Or maybe it’s embarrassment making her fidget. I didn’t think Brenna Jensen was capable of feeling embarrassed, though. Or defeated. She’s usually so tenacious, but for the first time since we met, it seems like all the fight has gone out of her.

“Has he always been so strict?” I ask.

“Yes, but it’s not all on him. I kind of gave him cause to assume the worst when it comes to me.”

The cryptic remark sparks my curiosity. I want to push for details, but her guarded demeanor isn’t a promising indication that I’d receive any answers.

“Jake,” she starts. “I don’t know when or if we’ll get to see each other again.”

I frown. “Why’s that?”

“Because…” Her gaze finally shifts from her feet to my face. “It’s too complicated. I don’t know when my apartment will be ready, and as long as I’m living here I can’t have you sneaking in and out. And I can guarantee my father won’t approve of this.”

“Why, because I play for Harvard? He’ll get over it.”

“It’s not even that. He’s not going to approve of anyone after—” She stops, shakes her head, and starts again. “It doesn’t even matter anymore. You helped me out with Mulder, and I stuck to my end of the bargain.”

“Bargain?” I echo darkly.

“You wanted a real date. You got one. We hooked up a couple times, gave each other some orgasms. So let’s call it a successful fling and move on. What’s the point of keeping it up, anyway? It won’t go anywhere.”

I want to argue, but at the same time I know she’s right. I’m leaving town in the summer. And right now I need to focus on this game against Briar, and then, if all goes well, the first round of the national tournament. And if that pans out? We’re looking at the Frozen Four.

Brenna is a distraction. And the irony of that does not escape me. A few weeks ago I was lecturing McCarthy about this same issue. No, I was lecturing all my guys about their vices, ordering them to shelve everything until the season was over.

And yet here I am, getting tangled up with Chad Jensen’s daughter. When she texted me earlier about that ridiculous whipped-cream bullshit? Instead of staying at the Dime with my teammates or tracking down Heath and Jonah to reprimand them, all I could think about was how I hadn’t kissed Brenna in days. And what did I do? I borrowed Brooks’s car and drove all the way to Hastings like a lovesick loser.

Maybe she’s right. Maybe we do need to cool it.

But I don’t want to, dammit. So I voice the sentiment. “I want to keep seeing you.”

“That’s great, Jake. But I just told you, I’m done.”

Frustration rises in my chest. “I don’t think you mean it.”

“How about you don’t tell me what I mean or don’t mean?” Sighing, she walks over to the window ledge and picks up my boots. “It’s time for you to go.”

“Are you sure your father isn’t going to pop out of the shadows?” I ask warily.

“He won’t. He might be a jerk sometimes, but he won’t cause a scene in front of a stranger.”

A stranger. Once again I feel a prick of hurt, which is irritating. I’m Jake Connelly, for chrissake. My feelings don’t get hurt, and I only give a damn about one thing: hockey. I shouldn’t care what Brenna thinks of me.

We creep out of her bedroom. Light spills out from under a door at the end of the hall. I assume Coach Jensen’s room. Luckily, the door remains closed. On the way downstairs, my socked foot connects with a step that creaks so loudly it’s like the entire house is groaning in displeasure. I hear ya, house. I’m not too happy right now, either.

In the front hall, I slip into my Timberlands and lace them up. “You really don’t want to see each other anymore?” My voice is slightly hoarse, and not because I have to whisper.

“I…” She drags one hand through her tousled hair. “I can’t deal with this right now. Just go, Jake. Please.”

So I go.

22

Jake

Hazel comes with me to Gloucester on Saturday morning to visit my folks. On the train ride up, she does most of the talking. I try hard to pay attention, because we haven’t hung out in a while, but my mind is elsewhere. It’s back in Hastings, at Brenna’s house, replaying that entire night.

I don’t understand the weird tension between Brenna and her father. She admitted to being a bad girl, but I can’t help but wonder—what on earth did she do to earn his complete distrust? Did she murder the family pet?

