Our driver turns off Cambridge Street and slows down in front of a row of tall brownstones. Man, what I wouldn’t give to live in one of those townhouses. They’re old and oozing with charm, most of them still retaining their original historical features. With its mature trees and gas streetlights, Beacon Hill is one of the most scenic neighborhoods in the city. And it’s impossibly quiet considering it’s splat in the middle of Boston. Coming here is like stepping back in time, and I love it.

“Here we are,” the driver says.

Jake leans forward and touches her shoulder. “Thanks, Annie. Enjoy the rest of your night.”

“You, too, Jake.”

I’m trying not to roll my eyes as we exit the car. I guess they’re best friends now. For some reason, the way Jake seems to get along with everyone rubs me the wrong way. It’s hard to think of him as THE ENEMY when faced with evidence that he might be a decent guy.

“Your face is a bit green,” Jake remarks as we climb the front stoop. “I thought you had balls of steel.”

“I do,” I mutter, but he’s right. I’m beyond nervous. I chalk it up to the two very terrible encounters I’ve already had with Mulder. “I don’t know. I just feel sick that I have to try to impress this jackass.”

“No one’s forcing you to,” he points out.

“I want this internship. That leaves me no choice but to impress him.”

I ring the doorbell, and two seconds later the door swings open to reveal a woman clad in black pants, a black shirt, and white apron. I doubt it’s Mulder’s wife, because I see another woman in an identical outfit hurrying toward a doorway I assume is the kitchen.

“Please come in,” she says. “You’re the last guests to arrive. Mr. and Mrs. Mulder are entertaining the others in the sitting room.”

Oh brother, they’re one of those couples? I suppose we’ll all congregate in the sitting room before being ushered into a dining room and the men shall retire to the study while the women do the dishes. Seems like a Mulder move, for sure.

“May I take your coat?” the woman prompts.

Jake slips out of his and hands it over. “Thank you,” he tells her.

I unbutton my pea coat and slide it off my shoulders. I hear a sharp intake of breath, and glance over to find Jake’s admiring gaze on me. “You clean up nice, Jensen,” he murmurs.

“Thanks.” I couldn’t very well wear my usual all-black attire, so I chose a tight gray sweater, black leggings, and cute brown suede ankle boots. My makeup is subtle and I feel naked without my lipstick, AKA, my armor. But I wanted to look classy tonight.

I don’t know what to expect as we approach the sitting room. Will it be an older crowd? Younger? And how many people?

To my relief, there aren’t many. The dinner party consists of Mulder and a pale-skinned woman at his side who I assume is his wife. Then there’s an older couple in their forties, and a younger couple in their twenties. The younger guy seems familiar, but it isn’t until Jake whispers in my ear that I realize who it is.

“Holy shit, that’s Theo Nilsson.”

Nilsson is a defenseman on the Oilers, whose humble nature and Nordic good looks have made him popular with fans and foes alike. Unfortunately, he’s out for the rest of the season with a leg injury.

“I heard he’s originally from Boston, but I didn’t realize he was in town,” Jake murmurs. “This is awesome.”

When Mulder notices us lurking in the doorway, his face lights up. “Jake Connelly!”

I swallow my displeasure. And what am I, chopped liver?

“So glad you could make it!” Mulder exclaims. “Come in, come in. Let me introduce you to everyone.” He gestures for us to come closer.

Introductions are quickly made. The pale woman is Ed’s wife, Lindsay. Her eyebrows are so blond they’re almost white, and her hair is arranged in a severe twist at the nape of her neck. She greets us with a wan smile. Next there’s Nilsson, who goes by “Nils,” and his wife Lena, who has a heavy Swedish accent but speaks perfect English. The older couple rounding out the group is Mulder’s brother David and sister-in-law Karen.

“It’s an honor to meet you,” Jake tells Nils, sounding a wee bit star struck. “I’ve been following your season. I hated seeing you go out like that.”

“That game was so hard to watch,” I say sympathetically. Hockey injuries are par for the course, but it’s not very common for someone to break their leg on the ice. “It looks like you’re doing better, though.”

