But I should know better by now.

“Sorry, it’s just funny sometimes.” Chuckling, he swirls the ice cubes in his glass. “You know, hearings hockey stats and breakdowns coming from a woman. It’s cute.”

It’s cute?

A red mist washes over my vision. Attitudes like that are the reason why women still face massive roadblocks when trying to break into sports journalism. It’s a historically sexist profession, and even now there really aren’t that many established female sports journalists. It’s not for lack of talent—it’s because of men like this, who think vaginas don’t belong in sports.

“Stats knowledge is one of the many talents Brenna brings to the table,” Jake says roughly.

Ed Mulder completely misconstrues that. I know Jake wasn’t trying to be sleazy, considering he went out of his way to include me in the hockey talk. But Mulder’s brain operates on a different level.

“I bet she does,” he drawls. He leers at my chest for several fist-inducing seconds before winking and clapping Jake on the shoulder.

Jake stiffens.

I grit my teeth, pressing my balled fists to my sides. This man is such a pig. I want nothing more than to smack him across the face and tell him to shove his internship up his ass.

Jake sees my face and gives a slight shake of the head. I force myself to relax. He’s right. I wouldn’t be doing myself any favors by causing a scene.

From the doorway, Mulder’s wife consults with the caterer before turning to address the group. “Dinner is served!”

15

Jake

Last summer I tagged along with Brooks and his parents to Italy for a couple weeks. The Weston family owns a villa in Positano, one of the wealthier regions on the Amalfi Coast. The coast was stunning, but Brooks and I explored other areas as well, including Naples and Pompeii and the infamous Mount Vesuvius. I imagine living anywhere near a volcano would be insanely stressful. I’d constantly be shooting wary glances at it, wondering when it was going to erupt—and knowing it can erupt. Knowing it has the power to wipe away an entire civilization, because it happened to Pompeii.

Tonight Brenna is that volcano.

The amount of times that steam has practically rolled out of her ears is almost comical. I’d laugh at her barely checked rage if it didn’t match my own.

Theo Nilsson is a cool dude, but the Mulder brothers? Not so much. Ed, in particular, is the supreme jackass that Brenna claimed he was. He cuts his wife down at every chance. He’s rude to the catering staff. And worst of all, he’s dismissive of Brenna and every word she says.

On the bright side, dinner is fantastic. I love to eat, so I’m all about this menu: fried scallops, stuffed cod cakes, roasted cauliflower. Jesus. And the pan-roasted white fish that serves as our entrée is to die for. Though if it were up to Brenna, Ed Mulder would be choking on his fish and dropping dead at the table.

“How long have you and Jake been together?” Lena Nilsson asks Brenna.

My fake girlfriend manages to find a smile for Nils’s wife. “Not long at all. Just a few months.”

“We started dating at the start of winter semester,” I supply.

“And how does her father feel about that?” Mulder says with a chuckle.

Her father. Rather than pose the question to Brenna herself, he asks me, and I notice Brenna’s fingers tighten around her fork. She looks like she wants to take that fork and stab Mulder in the eye with it.

Instead, she answers for me. “My father doesn’t know.”

His eyebrows sweep upward. “Why’s that?”

“We’re keeping the relationship under wraps for now. Our hockey teams have been competing against each other all year, and now we’ll be facing off in the conference championship.” Brenna reaches for her crystal water glass. “We decided it was best not to make waves at the moment.”

I look around the table with a grin. “So I’m sure it goes without saying, but on the off chance you run into Coach Chad Jensen, don’t mention you saw me with his daughter.”

Lena smiles broadly. “That’s so romantic! Forbidden love.”

Brenna tenses at the L-word. I wink at my soon-to-be-teammate’s wife and say, “The best kind.”

“Lindsay, these centerpieces are gorgeous,” Karen Mulder remarks, changing the subject. “Did you make them yourself?”

Mulder’s silent, elegant wife nods demurely. I get the feeling she doesn’t talk much. I also get the feeling that’s the way Mulder prefers it.

“They’re beautiful,” Brenna agrees, eyeing the three stained-glass bowls that contain an array of fresh flowers and sprigs of baby’s breath.

