The Risk

My lips curve slightly. “Good game, Connelly.”

I see him fighting a smile. “Thanks, Jensen.”

Summer steps out of Weston’s embrace. “So,” she tells him. “Looks like your penalty provoking didn’t work too well in the second and third.”

“Yeah, the refs got meaner after the Jonah thing.”

“The Jonah thing?” she echoes, poking Brooks in the center of his chest. “It was more than a ‘thing’! He broke Hunter’s wrist!”

“It was an accident,” Brooks protests.

As they argue, a familiar face catches my eye. It’s the girl from the Coffee Hut—Jake’s friend. Hazel, was it? She’s moving through the crowd, scanning faces until her gaze suddenly collides with mine. Then she notices Jake standing two feet away from me, and a frown mars her face.

I tense in anticipation of her approach, but for some reason she stays rooted in place. Interesting. Didn’t she proclaim herself Jake’s closest friend and confidante?

I arch a brow in her direction. Her frown deepens.

As I break the eye contact, my peripheral vision snags on another familiar figure. I turn to see my father emerging from the corridor. Unfortunately, his arrival is perfectly timed with that of Daryl Pedersen.

Uh-oh.

The two coaches exchange a few words as they fall into step with each other. Dad is stone-faced, as per usual. He nods at something Pedersen says. I can easily guess their exchange—the usual good game, thanks, some fake camaraderie. But as they get closer, I distinctly hear Pedersen say, “Nice try.”

I’m not sure what he means, and I guess Dad is also stumped, because rather than walk away, he stops. “What do you mean by that?”

“You know exactly what I mean. Solid effort with the tricks.” Pedersen chuckles. When he notices me standing near Jake, his eyebrows flick up, and a little smirk forms on his lips.

A sick feeling swirls in my stomach.

Since my father doesn’t think rationally when it comes to the Harvard coach, he digs his feet in, his stance aggressive. “What tricks?” he asks coldly.

“I’m just saying, your plan to distract my star player didn’t work.”

From the corner of my eye, I see Jake frown.

“I didn’t expect that of you, though.” Pedersen shrugs. “Not the Chad I know, that’s for sure.”

Jake steps closer to me, and it feels almost like a protective gesture. My father doesn’t notice, however. He’s too busy glowering at Pedersen. The interaction has drawn a small audience, mostly comprised of Briar players.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” my father says irritably.

“I’m sure you don’t.” Pedersen laughs again. “But it’s nice knowing you’re not above pimping out your own daughter.”

Oh my God.

Silence descends, like dead air in a live newscast. My pulse races, and I’m pretty sure my blood pressure has dropped, because I’m feeling light-headed.

Dad glances at me for a second, before directing a glacial stare at his nemesis. “As usual, Daryl, you’re talking out of your ass.”

The other man cocks a brow. “To be honest, it was extremely satisfying being proven right. I’ve always suspected you’re not the honorable, rule-abiding martyr you present yourself as. The pillar of honesty and integrity, right?” Pedersen rolls his eyes. “Always thought it was an act. And while I’m glad to know the level you’ll stoop to, for chrissake, Chad. Your daughter setting up a honey trap for Connelly? I get that you hate me, but come on, that move was beneath you.”

Pedersen stalks off, leaving my father and the rest of our audience to absorb the impact of his accusation. Several seconds of silence pass.

Summer is the first to address the issue. “Bee?” she says uncertainly. “Is that true?”

And suddenly all eyes are on me and Jake.

31

Brenna

Twenty-four hours after the shit show that was the conference finals, I’m still dealing with the fallout. My anger over Daryl Pedersen’s actions hasn’t abated in the slightest. That spiteful dickhead didn’t need to drop that bomb and certainly not in public. After he did that, the Harvard players followed him, my dad ushered the Briar boys onto the bus, and I drove home with Summer, who was visibly hurt that I’d kept her in the dark about me and Jake Connelly.

But at least she’s still talking to me. My father hasn’t said one word to me since last night. I genuinely don’t know if he’s pissed or simply indifferent. I’m definitely not confused about how Nate and the others feel, however.

