The Risk (Briar U)
: Chapter 19

By Wednesday, I haven’t heard so much as a peep from anyone at HockeyNet. Granted, Ed Mulder didn’t say when the internship slots would be filled. I suppose it could take weeks, but I’m impatient for news.

Even though I know I didn’t impress him, a part of me is still clinging to hope that I have a shot. And fine, maybe hope is for fools. But I guess that makes me a fool.

Dad’s still at the arena when I get home after a long day on campus. The Briar boys had weight training this morning, and ice time this afternoon, so I don’t expect my father until six or seven.

I make dinner. Nothing fancy, just spaghetti and a Caesar salad. I eat my share in front of the TV, watching highlights on HockeyNet. Which is super irritating, because whoever put this clips package together didn’t include some of the best parts of last night’s Bruins game. I could do a way better job compiling a good reel. I hope I get the chance.

There I go, being foolish again.

My phone buzzes on the coffee table, revealing a text.

JAKE: Can I call you?

Oh boy. The little spark of excitement that tickles my belly is alarming. We spoke on the phone last night, too, mostly about said Bruins game, since we were watching it at the same time.

I won’t deny that our bowling date was a lot more fun than I expected. The orgasm was equally unexpected. I didn’t plan on fooling around with Jake. I thought I had more willpower than that, but the guy is irresistible. Even now, days later, I’m still thinking about it. His fingers inside me, his hot mouth glued to mine… Connelly is very good at what he does. I’d wanted nothing more than to make him feel good, too, until that phone call from Eric.

Each time I think I’ve made myself clear, that I’ve set firm boundaries with him, Eric reveals another level of persistence. And I don’t feel right being a bitch to him, ordering him to leave me alone, because our history holds me hostage.

History is bullshit.

Jake’s words, the thoughts he’d expressed at O’Malley’s, float through my head. History is bullshit. And trust me, I would love to put the past behind me. Unfortunately, that’s easier said than done.

At least this time Eric wasn’t making demands of me—he followed the call up with a text, apologizing for asking for money. But that doesn’t matter. It killed the mood as effectively as rain snuffing out a candle.

On the other hand, I’d been seconds away from having Jake’s dick in my mouth, so maybe Eric did me a favor. Saved me from blowing THE ENEMY.

But if I’m being honest, it’s been a while since I thought of Jake in that context.

Once I finish my dinner, I reach for my phone. “Your crush on me is getting out of control, Jakey,” I say after he picks up.

His deep laughter tickles my ear. “Don’t flatter yourself, Hottie.”

“You just called me Hottie—that is literally you flattering me.”

“True.” Another chuckle. “What are you doing right now?”

“Had an early dinner, and now I’m watching HockeyNet highlights.”

“Still no word from Mulder?”

“Nope.”

“What about Agent Scully?”

I snicker. “You’re hilarious. Did you have class today?”

I’m still amazed by the knowledge that he’s majoring in psychology—I found that out last night during our very long phone call. Before that, I’d assumed he was a communications or broadcasting major, like most other athletes.

“No, Wednesday is my day off. I usually use it to catch up on reading, clean the house, that kind of stuff. Any big plans tonight?”

“Not sure. I might grab a drink with Summer, do a girls’ night. You?”

“Grabbing some drinks, too. The boys and I are hitting the Dime tonight.” He pauses. “I’d invite you to join us, but you’d say no…right?”

“Duh. I can’t be spotted out in public with Harvard players. It’s bad enough that one gave me an orgasm last weekend.”

“I think you might be exaggerating this rivalry,” Jake says, humor in his voice. “Do your Briar boys hate us that much?”

“Oh, they absolutely hate you. Brooks, in particular. They don’t like his style of play.”

“They don’t like it because it works.”

“Really? So you’re telling me you’re perfectly cool with all his trash-talking? With all the penalties he draws and provokes? With how rough he is?”

“It’s part of the game,” Jake replies. “Even I do that shit. To a lesser extent than Brooks, sure, but I trash-talk and provoke with the best of them. And don’t kid yourself, babe—your boys do it, too. I’ve heard the filth that comes out of their mouths on the ice. That Hollis guy says shit about my mother all the time.”