The blond man nods. “Cast came off a couple weeks ago. Now I’m starting the physio, and dear Lord, it is brutal.”

“I can imagine,” I say.

Nils glances at Jake. “I was watching the draft when you went in the first round. We’re excited to have you on board next year.”

“I’m excited to be there.”

For the next few minutes, Jake and Nils discuss the Oilers organization. The Mulder brothers are quick to join in, and it isn’t long before the men slowly ease away from the women toward the wet bar near the grand piano.

Seriously?

The women are relegated to two loveseats near the stately fireplace. Frustration burns my throat as I watch the men talk hockey, while halfheartedly listening to Karen chat about the new yoga studio she recently discovered in Back Bay.

“Oh, the Lotus!” Lena Nilsson gushes. “That’s where I’ve been going now that we’re back in the city. The instructors are wonderful.”

“How long are you in town for?” I ask Lena.

“Until Theo has to report for training camp. I wish we could stay forever. I’m never excited about going back to Edmonton.” Lena’s bottom lip sticks out. “It’s a very cold place.”

The ladies keep chatting, and I have absolutely nothing to contribute to the conversation. I stare longingly at Jake, who’s involved in an animated discussion with Nils. He must sense my gaze on him, because suddenly he glances over. I see understanding dawn in his eyes. Then he says something to Nils before waving to me. “Babe, come here and tell them your conspiracy theory about Kowski and the refs.”

“Excuse me.” I gratefully hop to my feet and hope that Lindsay and the others aren’t offended by my obvious eagerness to escape their company.

Ed Mulder doesn’t look thrilled by my arrival, but Nils greets me warmly. “Conspiracy, eh? To be honest, I’m starting to wonder the same thing.”

“There’s no other explanation,” I answer. “Did you see the clip from yesterday? The ref was clearly watching that play and decided not to call a foul. And honestly, every time they discount an infraction, it’s such a disservice to Kowski. He’s fast, but he can’t showcase his speed because he’s constantly being knocked around without any repercussion to the guys doing the knocking.”

“I agree,” Nils says, shaking his head incredulously. “It’s downright bizarre. The ref—was it McEwen? I think it was Vic McEwen—he had a perfect line of sight to Kowski and the Kings winger who cross-checked him.”

Mulder sounds annoyed as he joins in. “Kowski initiated contact.”

“It was typical puck protection on his end,” I counter. “Meanwhile, the resulting check could have resulted in a serious head injury.”

“But it didn’t,” Mulder says, rolling his eyes at me. “Besides, injuries come with the job, right, Nils?”

I stifle my annoyance.

Nils responds with a shrug. “For the most part, yes. But I agree with Brenna about Kowski. There’s a difference between normal contact and the kind of contact that can give you brain damage.” He gives Jake a wry smile. “Still want to come play with us next season knowing a ref might allow you to get murdered?”

“Absolutely.” No hesitation from Jake, though he follows it up with a rare display of humility. “I just hope I don’t disappoint you guys.”

“You’re going to kill it,” I say firmly, because I truly believe he will. “I bet you you’ll be the youngest player ever to win the Art Ross.” That’s the trophy for the most points in a season, previously won by legends like Gretzky and Crosby.

“Babe. That’s a lot of pressure,” Jake grumbles. “I’d be happy if I got an assist or two.” Then he smirks, displaying the familiar Connelly confidence. “Or a Stanley Cup.”

Nils raises his glass. “I’ll drink to that.”

“You guys are definitely due,” I tell them. “The Oilers haven’t won a cup since, what, the 1989 season? Not since the Gretzky era.”

Nils nods in confirmation. “You know your hockey.”

“We went to the finals in ’06,” Jake points out. He pauses. “Lost, though.”

And what followed was an eleven-year playoffs drought, which is embarrassing when you consider that more than half the teams in the league make it to the playoffs. I don’t mention that particular statistic, however. I wouldn’t dream it, not in front of an Oilers superfan, an Oilers active-roster player, and a soon-to-be Oilers rookie.

Speaking of the superfan, I feel Mulder’s gaze on me, and I turn to find him wearing a shit-eating grin. My first thought is that he’s impressed.