomie’s insatiable.”

  “I wouldn’t know,” I say with a shrug.

  “No?” She finishes her water and places the glass in the sink. Curiosity gleams in her expression as she studies my face. “You and Brooks have never…?” She lets the question hang.

  “Nah. I don’t swing that way.”

  She tilts her head thoughtfully. “What if there’s a girl in the middle to act as a buffer?”

  Annnd we’re done here. It’s too late and I’m too tired to be discussing threesomes with a strange girl in my kitchen. “I don’t do that either,” I mutter on my way past her.

  “Pity,” she tells my retreating back.

  I don’t turn around. “Good night, Kayla.”

  “Good night, Jake.” A teasing lilt.

  Jeez. So many invitations in one measly encounter. She would’ve let me bang her on the counter if I’d made a move. If I were into threesomes, she’d have me and Brooks banging her together.

  But neither notion appeals to me.

  I go back to bed and make sure to lock my door, just in case.

  Early the next morning, I make the trek to see my folks. This requires a quick ride on the Red Line, followed by a not-so-quick one on the Newburyport/Rockport line, which takes me all the way to Gloucester. It’d be faster to borrow Weston’s car and drive up the coast, but I don’t mind taking the train. It’s cheaper than gassing up the Mercedes, and it provides me with quiet time to reflect and mentally prepare for today’s game.

  Our entire season rides on this game.

  If we lose…

  You won’t lose.

  I heed the self-assured voice in my head, tapping into the confidence I’ve been cultivating since I was a kid playing Pee Wee hockey. There’s no denying I was talented from an early age. But talent and potential mean nothing without discipline and failure. You need to fail in order for the win to mean something. I’ve lost games before, games that counted for rankings, trophies. Losing is not supposed to crush your confidence. It’s meant to build it.

  But we won’t lose today. We’re the best team in our conference, maybe even the best in the entire country.

  The train rolls into the station around nine o’clock, and since it’s actually not raining this morning I decide to walk home instead of Uber’ing it. I breathe in the crisp spring air, inhaling the familiar scent of salt and fish and seaweed. Gloucester is a fishing town, the country’s oldest seaport, which means you can’t walk five steps without seeing a lighthouse, a boat, or something nautical. I pass three consecutive houses with decorative anchors hanging over the front doors.

  The two-story house where I grew up resembles most of the other homes lining the narrow streets. It has white siding, a sloped roof, and a pretty front garden that Mom tends to religiously. The garden in the backyard is even more impressive, a testament to her green thumb. The house is small, but it’s just the three of us, so we’ve always had more than enough room.

  My phone rings as I’m approaching the porch. It’s Hazel. I stop to answer the call, because she’s supposed to show up this afternoon for the game. “Hey,” I greet her. “You still coming to Cambridge later?”

  “Never. I’d die before betraying my school.”

  “Oh shut up. You don’t even like hockey. You’re coming as a friend, not a fan.”

  “Sorry, yes, of course I’m coming. It’s just fun to pretend we have a massive rivalry. You know, a forbidden relationship. Well, friendship,” she amends.

  “There’s nothing forbidden about our friendship. Everybody knows you’re my best friend and nobody cares.”

  There’s a slight pause. “True. So, what are you up to right now? If you want, I can drive up early and chill with you until the game.”

  “I’m about to walk into my folks’ house. Mom’s cooking up a special game-day breakfast.”

  “Aw, I wish you’d told me. I would’ve joined you.”

  “Yeah right. That would have required you waking up before eight o’clock. On a Saturday.”

  “I totally would’ve done that,” she protests.

  “‘The world doesn’t exist before nine a.m.’ That’s a direct quote from you, Hazel.” I chuckle.

  “What are we doing to celebrate after you win today? Oooh, how about a fancy dinner?”

  “Maybe? I’m sure the boys will want to go out partying, though. Oh, and I’ve got somewhere to be around ten. You can come with if you want.”

  “Depends what it is.”

  “Remember Danny Novak? His band’s playing in the city tonight. It’s their first gig, so I promised I’d be there.” Danny was a teammate of mine in high school. One of the best stick handlers I’ve ever seen, and that dexterity with his hands serves him well as a guitarist, too. He never could choose what he loved more, hockey or music.

  “What kind of music do they play?”

  “Metal.”

  “Ugh. Kill me now.” Hazel sighs. “I’ll let you know
later, but right now it’s a tentative no from me, dawg.”

  I snicker. “I’ll see you later, okay?”

  “Yup. Tell your parents I said hi.”

  “Will do.”

  I hang up and walk through the unlocked front door. In the small entryway, I toss my hockey jacket on one of the iron coat hooks, which are shaped like—what else—anchors. “Mom?” I call as I unlace my boots.

  “Hi, baby! I’m in here!” Her greeting wafts out from the kitchen, along with the most enticing aroma.

  My stomach growls like a grumpy bear. I’ve been looking forward to this breakfast all week. Some guys don’t like to pig out on game days, but I’m the opposite. If I don’t eat a huge breakfast, I feel sluggish and off.

  In the kitchen, I find Mom at the stove, a plastic red spatula in hand. The hunger pangs intensify. Fuck yeah. She’s making French toast. And bacon. And is that sausage?

  “Hey. That smells fantastic.” I saunter over and plant a kiss on her cheek. Then I raise my eyebrows. “Nice earrings. Are those new?”

  With her free hand, she rolls the shiny pearl on her right earlobe between her thumb and index finger. “Aren’t they pretty? Your father surprised me with them the other day! I’ve never owned pearls this big before.”

  “Dad did good.” Rory Connelly knows the secret to a healthy marriage. Happy wife equals happy life. And nothing makes my mother happier than shiny baubles.

  She turns to face me. With her dark hair pulled back in a sleek ponytail and her cheeks flushed from the stove, she appears way younger than fifty-six. My folks had me when they were in their mid-thirties, so she’s constantly referring to herself as an “old mom.” She definitely doesn’t look it, though.

  “Hazel says hi, by the way. I just got off the phone with her.”

  Mom claps happily. “Oh, tell her I miss her. When is she coming home for a visit? She wasn’t here for the holidays.”

  “No, she was at her mom’s this year.” Hazel’s parents got divorced a few years ago. Her dad still lives in Gloucester, but her mom is in Vermont now, so she alternates holidays with them. “She’ll be at the game today. Are you guys coming?”