So yes, it’s a daunting life. It’s long stints away from your loved ones. It’s sex on a platter. But I have faith in Hunter. And although he’s finally starting to have faith in himself, he still needs one last push.

I pull up Brenna’s number and gaze out the window as I wait for her to answer. The bus is about ten minutes from the station in Hastings.

“Hey,” Brenna greets me. “Are we still good for tonight?”

“Of course. I’m going to take an Uber to campus and stop off at home first to shower and change, though. But I just had a quick question for you.”

“What’s up?”

“Do you have any way of contacting Garrett Graham?”

A beat. “Um. Yeah, I should be able to do that. Why?”

“I’m planning a surprise thing for Hunter,” I answer vaguely. “I could use Garrett’s help.”

“Sure. I don’t know if I have his cell saved in my phone, but Fitzy would definitely have it, or Summer’s brother. I’ll ask them.”

“Thanks, chica. I’ll see you in a bit.”

The moment I get home, I strip off my clothes and take a hot shower, hoping to inject some warmth back into my bones. We’ve reached that hideous part of the winter where you can never, ever feel warm. February in New England is a glacial hellscape, the time of year when my mother and I are in whole-hearted agreement. She hates the winter from start to finish, I hate it in February. It’s like a Venn diagram and we’re finally in the same circle, clinging to each other for body heat.

I bundle up in my terrycloth robe and approach my closet, debating what to wear. I’d like to look cute for Hunter if we’re hanging out afterward, but the arena is so damn cold. Sure, there are heaters and enough bodies in the place to generate some heat, but it doesn’t completely eliminate the chill.

I finally settle on thick leggings, thick socks, and a thick red sweater. Key word: thick. I look like a marshmallow, but oh well. Warmth trumps cuteness.

I’m about to start doing my makeup when my phone lights up. I hope it’s not Hunter calling to ask how it went in Boston. He needs to focus on the game tonight, and hearing that my father and I aren’t speaking right now probably won’t pump him up for the playoffs. I’ll tell him later.

But it’s not Hunter; it’s TJ. “Hey,” I greet him. “Are you coming to the game? You never gave me an answer.”

“No. I’m not.”

“Ah. Okay. That sucks.” I open my makeup case. “It would have been nice to see you.”

“Really? Would it have?” His mocking voice ripples into my ear.

I furrow my brow. “Are you all right? You sound a bit drunk.”

He just laughs.

My frown deepens. “Okay, then. Well. I’m getting ready right now, so tell me what’s up, otherwise I’ll call you tomorrow.”

“Mmm-hmmm.” He’s still laughing, but it’s tinged with hysteria.

“TJ.” A queasy feeling tickles my stomach. “What the hell is going on?”

Silence. It lasts about three seconds, and just when I’m about to check if the call dropped, TJ starts babbling. He talks so fast I can barely keep up, and my constant interruptions—“wait, what?” “What are you saying?” “What does that mean?”—only agitate him further. By the time he winds down, I’m on the verge of throwing up.

I draw in a fearful breath. “Stay where you are. I’m on my way.”

38

Hunter

Excitement sizzles in the air as my teammates and I gear up. Whoever wins tonight will progress to the conference finals, so we’re all feeling the pressure. Last season we made it to those finals, and I suffered a broken wrist thanks to a scorned boyfriend. This season my wrist is perfectly fine and my dick hasn’t gotten me into an iota of trouble.

Beside me, Bucky is shoving his pants up to his hips, while babbling to Matt and Alec about some new radical therapies being used on athletes these days.

“Swear to God, this chamber looks like something they’d torture James Bond with. They blast you with liquid nitrogen to like minus-a-hundred-and-fifty degrees.”

“And then what?” Alec sounds fascinated.

“Well, in theory it stimulates healing. In reality I think it just gives you frostbite?”

I glance over in amusement. “What’s this you’re talking about?”

“Cryotherapy,” Bucky replies.

“Sounds intense,” remarks Conor, who’s sitting on the bench beside me. He lifts a hand and tucks his blond hair behind his ears.

“Dude,” I tell him. “Not sure if anyone’s told you this, but…you’re treading pretty damn close to mullet territory.”

From his locker, Matt hoots. “Bizness in front, party in the back, yo.”

Conor just gives that easygoing shrug of his. Even being informed he’s rocking a mullet doesn’t faze this guy. I wish I could bottle up his confidence and sell it to pimply-faced teenage boys. We’d make a killing.

“You should cut it,” Jesse advises. “It’s a lady-boner killer.”

Con rolls his eyes. “First off, there’s nothing I could ever do that would kill a lady’s boner.”

He’s probably right about that.

“And secondly, I can’t cut it. Otherwise we’ll lose the game.”

“Shit,” Jesse says, paling. “You’re right.”

Hockey players and their superstitions. Looks like Con ain’t getting a haircut till April.

“Jesus Christ, what is that stench?” Coach demands from the doorway. He strides into the locker room, his nose wrinkled in repulsion.

I exchange a look with the guys. I don’t smell anything, and everyone’s blank expressions say they’re equally stumped.

“It smells like a sulfur factory exploded,” Coach growls.

“Oh,” Bucky realizes. “Yeah, that’s Pablo.”

“The egg?”

I can’t help but snicker. “Yup yup—”

“Don’t fucking say yup yup, Davenport.”

I ignore him. “—because that’s what happens when you ask someone to take care of an egg for like five months. It goes rotten. We’re all used to the smell now.” I glance at Bucky, who’s pulling Pablo Eggscobar out of his locker. “I thought you were keeping him in that zippered pouch to try to contain the stink.”

At the current moment, Pablo is wrapped in numerous layers of cellophane, his pink drink-cozy stretched tightly around the plastic bundle. You can’t even see his little pig face anymore because the odor-suppressing plastic wrap is an inch thick.

“I took him out because I felt bad for the guy, always being locked up like that. He’s not a criminal.”

Snorts and chuckles ring out in the locker room. Coach, however, is not amused.

“Give it to me,” he orders, sticking out a meaty paw.

Bucky looks alarmed. He checks with me as if to ask, should I?

I shrug. “He’s the boss.”

The second Coach has our team mascot in hand, he marches over to the wastebasket by the door and unceremoniously dumps Pablo in the trash.