On the other hand, I’d been seconds away from having Jake’s dick in my mouth, so maybe Eric did me a favor. Saved me from blowing THE ENEMY.

But if I’m being honest, it’s been a while since I thought of Jake in that context.

Once I finish my dinner, I reach for my phone. “Your crush on me is getting out of control, Jakey,” I say after he picks up.

His deep laughter tickles my ear. “Don’t flatter yourself, Hottie.”

“You just called me Hottie—that is literally you flattering me.”

“True.” Another chuckle. “What are you doing right now?”

“Had an early dinner, and now I’m watching HockeyNet highlights.”

“Still no word from Mulder?”

“Nope.”

“What about Agent Scully?”

I snicker. “You’re hilarious. Did you have class today?”

I’m still amazed by the knowledge that he’s majoring in psychology—I found that out last night during our very long phone call. Before that, I’d assumed he was a communications or broadcasting major, like most other athletes.

“No, Wednesday is my day off. I usually use it to catch up on reading, clean the house, that kind of stuff. Any big plans tonight?”

“Not sure. I might grab a drink with Summer, do a girls’ night. You?”

“Grabbing some drinks, too. The boys and I are hitting the Dime tonight.” He pauses. “I’d invite you to join us, but you’d say no…right?”

“Duh. I can’t be spotted out in public with Harvard players. It’s bad enough that one gave me an orgasm last weekend.”

“I think you might be exaggerating this rivalry,” Jake says, humor in his voice. “Do your Briar boys hate us that much?”

“Oh, they absolutely hate you. Brooks, in particular. They don’t like his style of play.”

“They don’t like it because it works.”

“Really? So you’re telling me you’re perfectly cool with all his trash-talking? With all the penalties he draws and provokes? With how rough he is?”

“It’s part of the game,” Jake replies. “Even I do that shit. To a lesser extent than Brooks, sure, but I trash-talk and provoke with the best of them. And don’t kid yourself, babe—your boys do it, too. I’ve heard the filth that comes out of their mouths on the ice. That Hollis guy says shit about my mother all the time.”

“Is he any good at talking shit? Because he’s terrible with pick-up lines.”

“How would you know that?” I can almost hear Jake’s scowl.

“That boy’s been hitting on me since the day we met.” I don’t mention my drunken hookup with Hollis, because it’s completely insignificant. “Anyway, heckling is different than playing dirty,” I point out.

“Brooks never crosses the line.”

“Sure he does. He draws the line wherever he wants and then decides whether or not to cross it.”

“How is that exclusive to Brooks? Everyone has their own lines, right? And we all decide which ones we’re not willing to cross.”

“Fair enough.” Curiosity bites at my tongue. “What’s your uncrossable line? What is the one thing Jake Connelly absolutely refuses to do?”

His response is swift. “Sleep with a friend’s mom. I’m never doing that.” He stops. “Well, again.”

I burst out laughing. “You slept with a friend’s mother? When? How?”

“It was one hundred percent a Stifler’s mom situation,” he says sheepishly. “I was a senior in high school, and one of my teammates threw a huge kegger at his place. I got wasted, stumbled upstairs in search of a bathroom, and wound up in his mom’s bedroom by mistake.”

I’m hit with a wave of uncontrollable giggles. “Was she wearing a negligee? Smoking one of those long cigarettes like Audrey Hepburn?”

“No, she was actually wearing a tracksuit. It was bubble-gum pink, and I think it said Juicy on the butt.”

“Oh my God, you fucked the mom from Mean Girls.”

“No idea who that is.”

I laugh harder, wiping tears from my eyes. “I can’t believe you fell prey to a cougar.”

“What’s wrong with that? She was hot, the sex was hot. Good times.”

He’s completely unfazed by my mockery, and that’s one of the things I’m grudgingly starting to like about him. He possesses a steely confidence that I genuinely admire. Nothing rattles this man. He’s so sure of himself, of his masculinity, his skill. Jake Connelly doesn’t have an insecure bone in his body.

“Wait, if it was so hot, then why would you never do it again?” I demand.

“Because it cost me one of my best friends,” he says glumly, and I realize that he is capable of being rattled. “What about you? What’s your most embarrassing hookup story?”

“Hmmm. I don’t know.” I think it over, but even if my brain had conjured up a crazy Stifler’s mom-esque scenario, I wouldn’t be able to reveal it because a car door slams from outside. “Ugh. My dad’s home,” I tell Jake.

“I still can’t believe you’re living at home again. Has there been any news about your apartment?”

“My landlords pumped all the water out, and now they’re bringing in a cleaning crew. Hopefully it won’t be much longer.” I hear the key turn in the lock. “I gotta go now. We’ll talk later.”

Later? a little voice taunts.

Oh boy, this is bad. Getting to know Jake shouldn’t be an item on my agenda.

“Wait,” he says roughly. “When’s our next fake date?”

I have to smile. “Fake date?”

“Yeah. When do we need to pull the wool over Mulder’s eyes again?”

“Um, most likely never? It’s not like we’ve been invited to do anything else.” I wrinkle my nose. “Why do you even want to?”

“Because isn’t that the arrangement? A real date for a fake one? And I want a real one.”

My heart skips a beat. “You just want to have sex with me.”

“Yes. Badly.”

At least he’s honest. “Well, I think the fake-date ship has sailed, I’m afraid.”

His voice thickens. Husky and endearing. “What about the real-date ship?”

My teeth dig into my bottom lip. Then I take a breath. “I think that one might still be in the harbor.”

“Good. Let’s try to do something this weekend? Maybe after the charity games?”

Dad’s footsteps near the living room. “We’ll figure it out. I have to go now.”

I hang up as my father enters the room. “Hi,” he greets me. His absent-minded gaze flicks to the television.

“Hey. There’s dinner in the microwave. You just need to nuke it.”

“Perfect. Thanks. I’m starving.” He turns on his heel and marches into the kitchen.

“How was practice?” I call out.

“Davenport was throwing an attitude,” he answers from the other room, and there’s no mistaking his displeasure. “I don’t know what’s going on with that kid.”