Against All Odds (Holt Hockey Book 2)
Against All Odds: Chapter 9

There are two impatient knocks on my door. A pause, then a third.

I toss my pen down and stretch, my cramped muscles crying out in relief. I’ve been sitting in the same crouched position for longer than I realized.

“Come in,” I call out.

“Hey!” Chloe waltzes in like she’s visited my room a thousand times before instead of just twice, taking a seat on the edge of my bed and bouncing on the mattress.

In the week I’ve known her, I’ve learned that’s just Chloe.

I’m not sure she’s encountered a situation she’s uncomfortable in. Everything gets taken in stride, and it’s an attitude I’m striving toward as well.

Hot guy I hooked up with over winter break happens to be the same hockey player I’m stuck tutoring?

No biggie, it happens.

Chloe glances at the notebook open on my desk and makes a face. “You’re doing homework?”

I’m assuming the judgment is because it’s Friday night. My roommates all seem to care about school, which is a nice change. I’ve lived with multiple people who have made a point to mention how much time I spent bent over a textbook. To ask what exactly I’ll do with a math degree. To wonder if I know how to have fun. In five years, I know who will be laughing. But it still stung every time.

“I was just planning out what I need to get done this weekend,” I tell her.

And as pathetic as it sounds, I don’t have anything better to do with my time.

I got back from dinner with a couple of girls in my Number Theory class an hour ago.

Showered, changed into sweatpants, and now I’m making a list of assignments due in the next few days so I can prioritize what to tackle first.

This first week went better than I was expecting.

I’ve yet to feel like I’m drowning in a pool of unfamiliarity, the way I did starting school in Boston and at Oxford.

I like all of my courses and my professors. But school has never been a challenge for me.

Holt isn’t huge, the classes much smaller than I’m used to, which has helped getting adjusted and recognizing faces.

But socially, that makes it harder to adjust, not easier. Everyone else on campus already seems to know each other, has formed established cliques. Even the freshmen had a full semester on campus to get settled already.

Theo sat next to me during our Wednesday and Friday algebra class. I’ve exchanged small talk with at least a couple of people in all my classes this week. I was pleasantly surprised by the dinner invitation after my last class ended earlier. Not everyone feels like strangers the way they were on my first day.

But I’m still the new girl.

Chloe is busy studying the bulletin board above my dresser, which is covered with Polaroids from last fall.

My study abroad program offered a few weekend trips throughout the semester, and my favorites by far are the photos of Scotland. Green fields decorated by dots of white wool. Castle-topped crags. Cobblestone streets.

“You should take a photography class,” she tells me. “These are really good.”

“Scotland is just pretty enough to make an amateur look talented,” I reply, shifting in my chair and tucking a foot beneath me.

Chloe hums, still peering at the photos. “If you say so.”

“So, uh, you doing anything fun tonight?” I ask.

I’m not great at small talk. Either I can’t think of anything to say or I blurt out something stupid.

Chloe spins around. “That’s why I’m here. Get dressed, we’re going out!”

I open my mouth.

“Unless you’re about to say ‘Okay,’ save it,” Chloe says, holding up a hand like she’ll physically prevent the word from coming out. “My older sister transferred after her freshman year, and she had a hard time adjusting to a new campus. You have all weekend to do homework, if you want. Tonight, we’re going to a party.”

I smile, then open my mouth again.

Chloe raises one eyebrow.

“Okay,” I say.

She beams. “Dakota is busy with her boyfriend, but Malia’s coming with us. Come into the kitchen whenever you’re ready so we can pregame.”

“Okay,” I repeat.

Once Chloe is gone, I stand, stretch, and start flipping through my closet.

I’m assuming going-out attire here is more similar to Boston than it was in London. I settle on all black—jeans, a silky tank top, and a suede jacket. At least if someone spills beer on me, it won’t be visible. Unfortunately, I’m speaking from experience.

I apply some makeup, brush my hair, and then head into the kitchen after taking a couple of deep breaths that don’t do much to soothe my anxiety.

Chloe is standing at the counter, mixing a cup’s contents with a spoon. Malia is sitting on one of the stools, flipping through songs on her phone.

Both are dressed in jeans and cute tops, so I’m relieved I got the dress code right.

Chloe holds the glass she was stirring out to me as soon as she sees me. “Here, try this and tell me what you think.”

I take a cautious sip. “It’s good. What is it?”