“Is he any good at talking shit? Because he’s terrible with pick-up lines.”

“How would you know that?” I can almost hear Jake’s scowl.

“That boy’s been hitting on me since the day we met.” I don’t mention my drunken hookup with Hollis, because it’s completely insignificant. “Anyway, heckling is different than playing dirty,” I point out.

“Brooks never crosses the line.”

“Sure he does. He draws the line wherever he wants and then decides whether or not to cross it.”

“How is that exclusive to Brooks? Everyone has their own lines, right? And we all decide which ones we’re not willing to cross.”

“Fair enough.” Curiosity bites at my tongue. “What’s your uncrossable line? What is the one thing Jake Connelly absolutely refuses to do?”

His response is swift. “Sleep with a friend’s mom. I’m never doing that.” He stops. “Well, again.”

I burst out laughing. “You slept with a friend’s mother? When? How?”

“It was one hundred percent a Stifler’s mom situation,” he says sheepishly. “I was a senior in high school, and one of my teammates threw a huge kegger at his place. I got wasted, stumbled upstairs in search of a bathroom, and wound up in his mom’s bedroom by mistake.”

I’m hit with a wave of uncontrollable giggles. “Was she wearing a negligee? Smoking one of those long cigarettes like Audrey Hepburn?”

“No, she was actually wearing a tracksuit. It was bubble-gum pink, and I think it said Juicy on the butt.”

“Oh my God, you fucked the mom from Mean Girls.”

“No idea who that is.”

I laugh harder, wiping tears from my eyes. “I can’t believe you fell prey to a cougar.”

“What’s wrong with that? She was hot, the sex was hot. Good times.”

He’s completely unfazed by my mockery, and that’s one of the things I’m grudgingly starting to like about him. He possesses a steely confidence that I genuinely admire. Nothing rattles this man. He’s so sure of himself, of his masculinity, his skill. Jake Connelly doesn’t have an insecure bone in his body.

“Wait, if it was so hot, then why would you never do it again?” I demand.

“Because it cost me one of my best friends,” he says glumly, and I realize that he is capable of being rattled. “What about you? What’s your most embarrassing hookup story?”

“Hmmm. I don’t know.” I think it over, but even if my brain had conjured up a crazy Stifler’s mom-esque scenario, I wouldn’t be able to reveal it because a car door slams from outside. “Ugh. My dad’s home,” I tell Jake.

“I still can’t believe you’re living at home again. Has there been any news about your apartment?”

“My landlords pumped all the water out, and now they’re bringing in a cleaning crew. Hopefully it won’t be much longer.” I hear the key turn in the lock. “I gotta go now. We’ll talk later.”

Later? a little voice taunts.

Oh boy, this is bad. Getting to know Jake shouldn’t be an item on my agenda.

“Wait,” he says roughly. “When’s our next fake date?”

I have to smile. “Fake date?”

“Yeah. When do we need to pull the wool over Mulder’s eyes again?”

“Um, most likely never? It’s not like we’ve been invited to do anything else.” I wrinkle my nose. “Why do you even want to?”

“Because isn’t that the arrangement? A real date for a fake one? And I want a real one.”

My heart skips a beat. “You just want to have sex with me.”

“Yes. Badly.”

At least he’s honest. “Well, I think the fake-date ship has sailed, I’m afraid.”

His voice thickens. Husky and endearing. “What about the real-date ship?”

My teeth dig into my bottom lip. Then I take a breath. “I think that one might still be in the harbor.”

“Good. Let’s try to do something this weekend? Maybe after the charity games?”

Dad’s footsteps near the living room. “We’ll figure it out. I have to go now.”

I hang up as my father enters the room. “Hi,” he greets me. His absent-minded gaze flicks to the television.

“Hey. There’s dinner in the microwave. You just need to nuke it.”

“Perfect. Thanks. I’m starving.” He turns on his heel and marches into the kitchen.