She’s been ignoring me for three days, and my ego has officially taken a dive. Four unanswered messages? This has never happened to me before. Meanwhile, we have one week until the conference finals, and my head is all over the place. I’m not worried about the exhibition tonight and tomorrow for the Boston Cancer Society, because it’s not about a win or a loss; it’s about helping a good cause. But I definitely need to get my shit together before next week.

“Oh, and you know who’s getting married,” Hazel is saying.

“Hmmm?”

“Are you even paying attention to me?” she demands.

I drag the back of my hand over my face. I had such a shit sleep last night. “Yeah,” I say absently. “You said you’re getting married—wait, what? You’re getting married?”

“No, not me. I’m not getting married, you dumbass.” She rolls her eyes and shoves a strand of dirty-blonde hair behind her ear.

Her hair is down, I suddenly realize. She usually braids it or has it in a ponytail. “Your hair’s down,” I blurt out.

A faint blush reddens her cheeks. “Yep. It’s been down for the last forty minutes.”

“Sorry.”

“What’s going on with you? Why are you such a space cadet today?”

“I’m thinking about the game this weekend.” Her skeptical expression tells me she doesn’t buy that, so I don’t give her the chance to follow up. “So who’s getting married?”

“Tina Carlen. She was a year behind us in school.”

“Petey’s sister?”

“Yep.”

“Wait, how old is she?”

“Twenty.”

“And she’s getting married? Did you get an invite to the wedding?”

“Yep. You probably did, too. You never check your email.”

My jaw falls open. “They sent e-vites for their wedding?”

“Millennials, am I right?”

I snicker.

The train rolls into the station ten minutes later, and then we’re on our way to my parents’ house. “Mom’s going to be thrilled to see you,” I tell Hazel as we approach the front stoop.

“Did you tell her I was coming?”

“No. I thought it would be a fun surprise.”

I’m not wrong. Mom is overjoyed when she spots Hazel in the entryway. “Hazel!” she exclaims, throwing her arms around my childhood friend. “I didn’t know you were coming! What a great surprise!”

Hazel hugs her back. “It’s so good to see you, Mrs. C.”

“Hang up your coat and come see what we’ve done with the family room! We completely redecorated.” She grabs Hazel’s hand and ushers her away. A moment later, they’re in the family room, where Hazel is pretending to like all the changes. I know it’s an act, because Hazel’s always been a tomboy. My mom’s flowered wallpaper and frilly curtains are way too feminine for her liking.

“Jake.” My father appears in the kitchen doorway, his dark hair messy as usual. “Sorry I wasn’t here last weekend, but I’m sure glad to see you today.”

“Good to see you, too.” We exchange the manliest of greetings: a combination of side hug, shoulder slap, and handshake.

I follow him into the kitchen. “Coffee?” Dad says.

“Yes, please.”

He pours me a cup, then goes to the fridge and starts pulling out ingredients. “I’m on breakfast duty today. What do you think about omelets?”

“Sounds great. Need any help?”

“You can chop up this stuff.” He gestures to the array of vegetables on the counter.

I find a cutting board, grab a knife, and start chopping. On the other side of the kitchen island, Dad cracks eggs into a ceramic bowl.

“So I was watching a segment on HockeyNet last night,” he says as he whisks the eggs. “Top ten most promising rookies for the upcoming season. You were number two.”

“Who was number one?” I demand. Because fuck that. Not to toot my own horn, but the last player out of college who came even close to my stats is Garrett Graham, and he’s killing it in Boston.

“Wayne Dodd,” Dad says.

I relax. Acceptable. Dodd is a goalie for one of the Big Ten schools. He’s an excellent player, but the goalie position requires a whole other set of skills. I might be number two, but technically I’m number one in the forward position. I can live with that.

“Dodd has a mean glove,” I say. “I saw one of their televised games, and he looked terrifying.”

Dad narrows his eyes. “Think you might face him in the Frozen Four?”