“Whiskey, lemon juice, and maple syrup. I was going to make mojitos, but we’re out of limes.”

“And rum?”

“What?”

“Mojitos have rum in them, right?”

Chloe’s response is “Do they?”

I glance at Malia, and she shrugs. “I’ve sampled enough of Chloe’s concoctions. I’m sticking to wine.”

Concoctions sounds slightly ominous, but I take another sip anyway.

I’m nervous enough about showing up to a party of strangers with two girls I barely know. Doing so totally sober sounds worse.

“Crap, we should go,” Chloe says. “Logan just texted me. It’s already packed.”

“Okay, okay.” Malia chugs the rest of her wine in an impressive amount of time, while I down the rest of the glass Chloe gave me.

Maybe it’s the whiskey in it I like so much.

The only other time I’ve had it was…yeah, not thinking about that.

“C’mon,” Chloe calls, already heading for the front door. “The faster we walk, the sooner we’ll get there. Everyone have keys? Phones?”

“We’re walking?” I ask, surprised.

“Yeah, the hockey house is just a couple of blocks away. It’ll be faster than ordering a car and no one has to drive home.”

My steps slow until I’m barely moving, nothing but those three words registering.

The hockey house.

It occurred to me while getting ready that there was a chance whatever party we were headed to could be attended by hockey players. Could be attended by Aidan. Like I already noticed, the campus isn’t that big. Aside from the four players I saw in the coffee shop, I’m pretty sure I spotted a Holt Hockey jacket in my Intro to Philosophy class. Avoiding the entire team until I graduate next May isn’t realistic, unless I decide to become the antisocial shut-in I turned into in Boston and swore I wouldn’t become again.

I’m determined to go out and have fun, no matter how nerve-racking it is. The only way to know more people is to meet more people.

But I didn’t think the party we’re going to would be taking place at a hockey house, where Aidan will very likely be.

I’m dreading Tuesday, our next tutoring session, but I thought I had a few days before facing him again.

And now, I can’t think of a single excuse why I can’t continue out the door. Except maybe to have another drink for some liquid courage.

“Rylan! Come on!” Malia calls.

My steps speed up again, this time determined.

Aidan Phillips doesn’t own this damn school.

Technically, this is home turf for me. He can’t accuse me of trespassing this time. If I want to go to a party with my new roommates, I will. I’ll get to know Malia and Chloe better, and maybe I’ll even meet a guy who will make me forget that night. I’m clearly incapable of shoving it out of my mind myself. It’s been three days since I found out his real identity, and I’ve thought about it triple that. At least.

The light-hearted teasing as we walk down the street is almost enough to make me forget about my apprehension. I missed this, the easy banter of inclusion. Ironic—and sad—that I feel less excluded around Malia and Chloe, who’ve been best friends since meeting freshman year, than I did around Walker’s friends or the haughty crowd that made up most of my fellow abroad students.

The tension has totally left my body by the time we reach the end of the block, or maybe that’s just Chloe’s cocktail taking effect.

Either way, I’m mostly excited as we approach a house with a white clapboard exterior. The walk took less than five minutes.

Whoever Logan is, he or she was right; the house is packed.

Once we shove our way through the front door, we take an immediate right. The living room is crowded, clustered groups standing around laughing and talking. The air is thick and warm, flavored by the scent of sweat and vape smoke.

Malia spots some friends and peels off to say hello. Chloe continues into the kitchen, and I stick with her.

Even more people are crammed into here, close to the alcohol, a sea of unfamiliar faces. I can barely see the counters or the cabinets, just a mass of people.

“Want a drink?” Chloe asks once we’ve pushed through to the center island covered with an assortment of bottles.

More like shouts, really. The music is even louder in here than it was in the living room.

I nod.

At the very least, holding a red cup will make me feel like less of an outsider. I finger the suede of my sleeve, wishing I’d left behind a jacket like Chloe and Malia opted to. Now that we’re inside, I can feel the prickle of sweat under my arms and in the small of my back.

Chloe hands me a drink, then starts mixing her own.

I shout “Thank you,” then take a tentative sip. It’s good. Just vodka and ginger ale, I think. The bubbles almost erase the burn of alcohol.

I relax more, propping a hip against the counter. Slip off my jacket and toss it over one arm, then take a longer pull of my drink.

“Phillips!” someone calls out.

I choke, ginger and condensation burning my throat and making my eyes water.