“It’s flowers,” Mulder cracks. “Hardly deserving of this fanfare.”

His brother Dave guffaws.

“Ed,” Lindsay says tightly, and it’s the first time she’s conveyed any negative emotion toward her husband. Any emotion at all, frankly.

“What?” He polishes off the rest of his white wine. “It’s a centerpiece, sweetheart. Who cares? It amazes me the crap that you deem important.”

Brenna puts her fork down. I see her nostrils flare, her lips part, and I slide my hand under the table to cup her thigh.

Her mouth closes. She turns toward me, but I can’t decipher her expression. Meanwhile, her thigh is warm and firm beneath my palm. I can’t help myself. I give it a slight caress.

Brenna bites her lower lip.

I hide a smile. Then I stroke her thigh again. I wish I could stroke other parts of her, too. That tight sweater looks so good on her, and my fingers are itching to play with her tits.

Fuck me. I’m desperately hoping this night ends with a hookup. That’s why I asked for a real date, because I’m wildly attracted to her and want nothing more than to sleep with her. The last few times I’ve seen her, my body has responded on a primal level.

And I’m not even hurting for sex, for chrissake. I fooled around with a chick from Boston College last week. We met at a party, hit it off, and she offered me a ride home and proceeded to suck me off in her car. Afterward, we found ourselves in the backseat, and judging by the stars in her eyes when I finally lifted my head from between her legs, I think she was pretty satisfied.

I thought I was satisfied, too. But I’ve been horny as hell ever since Brenna showed up at the Dime in her sexy halter top and grinded all over my teammate. And then the indecent dress she wore to Danny’s metal show? Christ. I’m aching for this girl.

For the rest of the dinner, we mostly discuss hockey. Brenna wasn’t kidding—Ed Mulder is obsessed with the Oilers and knows everything about them. Over dessert, he goes on and on about the most recent draft, grilling Nils about the latest picks and what Nils thinks of all the new talent.

Although I feel bad about it, I start paying more attention to Mulder than Brenna.

Her accusatory gaze bores into my cheek as Mulder, Nils, and I dissect the incoming rookie class. But I pretend not to notice her displeasure, because, hell, this is my career, too. I’m literally having dinner with my future teammate. Of course I’m going to give him priority.

Brenna’s volcanic anger is beginning to feel almost stifling, while the Oilers details that Nils is spilling are energizing and interesting as hell. Maybe it makes me an ass, but my attention is becoming increasingly focused on the good stuff about my future, rather than the bad shit about Brenna and Mulder.

The girls I dated in high school constantly accused me of being selfish and obsessed with hockey, but what’s wrong with that? I’ve worked my entire life to become a professional hockey player. I haven’t led women on or made them any promises. I’m always clear from the get-go that hockey is my main focus.

So when Mulder suggests we retire to his den for after-dinner drinks, I’m faced with a decision. I can tell that Brenna doesn’t like the segregation of the sexes, and I don’t blame her. This isn’t the olden days.

But Theo Nilsson is gesturing for me to come along, and this is a man I’ll be skating with in the fall, and at the end of the day, I’m a selfish prick.

So I follow him.

“You’re pissed,” I say.

“Whatever do you mean, Jake? Why on earth would I be pissed?”

The sarcasm is strong with this one, my friends.

And I completely deserve it. I spent more than an hour in Mulder’s man-cave tonight. Now it’s ten o’clock and we’re outside waiting for our car, and Brenna refuses to even look at me.

“Oh, I know!” she continues, scorn dripping from her tone. “You mean because I was banished to the sitting room with the other women, where we clutched our pearls and fainted a whole bunch just so we could wake each other up with smelling salts?”

“That is super fucked up. Is that what you think they did back in the day?”

“They may as well have!” Her cheeks are flushed with anger. “Do you realize what a slap in the face that was? Watching you waltz off to talk about sports with the man who’s interviewing me for a position in sports?”

Remorse ripples inside me. “I know.” I let out a breath. “I knew it was a dick move when I did it.”

“And yet you did it anyway.” Her eyes blaze. “Because you’re a dick.”