Summer is quick to second that. “Yes, even better! And when I get home I’ll be sure to tell him that the daughter of a Bollywood star is going to be calling him.” She winks at me when Rupi isn’t looking.

Rupi’s brown eyes light up. “Really?”

“Oh, absolutely.” Summer pulls up her contact list. “Do you have your phone on you?”

Rupi produces an iPhone in a bubble-gum pink case, and Summer quickly recites Hollis’s number. After Rupi finishes entering the digits, she gives us a solemn look. “I want you to know that you’re both gorgeous and wonderful and I’m going to be seeing a lot of you once Mike and I start dating.”

I won’t lie—her conviction is downright inspirational.

“Anyway, I won’t take up any more of your time. Just know that I think you’re beautiful creatures and I’m so grateful for your help!”

And then, as rapidly as she appeared, she bounces out of the booth like a tiny ball of energy.

Later that night, I arrive at Malone’s at the same time as Nate Rhodes. “Hey!” I exclaim, slinging my arm through his muscular one. “I didn’t know you were coming.”

I’m a big Nate fan. He’s not only a skilled center with a wicked slapshot, but he’s also a stand-up guy. A lot of jocks have a reputation for being cocky jackasses. They strut around campus with huge chips of entitlement on their athletic shoulders, “honoring” women with their time and their wangs. Not Nate. Along with Fitzy, he’s the most humble, down-to-earth guy I’ve ever met.

“Yeah, my plans got canceled. I was supposed to meet up with a chick and she bailed.”

I give a mock gasp. “What! Doesn’t she know you’re the captain of the hockey team?!”

“I know, right?” He shrugs. “Probably a good thing she bailed, though. I’m still rocking a hangover from last night.”

“That was some game-winning miracle you pulled off in OT,” I tell him. “I wish I got to see it in person.”

“Most stressful overtime period of my life,” he admits as we enter the bar. “For a moment I thought we might actually lose the damn thing.” His light-blue eyes scan the main room, which is crammed with sports memorabilia, TV screens, and college students.

“There they are,” I say, spotting our friends in a far booth. “Ugh. Hollis is here? Now I’m even more glad you showed up. You’ll be my buffer.”

“He still trying to get in your pants?”

“Every time I see him.”

“Do you really blame him?” Nate gives an exaggerated leer.

“Knock it off. You’ve never once expressed any interest in my pants.”

“Yeah, because Coach would castrate me! Doesn’t mean I haven’t thought about it.”

“Perv.”

He grins.

We reach the oversized booth, a semicircular one with enough space to accommodate four hockey players and me and Summer. She’s snuggled up beside Fitz, while Hollis sits alone on the other side, his gaze glued to the Bruins game that’s already underway.

Hollis shifts his head at our arrival. “Brenna! Come sit.” He pats his thigh. “There’s room for you right here.”

“Thanks, big boy. But I’m good.” I slide in next to Summer.

Rather than sit with Hollis, Nate flops down beside me, which forces Fitz and Summer to shift closer to Hollis.

“I don’t have Ebola, you guys,” he grumbles.

I glance up at one of the television screens. Boston is on the attack. “Where’s Hunter?” I ask.

Almost immediately the mood shifts. Fitz looks unhappy. Summer’s face holds a touch of guilt, although I don’t think she needs to feel guilty. Sure, she and Hunter had a bit of a flirtation, but the moment she realized she had feelings for Fitz, she was honest with Hunter about it. He needs to get over it already.

“I dunno. He’s out and about, probably with some chick,” Hollis answers. “He’s a pussy posse of one lately.”

I purse my lips. I hope Hunter’s extracurricular activities aren’t affecting his performance on the ice. Then again, he scored both goals in the regulation periods last night, and got an assist on Nate’s OT goal, so it doesn’t seem to be a problem.

“Why don’t you two just kiss and make up?” I ask Fitz.

“I’m trying,” he protests. “Hunter’s not interested.”

“He’s being a douchebag,” Nate admits, which is alarming coming from the captain. It tells me that Hunter’s behavior is affecting the team. “Short of an intervention, there’s not much we can do. He’s playing well, and all the partying and hookups aren’t slowing him down during games.”

“Yes, but two teammates having beef is not good for morale,” Fitz counters.

“So squash the beef,” Nate says, rolling his eyes. “It’s your beef.”

“I’m trying,” Fitz repeats.

Summer squeezes his arm. “It’s okay. He’ll calm down eventually. I still think maybe I should move out…?”

“No,” Fitz and Hollis say immediately, and that’s that. She doesn’t bring it up again.

We watch the game for a while. I drink a beer, joke around with Nate, and ignore Hollis’s advances. During the first intermission, we discuss the semifinals results.

“Corsen and I watched a live stream of the Harvard-Princeton game,” Nate says darkly. “It was such fucking bullshit.”

I frown. “How so?”

“Goddamn Brooks Weston. He dished out two of the dirtiest hits I’ve ever seen. First one was leaping into a Princeton defender from the blindside, drove him headfirst into the boards. It completely flew off the ref’s radar, which is unfathomable—like how did he miss that? Second hit was a slash to a guy’s knee. Weston took a penalty for that one.”

Fitz shakes his head at Summer. “I hate that you partied with him in high school.”

“He’s a cool guy,” she protests.

“He’s a goon,” Nate says tightly. “A goon who doesn’t play fair.”

“Then the refs should call him out on it,” Summer points out.

“He does it in a way that escapes their notice,” Fitz says. “It’s a tactic for some teams—purposely fouling other players so that they retaliate and take a penalty. Harvard is really good at it.”

“That’s why my dad hates Daryl Pedersen so much,” I tell Summer. “Coach Pedersen fosters that kind of gameplay.”

“Didn’t your dad and Pedersen play together back in the day?” Nate asks.

“They were teammates at Yale,” I confirm. “They can’t stand each other.”

Summer looks intrigued. “Why?”

“I don’t know the exact details. Dad’s not much of a talker.”

His players snort in unison. “No shit,” Hollis cracks.

I shrug. “I think Pedersen played dirty back then, too, and Dad just didn’t like him.”

“I don’t blame Coach for hating him,” Nate mutters. “Pedersen’s a total fuckhead. He encourages his guys to be as brutal as possible.”