Fuck.

I cough, then take another sip.

My posture tenses as my heart rate picks up.

My focus remains on Chloe, watching as she adds ice to her cup, resisting the strong urge to glance around the kitchen and look for him.

I have no clue how Aidan might react to seeing me here. Ignore me? Avoid me? Ask me to leave? Point me out to the entire team as the coach’s daughter?

I regret the way our last conversation ended, even if I was right. I checked the team stats, and Aidan is in the solid middle for goals scored this season. But I didn’t need to bring that up. I should’ve kept my mouth shut and stuck with my plan of pretending he doesn’t exist unless I’m actively tutoring him. The satisfaction of calling him out wasn’t worth the inevitable awkwardness during our next tutoring session or, even worse, tonight.

As his tutor, I can claim to have a vested interest in his grades. How he performs on the ice is my dad’s problem.

“Cheers!” Chloe taps our cups together before we both sip.

“Let’s go back to the living room,” I suggest to Chloe, leaning closer to her so that she can hear me over the loud music.

I’m already getting a headache from the heavy beat and the smoke that the booze won’t help.

I steal a look at Aidan as we leave the kitchen. He’s easy to spot—talking with a tall guy I’d wager is another hockey player, grinning broadly as he waves his arms around animatedly to emphasize whatever he’s saying.

The motion stretches the T-shirt he’s wearing tight across his muscular chest, and I’m not the only one noticing the impressive definition beneath.

Everywhere I look, girls are checking Aidan out.

Including Chloe.

“That’s Aidan Phillips,” she whispers to me as we walk into the living room. “He’s the campus playboy. Goes through girls like tissues, but you’ll still have to wait in line for a turn. Although…” She smirks. “I’ve heard it’s worth waiting in.”

It is, I think, then quickly take another sip to wash away the thought.

I figured Aidan was popular. I didn’t realize that meant he’d screwed most of campus.

Skills like his come from a lot of experience, I guess. I’m surprised he even remembered our hookup. Sounds like he’s probably been with a dozen girls since.

Do you have to pick between incredible sex with a womanizing player or mediocre sex with a guy you’re dating? God, I hope not, but it turns out those are the only kinds I’ve experienced, so maybe.

And I resent Aidan for shattering the illusion of what I thought sex was supposed to be like, only to turn out to be a notorious ladies’ man who is apparently renowned for his bedroom talents. I would have much, much preferred he remained an anonymous memory.

I’m also realizing Chloe does not fall in the category of not knowing Holt has a hockey team and that I should probably tell her my dad coaches the team before it seems like knowledge I was withholding.

We run into a group of girls in the living room that she knows from her nursing major before I can bring it up, and we pause to say hello.

One of them is Logan. I try to focus on remembering the rest of their names, knowing I’ll probably only retain a couple of them. It’s not as noisy in here as it was in the kitchen, but it’s still awfully loud. And I can feel the distinctive warmth of alcohol spreading through me, scattering my focus.

I lose interest in the conversation once all the introductions are complete, since they’re discussing people I don’t know.

I sip my drink and pretend to be interested in the fireplace.

A few minutes later, there’s a fresh wave of activity in the front of the living room.

“That’s Conor Hart,” Chloe tells me, leaning closer to whisper. “The captain of the hockey team.”

I watch an extremely good-looking, dark-haired guy push his way through the crowded living room, headed toward the kitchen. He’s holding hands with a stunning redhead, who leans in and says something that makes Conor laugh. It’s not until they reach the opening that leads to the kitchen that I realize Aidan has appeared there.

I’m not worried about him catching me staring this time—everyone is looking in that direction. From the way all the attention is focused their way, I’m clearly looking at the popular crowd.

Aidan does one of those guy handshakes with Conor, then hugs the redhead. Conor pulls her back into his body and leans down to kiss her possessively, resulting in a few disappointed sighs around me.

“Dammit,” one girl says.

“I told you,” another girl replies. “He took her to the banquet.”

I guess Aidan wasn’t lying about the purple sweatshirt belonging to Conor’s girlfriend.

Based on what Chloe just told me, Aidan goes through girls too quickly to end up with any of their belongings in his car.

It makes me feel a lot less guilty for taking off right after our hookup.

Her friends head into the dining room to play a drinking game, but Chloe sticks with me. It turns out I might have hit the roommate lottery, living with her.

