“Babe,” a sleepy voice drifts from the hallway. “Come back to bed. I’m horny.”

I give her a dry smile. “You’re being summoned.”

She grins back. “Your roomie’s insatiable.”

“I wouldn’t know,” I say with a shrug.

“No?” She finishes her water and places the glass in the sink. Curiosity gleams in her expression as she studies my face. “You and Brooks have never…?” She lets the question hang.

“Nah. I don’t swing that way.”

She tilts her head thoughtfully. “What if there’s a girl in the middle to act as a buffer?”

Annnd we’re done here. It’s too late and I’m too tired to be discussing threesomes with a strange girl in my kitchen. “I don’t do that either,” I mutter on my way past her.

“Pity,” she tells my retreating back.

I don’t turn around. “Good night, Kayla.”

“Good night, Jake.” A teasing lilt.

Jeez. So many invitations in one measly encounter. She would’ve let me bang her on the counter if I’d made a move. If I were into threesomes, she’d have me and Brooks banging her together.

But neither notion appeals to me.

I go back to bed and make sure to lock my door, just in case.

Early the next morning, I make the trek to see my folks. This requires a quick ride on the Red Line, followed by a not-so-quick one on the Newburyport/Rockport line, which takes me all the way to Gloucester. It’d be faster to borrow Weston’s car and drive up the coast, but I don’t mind taking the train. It’s cheaper than gassing up the Mercedes, and it provides me with quiet time to reflect and mentally prepare for today’s game.

Our entire season rides on this game.

If we lose…

You won’t lose.

I heed the self-assured voice in my head, tapping into the confidence I’ve been cultivating since I was a kid playing Pee Wee hockey. There’s no denying I was talented from an early age. But talent and potential mean nothing without discipline and failure. You need to fail in order for the win to mean something. I’ve lost games before, games that counted for rankings, trophies. Losing is not supposed to crush your confidence. It’s meant to build it.

But we won’t lose today. We’re the best team in our conference, maybe even the best in the entire country.

The train rolls into the station around nine o’clock, and since it’s actually not raining this morning I decide to walk home instead of Uber’ing it. I breathe in the crisp spring air, inhaling the familiar scent of salt and fish and seaweed. Gloucester is a fishing town, the country’s oldest seaport, which means you can’t walk five steps without seeing a lighthouse, a boat, or something nautical. I pass three consecutive houses with decorative anchors hanging over the front doors.

The two-story house where I grew up resembles most of the other homes lining the narrow streets. It has white siding, a sloped roof, and a pretty front garden that Mom tends to religiously. The garden in the backyard is even more impressive, a testament to her green thumb. The house is small, but it’s just the three of us, so we’ve always had more than enough room.

My phone rings as I’m approaching the porch. It’s Hazel. I stop to answer the call, because she’s supposed to show up this afternoon for the game. “Hey,” I greet her. “You still coming to Cambridge later?”

“Never. I’d die before betraying my school.”

“Oh shut up. You don’t even like hockey. You’re coming as a friend, not a fan.”

“Sorry, yes, of course I’m coming. It’s just fun to pretend we have a massive rivalry. You know, a forbidden relationship. Well, friendship,” she amends.

“There’s nothing forbidden about our friendship. Everybody knows you’re my best friend and nobody cares.”

There’s a slight pause. “True. So, what are you up to right now? If you want, I can drive up early and chill with you until the game.”

“I’m about to walk into my folks’ house. Mom’s cooking up a special game-day breakfast.”

“Aw, I wish you’d told me. I would’ve joined you.”

“Yeah right. That would have required you waking up before eight o’clock. On a Saturday.”

“I totally would’ve done that,” she protests.

“‘The world doesn’t exist before nine a.m.’ That’s a direct quote from you, Hazel.” I chuckle.

“What are we doing to celebrate after you win today? Oooh, how about a fancy dinner?”

“Maybe? I’m sure the boys will want to go out partying, though. Oh, and I’ve got somewhere to be around ten. You can come with if you want.”

“Depends what it is.”

“Remember Danny Novak? His band’s playing in the city tonight. It’s their first gig, so I promised I’d be there.” Danny was a teammate of mine in high school. One of the best stick handlers I’ve ever seen, and that dexterity with his hands serves him well as a guitarist, too. He never could choose what he loved more, hockey or music.

“What kind of music do they play?”

“Metal.”

“Ugh. Kill me now.” Hazel sighs. “I’ll let you know later, but right now it’s a tentative no from me, dawg.”

I snicker. “I’ll see you later, okay?”

“Yup. Tell your parents I said hi.”

“Will do.”

I hang up and walk through the unlocked front door. In the small entryway, I toss my hockey jacket on one of the iron coat hooks, which are shaped like—what else—anchors. “Mom?” I call as I unlace my boots.

“Hi, baby! I’m in here!” Her greeting wafts out from the kitchen, along with the most enticing aroma.

My stomach growls like a grumpy bear. I’ve been looking forward to this breakfast all week. Some guys don’t like to pig out on game days, but I’m the opposite. If I don’t eat a huge breakfast, I feel sluggish and off.

In the kitchen, I find Mom at the stove, a plastic red spatula in hand. The hunger pangs intensify. Fuck yeah. She’s making French toast. And bacon. And is that sausage?

“Hey. That smells fantastic.” I saunter over and plant a kiss on her cheek. Then I raise my eyebrows. “Nice earrings. Are those new?”

With her free hand, she rolls the shiny pearl on her right earlobe between her thumb and index finger. “Aren’t they pretty? Your father surprised me with them the other day! I’ve never owned pearls this big before.”

“Dad did good.” Rory Connelly knows the secret to a healthy marriage. Happy wife equals happy life. And nothing makes my mother happier than shiny baubles.

She turns to face me. With her dark hair pulled back in a sleek ponytail and her cheeks flushed from the stove, she appears way younger than fifty-six. My folks had me when they were in their mid-thirties, so she’s constantly referring to herself as an “old mom.” She definitely doesn’t look it, though.

“Hazel says hi, by the way. I just got off the phone with her.”

Mom claps happily. “Oh, tell her I miss her. When is she coming home for a visit? She wasn’t here for the holidays.”