The guys are outraged. Hollis called me a traitor last night. Nate, still sore about being ejected from the finals, was livid that I would even dare to be with a Harvard guy after the bullshit Jonah Hemley pulled during the game. And when I got home from Cambridge, Hunter bitterly texted me: Wrist’s broken in 2 places. Thank your boyfriend for me.

They’re being babies. I’m well aware of this. But these babies are still my friends, and they dealt with a brutal loss yesterday. A loss that might not have occurred if Jake’s teammate hadn’t instigated Hunter’s and Nate’s ejections.

Doesn’t matter that Jake himself wasn’t responsible. He’s the Harvard captain, he’s the enemy, and I’m an asshole for “choosing him over us”—Hollis’s words, not mine.

“I still can’t believe you don’t trust me.”

Summer’s unhappy voice echoes in my ear. I’m lying on my bed staring up at the ceiling, trying to ignore my rumbling stomach. I’d hoped Summer’s phone call would distract me from the hunger, but no such luck. Sooner or later I’ll have to drag myself downstairs to find something to eat. Which means having to face my father, who’s been holed up in the living room all evening.

“I do trust you,” I assure her.

“Do you really?” she says doubtfully.

“Of course. But like I said in the car last night, I didn’t want to risk it. You’re the girl who tells her boyfriend everything, and that’s fine, at least most of the time. But tensions were already running high between us and Harvard, especially after that dumb prank on Jesse’s car. I just didn’t want to take the chance that you might tell Fitz, at least not before the finals. But the game’s over now, and Harvard’s moving on. There’s no reason to hide it anymore.”

“I guess that makes sense,” she says, albeit grudgingly. After a few beats, she changes the subject to Hunter. “I can’t believe that jerk broke Hunter’s wrist.”

“I know.”

“And all because Hunter’s been banging everything in a skirt lately. If he hadn’t slept with that girl, we might’ve won the game.”

“He didn’t know she had a boyfriend,” I point out.

“I know. But still. Why are men so stupid?”

“I honestly don’t know.”

There’s another pause. “So is Jake Connelly your boyfriend?”

“No.” I can’t stop a grin, because I’ve been waiting for this cross-examination since last night. I think Summer was too hurt over being left out of the loop to properly question me about Jake. Now that her feelings aren’t stinging anymore, Detective Di Laurentis is back on the case.

“Have you slept with him?”

“Yes.”

“How was it?”

“It was good.”

“Just good?”

“It was very good,” I amend.

“Just very good—”

“I’m not doing this anymore, you brat,” I interrupt.

“Sorry.” The interrogation resumes. “So you slept with him. And you’ve been sneaking around with him for years—”

“It has not been years,” I grumble.

“But since my fashion show?” she presses.

“Yeah, around then.”

“Do you like him? Wait, why am I even asking. I know you do.” Her voice is growing more and more excited by the second. “I think this is great, by the way. I mean, he’s insanely attractive—I could stare at him for hours and hours.”

I try not to laugh. “Glad you approve?”

Her tone becomes serious. “I do, you know. Approve.”

“You’re the only one.”

“They’ll get over it.”

We chat for a couple more minutes. After we hang up, my stomach grumbles again, and I decide it’s time to bite the bullet and go downstairs. I can’t avoid my father forever. Plus, I’m famished.

I know he hears me descending the stairs because of the horrible creaking, but he doesn’t turn around as I reach the doorway. He’s watching HockeyNet, and since yesterday’s game aired on the network, they’re not only showing highlights of it, but Kip Haskins and Trevor Trent are actually discussing the game on their show.

Or rather, arguing about it.

“There’s fighting in the pros,” Kip is grumbling. “I don’t see why the NCAA is so severe about it.”

“Because these are kids,” Trevor points out.

“Are you kidding me? Some of these guys are older than actual NHL players!” Kip argues. “Toronto has an eighteen-year-old on their active roster. Minnesota is starting two nineteen-year-olds. Those boys are thrust into a high-stakes violent environment and they’re able to handle it. And what, you’re telling me twenty-one and twenty-two-year-old college men are too delicate to throw a few punches and—”