Which means I really need to tell her about my dad’s job. Thankfully, no one in any of my classes has mentioned the hockey team. But Chloe is clearly interested in the sport—one might say slightly obsessed, considering she’s pointed out two players in the short time we’ve been here.

The team’s first home game since I started here is tomorrow. I’m guessing Chloe will be going, and the longer I avoid telling her about my dad, the weirder it’ll be.

“Should we grab refills?” Chloe suggests. “Then go replace Malia?”

I glance around before answering, hating that I’m letting Aidan dictate my movements, but also anxious to avoid him.

He’s still standing in the opening. Conor and his girlfriend are gone, but Aidan isn’t alone. There’s a beautiful blonde standing very close, her boobs brushing his bicep as she stands on her tiptoes to whisper something to him.

“Um…” I stall on answering Chloe.

Aidan is half-blocking the entrance to the kitchen. There’s no way to pass him and remain incognito. And while he’s hopefully too focused on the blonde’s cleavage to notice anyone walking by, I’d rather not gamble.

“How about we go check out the scene in the dining room instead?” I suggest. “You can have the rest of my drink, if you want.”

“No, it’s fine. I should slow down, anyway. I didn’t drink that much over break. Let’s go.”

Chloe links our elbows, then starts to pull me toward the dining room.

And I make the mistake of looking at Aidan again, right as he glances this way.

Our eyes lock, and it feels like all the oxygen in the room has suddenly been sucked away. Breathing becomes impossible, my lungs stalling with surprise and uncertainty.

He’s about a dozen feet away, and there’s at least that many people separating us. But somehow, he captures my full attention as totally as he did that night when it was just the two of us.

I’m expecting his gaze to drop, his attention to return to the beautiful girl by his side.

Instead, he says something to her without looking away from me and then heads in this direction. I focus on Chloe, silently praying he’s spotted someone else behind me.

No such luck.

A few seconds later he’s here, smoothly cutting us off. Chloe lets out a shocked “Oh” before coming to an abrupt stop and forcing me to pause too.

The first time I’ve seen her speechless, and it’s occurring at the worst possible time.

“Hi.” Aidan winks at me, which does alarming things to my stomach. Then glances at Chloe. “Hey, I’m Aidan. Nice to meet you.”

“Hi. I’m Chloe.” Chloe’s voice has turned shy and soft, eons away from her usual bubbliness.

And I have a sudden, unpleasant vision of Aidan leaving my house tomorrow morning, fresh from fucking my roommate. Maybe he came over here to flirt with Chloe, and I was just his in to talking with her.

“Having fun?” He’s looking at me now. “Rylan.”

I hate how he says my name. Hate how it affects me, specifically. How it seems like I can feel the syllables brushing against my skin. How he’s saying so much more than one word.

Chloe glances at me, and I know she’s wondering how I know him. Wondering why I didn’t mention knowing him earlier.

There’s nothing worse he could have said, since having fun is something I’m historically terrible at. For some reason, it feels like he knows that. Can tell that. Depressing, considering he’s the person I’ve let loose most with. Most wasn’t enough, I guess.

“I’m helping Aidan out with a math class this semester,” I tell Chloe, avoiding his gaze and ignoring his question.

I don’t mention it’s one he previously failed, since that seems like his own business. I might be confused and irritated about him coming over here, but I’m not that petty.

“Are you a math major?” Chloe asks Aidan.

I cover up the laugh that wants to appear with a snort.

Aidan doesn’t look fooled. The question is especially ironic after our last conversation.

“Nah. Business.”

“Oh, that’s cool. I’m studying nursing.”

Aidan nods. “Nice.” He glances at me. “See you.”

Then he’s gone, disappearing into the crowd as quickly as he came over.

Chloe looks to me. “What was that about?”

I shrug, then shake my head. “I barely know him.”

That’s true, at least.

We make it into the dining room, which I doubt is ever used for eating. Watch several rounds of Flip Cup, followed by a few games of beer pong. Chat with some more people whose names I immediately forget. Drain my cup.

It’s almost midnight by the time I tell Chloe I’m headed out. I’m exhausted from forcing smiles and pretending to enjoy myself. Everyone else appears to be having a blast, and everyone else seems to know each other.

I’ve given up on mentioning London, just saying I transferred from BU if anyone asks. None of the guys who approached me incited a fraction of the effect Aidan’s wink had. I hate that that was my metric tonight…but it was. Most were wasted and their main contribution to the conversation was staring at my boobs. I’m not that desperate to replace Aidan Phillips as the last guy I had sex with. Not yet, at least.