“How was practice?” I call out.

“Davenport was throwing an attitude,” he answers from the other room, and there’s no mistaking his displeasure. “I don’t know what’s going on with that kid.”

“Maybe it’s girl trouble. I heard he’s going through the puck bunnies like hotcakes.”

Dad appears in the doorway, running a hand over his buzz cut. “Women,” he mutters. “Always the root of this shit.”

“Actually, I meant that Hunter was being the obnoxious one and using the bunnies to deal with his own issues. But, cool, blame everything on us, the evil demon women.” I roll my eyes. “I hope you didn’t say this kind of stuff to Mom.”

“No,” he says gruffly. “Your mother wasn’t a demon. She had her issues. But we all do.” He gives me a pointed look, but then the microwave beeps and he turns to get his dinner.

I’m glad that he leaves the room. I’m so tired of seeing his harsh judgment. He’s never going to let me forget my mistakes.

I wonder how other people cope with the knowledge that their parents are ashamed of them. The weight of my father’s shame has been pressing down on my shoulders for years, and I’ve yet to replace a way to deal with it.

The girls’ night that Summer and I anticipated doesn’t pan out. We walk into Malone’s to replace Hollis, Nate, and Hunter at the bar. When they spot us, Nate suggests grabbing a booth, and it’s impossible to say no in the face of Nate’s dimples. So we pile into a booth near the pool tables, where Hollis announces we’re doing shots.

“After today’s practice, we all need it,” he says darkly.

I give a wave to Jesse Wilkes and his girlfriend, Katie, who are shooting pool at one of the far tables. Katie waves back enthusiastically.

“That was brutal,” Nate agrees.

I shift my gaze back. “Yeah, my dad said there was some tension today.” I fix a knowing look at Hunter.

“Aw, is Coach trashing me behind my back?” he mocks.

“I’m pretty sure whatever he said to me, he also said right to your face. I know my father, and he doesn’t mince words.”

“Oh, Coach reamed him out good today,” Nate confirms, his eyes twinkling.

“What’d you do to deserve it?” I ask Hunter.

He shrugs. “I was ten minutes late.”

“I think he was more pissed that you had a chick in the locker room,” Hollis argues.

My jaw drops. “You brought a girl into the locker room? Don’t tell me he caught you two hooking up?”

Hunter shakes his head irritably. “Dude, it was so harmless. I crashed at her place last night and she dropped me off at the arena, wanted a quick tour of the facility. Which is what made me late for practice.”

“What chick is this?” Hollis asks. “The one from Jesse’s party? Or Pierre’s cousin who’s visiting from Montreal?”

“Wow, look at you, Hot Stuff,” I crack. “It’s a veritable girl parade in the life of Hunter.”

He grins at me. “Who doesn’t love a good parade?”

“I love parades,” Hollis agrees. “When I was a kid we lived in San Francisco, and the Pride parade there was so—” He stops when his phone lights up. He whips it to his ear. “You can’t call me every five minutes, Rupi. That’s not how life works.”

When her high-pitched voice ripples out of the phone, I bury my face against my forearm and start to laugh. Beside me, Summer is giggling.

“What do you want to do, put a GPS in my phone? I’m with the guys, okay?” He pauses. “Brenna and Summer are here, too.” He pauses again. “If you’re so fucking concerned, come and hang out with us. I invited you.”

He did? He’s inviting her places now?

“Then get a fake ID!” he growls. “You know what? I don’t care if you’re mad. There. I said it. I don’t care. You’re always mad about something and it’s driving me insane.”

And yet oddly enough, I don’t hear a trace of genuine hostility in his tone. It almost seems like he’s into this toxic tornado we inadvertently—okay, deliberately—placed in his path.

“Fine…” He halts every few seconds to listen. “Fine… Fine… Fine… Nope, I will not. Nope, I’m not gonna apologize. You can come here if you want. I’m not coming to see you. Bye Felicia.”

He hangs up.

My eyebrows shoot up. “Did you hang up on her?”

Hollis ignores me. His brawny shoulders hunch over as he frantically types on his phone.

