I snicker.

Dean sets his jaw. “I’d never beat up Logan for you, Allie-Cat. He’s my BFF.”

“I thought Garrett was your BFF,” she taunts.

“I thought I was your BFF,” I whine.

He sighs. “Jesus fucking Christ, you’re all my BFFs, okay?”

“Hey, where’s Hannah?” I ask, referring to Garrett’s girlfriend, Hannah Wells. The last time I was in the WAGs box, she was also present.

“Holy shit, did you not hear about Wellsy?” Dean demands.

“What about her?”

“You know how she’s been working with that famous producer? The one who’s also worked with Rihanna and Beyoncé and a bunch of other huge names?”

“Yeah, but I thought she wasn’t making her own music. Isn’t she writing songs now?”

“She is,” Allie confirms. “And one of her songs is going to be performed by—get this! Delilah Sparks! They’re in the recording studio as we speak, laying down the track. Hannah says it might actually be the single on Delilah’s next album.”

“Wow. That is impressive.” It’s really cool seeing what everyone’s been doing after college. Dean teaching and coaching. Allie on TV. Hannah rubbing elbows with superstar recording artists.

But…and maybe this is just the little boy in me…for me, watching Garrett and Logan skating in a packed TD Garden, representing our city, trumps everybody else’s careers.

All I ever wanted was to play professional hockey. It was my childhood dream. When I first told my parents that dream, I think Dad was pissed, because in his mind he’d been grooming me since birth to work for his company and eventually take it over. But when it turned out I was really damn good and had a more than realistic shot of making a shit ton of money as a pro hockey player, suddenly Dad was on board, encouraging my budding career.

So, yes, I wanted it. Badly. But then… I changed my mind. I realized that the NHL lifestyle is not for me. It’s too decadent, too destructive if you’re not careful, and I truly don’t know if I trust myself to be part of it.

Still, knowing I won’t be down on that ice one day doesn’t take away from the excitement of watching my friends skate. Everyone in the box is cheering their lungs out, and a wave of screams rocks the room when Garrett creates a rebound that lands on Logan’s stick. Logan snaps it up and scores his first goal of the season. Grace is on her feet, screaming herself hoarse, her face shining with pride.

I wonder if I’ll ever find a woman who looks at me like that. A woman who, when presented with “speed bumps” in our relationship, works with me to smooth them out instead of simply driving away. I might not want a girlfriend this very second, but I can’t deny that I hope to find something—no, someone—real in the future.

On the other hand, some relationships are total shit. I mean, look at Demi. She’s head over heels for her boyfriend, and he’s going around getting his dick wet at frat parties.

And I still haven’t told her the truth. I had all day to do it, for chrissake. We sat together in Abnormal Psych this morning. We spent an hour in the car together on the way up here. Yet every time I opened my mouth to tell her, I couldn’t get the words out.

I’ll say something on the drive home tonight. I have to.

I’m just going to suck it up, blurt it out, and let the chips fall where they may.

Like a coward, I wait until the last possible second to broach the subject with Demi. After picking her up from her parents’ house, I let her chat for the entire drive home, nodding and smiling while internally gathering my courage. The last time I found myself in a situation like this, it blew up in my face like a grenade. Every fiber of my being wants me to keep my mouth shut, but I like this girl, and I think she deserves to know.

I guess I’m not a great actor, because Demi finally calls me on my behavior as I turn onto the main road toward campus.

“Okay, what is up with you?”

“Nothing,” I lie.

“I’d think I was boring you, but I know for a fact that I am not boring. I’m a fucking excellent conversationalist and I just told you a story about the time I met Gigi Hadid in South Beach AKA the best meet-cute of the century.”

I crack a smile. “You’re certainly not boring,” I agree.

“So why are you acting weird?” Demi sounds aggravated.

“I…” Inhale. Exhale. Here goes. “I need to tell you something, and I’ve been debating all day whether or not to do it.”

“What is it?”

“Uh.”

Silence commences.

“Okay. Cool. Great chat, bro!”

I quickly backtrack. “You know what, it’s not important.” It’s none of my business, I tell myself. Whatever Nico’s doing is his own business.

“I’m joking,” she insists. “Tell me what going on.”

“Uh.”

Silence recommences.

“Come on, Monk, am I going to have to beat it out of you?”

“I’d like to see you try.”

“I’m a lot stronger than I look.” She frowns. “Are you really not going to tell me?”

“Nico,” I blurt before I can stop myself.

And I instantly want to punch myself in the face, because Demi is like a shark that just caught a sniff of blood.

“What about him?” she demands.

“Nothing.” Goddammit, why did I even bring it up? And why is it taking so long to reach Greek Row? I need an escape plan, ASAP.

“Hunter,” she says sharply.

“Fine. Just…don’t shoot the messenger, okay?” I release a quick breath. “I ran into him at a party this weekend at the Alpha Delta house. Saturday night?”

Demi toys with one of her hoop earrings as she thinks about it. “He went out with his work friends Saturday night. I thought they were in Hastings, but I suppose they could’ve gone to that party.”

“They were definitely there. I don’t know if it was with the work buddies or not, but Nico was there. He and I even spoke.”

“Okay. So he went to a party. Big deal.”

“That’s not all he did.”

Her features sharpen again. “What do you mean?”

“I mean I saw him upstairs with some chick.”

Once again, silence falls over the car. Shit. I should not have brought this up at all.

“All right,” she says slowly. “You saw him with a girl. What were they doing?”

“They were exiting a bedroom.”

“Were they naked?”

“Well, no, they were both fully clothed. But…” I don’t want to say it, but I force myself to spit it out. “He was zipping up his pants.”

“Oh.”

“Obviously that doesn’t mean they were doing anything,” I add hastily. “Maybe they both needed to use the bathroom and he forgot to do up his fly after taking a leak. But, speaking as a guy—”

“As a fuckboy, you mean.”

“Whoa.” I’m taken aback by the verbal assault. She must really hate me right now. “Should I remind you I haven’t been sexually active in months?”