Chloe offers to walk home with me, then insists I text her when I’m home after I tell her to stay and have fun.

Definitely hit the roommate lottery. I could have gotten abducted in Boston, and my parents probably would have been the ones to report me missing.

There are even more people here now than when we first arrived. I have to forcefully push my way through the loud crowd, releasing a relieved sigh when I step out onto the front porch into blissful silence and empty space. The colder air feels nice too.

“Leaving already?”

I spin to the left, my hand flying up to clutch my racing heart. “What the fuck, Aidan?”

“What? I’m not allowed to talk to you? That’ll make tutoring more challenging.” He’s alone out here, slouched against the railing that wraps around the porch with his ankles crossed. His eyes roam my body, making my skin prickle with awareness. It’s an adrenaline rush, having his full attention on me. A thrill I fight to hide. “I guess we could just make out the whole time.”

He’s drunk. Maybe. Probably. I don’t know him well enough to tell for sure. But he’s holding a red cup identical to the empty one I abandoned inside, so I doubt he’s sober.

I blow out a long breath as I slide my arms into the sleeves of my jacket, attempting to look unaffected by the prospect of kissing him again. Since I’ve had two drinks, it’s harder than it should be. I watch the tiny cloud of air disappear into nothingness as I zip up my jacket.

“You’re not allowed to sneak up on me,” I tell him. “Scary shit happens to people who aren’t six foot hockey players.”

“I’m six foot three. And I’m just standing on a porch, Alice.”

“Don’t call me that,” I snap.

He smirks before taking a sip from his cup. “What’s up with Rylan, anyway?”

“Why’s that my name, you mean? Probably a better question for my dad. I wasn’t consulted about the choice.”

Aidan nods. “Yeah, I’ll make sure to ask him before our game tomorrow.”

I scoff, then answer his question for some stupid reason. “I was supposed to be a boy named Ryan, after my grandfather. He passed away a couple of years before I was born. Turned out I wasn’t a boy, so my parents got creative. It’s old English, technically. Means ‘land where Rye is grown.’”

“You learn that in London?”

“Yes, actually.”

He smiles, looking pleased he guessed right. “Do Brits also bail before midnight?”

“I wouldn’t know. Didn’t party much there.”

“Is that why you left?”

I shake my head, shoving my hands into my pockets. “The program was only a semester. Just delayed the inevitable.”

“This was the inevitable?” Aidan asks. His expression has shifted to appear somber and probing, totally different from the playful smirk he was wearing earlier.

I have no clue why he cares. Why he’s bothering to make conversation or why he’s standing out here alone instead of irritating someone else with his company.

I’m also unsure why I’m still standing here, talking, when I should be halfway home by now.

“Aidan! Aidan!”

I glance at the front walk.

Two laughing girls are stumbling up it, both of them fixated on Aidan.

One is wearing a long fur coat and a pair of heeled boots, the other has a dress on that’s partially covered by a leather jacket. Their outfits scream glamorous and mature.

I push my hands deeper into my pockets, second-guessing my own clothes that now seem plain in comparison. Like casual funeral attire, bleak and boring.

Aidan turns his head toward the girls as they climb the front steps, one corner of his mouth turning up as the girl in the fur coat saunters straight toward him. Her arms loop around his neck, then she smacks a loud kiss on his cheek.

“I missed you over break,” she tells him, smiling widely before she steps back and glances at me. “Hi!”

“Hi,” I reply, trying to sound as normal as possible.

Not at all insecure or taken aback. She seems nice, and that makes me feel worse for immediately disliking her simply for coming over here. I should be relieved she’s occupying Aidan’s attention. That the green spotlight of his stare has shifted.

“You coming inside soon?” Fur Coat asks Aidan, trailing her manicured fingers down the center of his chest. “I was hoping we could…hang out.”

It’s obvious she’s suggesting more than talking. I wonder what happened to the blonde he was with earlier. She’d better claim her spot in line fast, before the new arrival cuts in.

“I’ll be in soon,” Aidan says, not moving from his spot on the railing.

She pouts, but nods. “Soon,” she emphasizes.

Fur Coat and her friend hurry inside, no doubt freezing in their trendy outfits. I’m not that warm, either, eager to get home and go to sleep.