“Texting her?” Nate guesses dryly.

“Apologizing for saying ‘Bye Felicia,’” Hollis mumbles, except the phone rings in his hands and he picks it up again. “I told you, I can’t talk right now. I’m sorry I said ‘Bye Felicia,’ but seriously. Bye Felicia.”

He hangs up and instantly starts texting again, I assume to apologize for the second “Bye Felicia.”

Nate glances around the booth. “This is my new favorite thing in the world. Is it just me?”

Summer is still tittering like crazy. “It’s a train wreck and I love it.” She tosses her blonde hair over her shoulder before sliding out of the booth. “I’m going to change up the music. Actually, I’ll order our drinks while I’m up. What are you in the mood for?” she asks me. “Tequila? Fireball?

“Vodka,” I decide.

Nate makes a gagging noise. “Girls and their vodka.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, do you require something yummy and fruity for your delicate palate?” I ask in a polite tone.

Hunter snickers.

“Vodka shots for the booth,” I tell Summer.

As she bounces off, I don’t miss the way Hunter’s eyes linger on her ass. Summer can rock a pair of skinny jeans like nobody’s business.

“Still have a thing for her, huh?” I say, nudging his arm.

“No.” He sounds completely truthful.

“Really?” I frown. “So why are you being such a dick to her?”

“I’m not being a dick to her. I’m just living my life, Brenna.”

“By boning a different girl every night?”

“So what?” He rests his muscular arms on the tabletop and clasps his long fingers together. I like his hands. He might be acting like a jackass lately, but he does have good hands. “I’m in college. If I want to sleep around, then I’m allowed to sleep around.”

“Of course. But did you know there’s such a thing as sleeping around and also not being a dick to your friends?”

“I’m not being a dick,” he repeats. “But I’m also not going to pretend that Fitz didn’t make a complete fool out of me. I asked him if there was something going on with them, and he flat out said no. And then he let me ask her out on a date, all the while knowing she was into him. And then on the date, she left in the middle of dinner and went home to have sex with him.” Hunter chuckles softly. “But somehow I’m the asshole?”

“He’s got you there,” Nate says.

Yes, I can’t deny Hunter has a point. But I’m Summer’s friend, and I know she didn’t intentionally set out to hurt him.

Hunter’s hand curls over my shoulder. “Move over. I gotta get out of here.”

“Don’t leave on my account.”

He rolls his eyes. “I’m hitting the head.”

After he disappears in the crowd, Nate scoots into Hunter’s spot and slings his arm over my shoulders. “So what do you think about the finals? Any tips on how to stop Connelly?”

I falter. Why would I have tips about how to stop Jake? I study Nate’s expression. Does he know I went out with Jake this weekend? Did somebody see us?

“Why are you asking me?” I mutter.

“Because you know your hockey?” he prompts. “Because you’re currently living with Coach and I’m sure he’s making you watch hours and hours of game tape?”

Oh. Talk about paranoid. “Yeah, he is,” I admit.

“So give me some ammo we can use against Harvard.”

“Well. I don’t know if anyone told you this, but…Jake Connelly is really fast.”

Nate snorts and tweaks a strand of my hair. “Gee, I was completely in the dark about that. Someone told me his nickname was Lightning, but I assumed it’s because he’s into storms.”

A laugh flies out. “I heard he’s an avid storm chaser.” My voice turns serious. “In all honesty, Connelly is sort of unstoppable. He’s the best college player in the country.”

“Thanks,” Nate grumbles.

“Look me in the eye and tell me you think you’re better than him.”

After a beat, Nate scowls at me. “Fine. He’s the best college player in the country.”

“All you can do is try and slow him down. As for Brooks Weston, just don’t fall into his trap.”

“Easier said than done.” Hollis rejoins the conversation. “When you’re hopped up on adrenaline and that asshole is taunting you in the faceoff? You want nothing more than to clock him one.”

“It’s true,” Nate agrees. “He’s such a prick.”

“Who’s a prick?” Summer asks, returning to the booth.