I take a step toward the stairs, able to leave now that they’re no longer blocked.

“I finished the assignment,” Aidan tells me. “Got at least a ninety.”

“We’ll see.” It’s highly unprofessional of me, considering my job is to help him do well, but I’m hoping he loses our bet.

He smirks like he knows exactly what I’m thinking. “I live across the street, you know.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Why would I know that?”

Aidan runs a hand through his short hair. I try and fail not to notice the way his bicep bulges with the motion. “Yeah…I forgot. It’s just kinda common knowledge on campus.”

“Well, thanks for sharing. I was dying to know your address. Next time I leave town, I’ll send you a postcard.”

He rolls his eyes. “We could go over there and hang out.”

I blink at him, totally stunned and more than a little flattered. I’d be lying if I said walking in on Walker with someone else didn’t affect my confidence when it comes to sex. Aidan’s obvious interest that night—the way he acted like it was as incredible for him as it was for me—is the only thing that’s helped heal that wound.

The guy obviously has no shortage of female attention, and he’s propositioning me.

Again.

“You’re seriously asking me if I want to hook up with you?”

Aidan takes another drink from his cup, then lets it dangle carelessly from his fingertips.

There’s no confusion or uncertainty on his face, just confidence. He doesn’t look wasted, but that seems like the only logical explanation for the turn this conversation has taken.

I thought we’d get through the remaining tutoring sessions with the minimum amount of interaction possible. Not have a conversation at a party that ended up here.

“Went well last time,” he tells me.

“That was a onetime thing. I didn’t know who you were.”

“And who am I, Rylan?” he asks, sounding very serious all of a sudden.

Too serious.

Too intense.

Too unlike the carefree playboy he’s appeared to be all night. The carefree playboy he is, according to Chloe.

I don’t like that I might be responsible for the switch.

“My dad is your coach,” I remind him. “You don’t see how that would be kind of awkward for me? For you, if he found out?”

Aidan shrugs. “You’re an adult. Are you really going to let your dad determine who you hook up with?”

“No, I’m not. And I’m not interested in hooking up with you, either.”

Aidan doesn’t look the least bit dissuaded. “We already slept together, remember?”

“Thank you for the reminder. It was pretty forgettable.”

He grins, and my stomach flips. “You’re lying.”

He’s right; I am.

I’ve also spent way too much time thinking about that night in Colorado since it happened.

Two things I’ll never admit to Aidan.

“You’re not my type,” I tell him.

That’s a truth, at least. Arrogant hockey players—let alone arrogant hockey players coached by my dad—have never appealed to me.

His smirk only grows. “Not everyone has good taste.”

At least he doesn’t bring up Walker again. Historically speaking, he’s right about that too. My taste in guys hasn’t been great.

“I’m not interested,” I bite out. “Is that another concept you’re unable to understand, in addition to anything related to Stats?”

Instead of looking offended, Aidan still appears amused. Where was this tolerance when I mentioned his hockey stats?

“Maybe. We should have our next tutoring date in my bedroom, and you can explain to me what not interested means.”

I shake my head.

He’s tenacious, I’ll give him that. If he applied half this much determination to academics, he wouldn’t need a tutor in the first place.

“Our tutoring sessions will all be taking place in the library.”

“Right. I forgot you have a thing for semi-public sex. A bed is too boring for you.”

At that, I almost laugh. Before meeting Aidan, my sex life was dimmed lights under the covers. Another thing I have no intention of admitting to him.

“How many girls?” I ask.

A wrinkle forms between his eyes. “What?”

“Since that night we hooked up. How many girls have you slept with?”

Aidan looks away, but not before I catch the spasm of annoyance on his face.

He obviously just realized I’ve heard the rumors about him. Something I expected him to look proud of, instead of annoyed by. His stats off the ice are much more impressive than the ones on it.

“You have lots of other options,” I remind him. “Go flirt with one of them.”

I turn and walk away.

Seconds later, the sound of footsteps follows.

I spin back around, staring at Aidan accusingly. “What the hell are you doing?”

He abandoned his cup on the porch. I watch him shove his hands into his pockets. The move emphasizes the muscles lining his forearms, since he’s not wearing sleeves.

I guess I replace one thing about arrogant hockey players appealing.

“Walking you home,” he answers.

Why? I want to ask. Why is he extending our encounter? Why is he talking to me at all? I’m not used to being the girl who guys chase. They express interest if it’s convenient, if I’m sitting next to them in a class or standing nearby at a party. But no guy has ever walked me home, especially after I just shot him down.

“You’re not wearing a jacket,” I say, instead of asking for an explanation.

Aidan shrugs. “I play hockey, remember? This is nothing.”

“You don’t need to walk me home. It’s not that late, I live two blocks away, and I have my phone.”

“Okay,” he says.

“Okay,” I repeat, then keep walking.

When the footsteps behind me start up again, I’m not sure whether to be touched or angry. It’s sweet, I guess, that he cares about me getting home safely. Except, I’m guessing it’s motivated by the same reason as he told me on Tuesday night—my dad. And it pisses me off that he’s willing to ignore who my father is if it means getting laid, but refuses to trust I’m capable of making my own choices in other circumstances.

If I didn’t feel comfortable walking home alone, I would have asked Chloe or Malia to leave with me. Texted my mom like I did a few times back in high school. Called Campus Security. I grew up in Somerville, and while terrible things can happen anywhere, the crime rate here is extremely low.

I glare at Aidan’s stupidly symmetrical profile as he falls into step beside me. Curl my fingers around the house key in my left pocket, not even wincing when the rough metal edge digs into the sensitive skin of my palm.

He walks closer to the curb even though I’m already closer to that side, crowding me until I have to either move closer to the front yards we’re passing or risk colliding with him. At first, I think he’s just trying to provoke me, but then he says, “Your ex didn’t have any manners outside of bed either, huh?” and I realize why he took that spot.

He waited to drive off until I got inside the other night too.

Anyone else, I’d probably replace the chivalry charming. Because it’s him, it’s maddening.

“You are so annoy—”

“Six,” Aidan says conversationally, cutting me off.

“What?”

He glances over, his expression unreadable. “You asked how many girls I’ve slept with since you. Six.”

“Oh,” is all I can think to say. I have no witty response.

Did I ask him that? Yes.

Was I expecting him to actually answer? Absolutely not.

“Higher or lower?”

“What?” I say, again.

“Is six higher or lower than you were thinking, based on what you’ve heard about me?” His tone is even but there’s a flinty undertone, like he’s realized I was judging him earlier.

I’m honest. “Lower.”

His expression stays neutral as he nods, with the exception of a muscle that jumps in his jaw.

“Which is fine,” I tack on, wishing I could just rewind and not ask him anything related to other girls in the first place.

Absolutely none of my business, which I wish is what he’d told me instead of a concrete number.

Aidan snorts.

We’re only a block from my house now.

My steps quicken as soon as I spot the brown paint ahead. I’ve given up on talking him out of walking with me. Now I’m just trying to get this trip over with as quickly as possible.

“What about you?” he asks.

My stomach flips, guessing his meaning but playing dumb and walking faster. His longer legs keep up easily.

“What about me?”

“How many guys have you slept with since we hooked up?”

“Not really any of your business, is it?”

“No, it’s not. Who would ask such an invasive, personal question?” His sarcasm is so heavy I can feel it weighting the night air around us.

“Zero,” I mutter.

At least that answer shuts him up.

Temporarily.

“Because of your ex?” he asks.

“No. Because I just…haven’t.”

My personal policy of not having sex with strangers in hot tubs is more of a pattern of not having sex with strangers…ever. At the very least, I’ve known the guy’s last name.

Finally, we reach the edge of my front yard. “Night, Aidan,” I say, before heading for the house.

“Night, Rye,” he calls after me.

I glance back. “Ry? You gave me a nickname?”

“It’s not a nickname. Calling you ‘Land where Rye is grown’ is just too wordy.”

Knowing he memorized the definition I gave him is worse than him simply shortening my name. What happened to him being arrogant and self-absorbed?

“You really didn’t need to walk me home.”

I should just say thanks, but the one word won’t come out. I’m fighting any indication he’s a decent guy for selfish reasons. He can’t be a sex god and considerate, or I’ll have a much harder time forgetting him.

He shrugs. “I’ve heard crazy shit happens to people who aren’t six foot hockey players.”

“Six three,” I say.

His grin makes me wish I hadn’t mentioned his correction earlier. He’s not the only one who paid close attention during our conversation, I guess.

I turn and hurry toward the door.

Not because I’m in a rush to walk away.

Because I’m scared I might do something really stupid—like invite him inside—if I stay.