“Brooks Weston,” I reply. “You know, your best friend.”

“He’s not my best friend. We just went to high school together.”

Hollis lobs an accusation at her. “You partied with him a couple times this year.”

“So?”

“See this, folks?” Hollis points his index finger at Summer. “This is the face of disloyalty.”

“Who is he talking to?” I murmur to Nate. “Are we the ‘folks’?”

“I think so?”

“Oh my gosh,” Summer exclaims when Hollis starts texting again. “That girl has you completely whipped. You know you don’t have to keep texting back, right?”

“Oh really.” His blue eyes gleam in challenge. “Do you want that hurricane blowing into our house and yelling at me all night?”

“What do I care? She wouldn’t be yelling at me.”

“Oh reeaallly,” he repeats, dragging out each syllable this time. He waves his iPhone around. “All it takes is one text from me saying you said something nasty about her, and she’ll be blowing up your phone.”

Summer pales. “Don’t you dare.”

“That’s what I thought.”

Our waiter brings over the vodka shots, but we don’t drink until Hunter comes back. He flops down beside me and reaches for his glass. We all raise our shot glasses, even Hollis, though his gaze keeps darting to his phone. Whipped, all right.

“Here’s to crushing Harvard in the finals,” Nate toasts.

The vodka burns a fiery path down my throat on its way to my belly. Whew. I forgot how potent vodka is for me. For some reason, it’s the liquor that hits me the hardest.

“Ugh, that tastes like ass,” Hollis whines. “I hate vodka. And I hate this song. Is that what you picked?” he asks Summer, as Taylor Swift’s “Shake It Off” starts playing in the bar.

“What’s wrong with T-Swift?” she protests. “We love T-Swift.”

“No, we don’t love T-Swift,” he reminds her. “We love Titanic. We love the Kardashians. We love Solange. But we sure as hell don’t love T-Swift—”

He’s interrupted by the arrival of Jesse and Katie. Jesse’s in his hockey jacket, and Katie is wearing a spring coat, so I assume they’re coming over to say good night. Instead, Jesse address Nate in an outraged tone. “Come outside. Right now.”

I’m instantly on guard. You don’t usually hear the younger guys barking orders at their team captain.

“Everything okay?” Summer asks in concern.

“No. Come see this.” Without another word, Wilkes spins around and stomps toward the door.

I glance at Katie. “What’s going on?”

She simply sighs and says, “You don’t mess with a boy’s car.”

Uh-oh.

When our group steps outside, Jesse is already ten yards away, his black-and-silver jacket flapping in the evening breeze. Even if I didn’t have him as a point of reference, I’d still be able to pick out his car.

It’s the one that looks like a fluffy, white marshmallow square.

“Oh boy,” Summer murmurs.

Jesse’s car used to be a black Honda Pilot. Now it’s completely white, thanks to the shaving cream. Or maybe it’s whipped cream? When we reach the car, I dip my pinkie into the white substance and bring it up to my nose. Smells sweet. I pop the finger in my mouth and confirm that we’re dealing with whipped cream.

“Those Harvard fuckers did this,” Jesse announces, his features creased with anger. “And we can’t let them get away with it. I’m driving out there.”

“Absolutely not,” Nate commands.

The sophomore’s eyes flash. “Why not? They can’t mess with my property!”

“It’s a stupid prank, Wilkes. If you drive out to Cambridge and throw a tantrum, or worse, if you retaliate with a dumb prank of your own, then we’re stooping to their level. And we’re better than that. We’re grown men.”

Jesse’s face is tomato-red. He doesn’t resemble a grown man right now. He’s a nineteen-year-old-kid whose car was vandalized. I get it. It sucks. But Nate is right. Retaliation is never the answer.

“How do you know it was Harvard?” I can’t help but ask.

Jesse thrusts a piece of lined paper into my hand. “This was sticking out of the windshield wipers.”

Summer peers over my shoulder as I unfold the note. I suppress a sigh, because the message couldn’t be any clearer.

Can’t wait to cream you in the finals!