I cup my mouth with both hands. “Come on, boys!” I shout as they line up for the faceoff. They have one minute and fifteen seconds to make something happen.

But Coach Pedersen is no fool. He puts his best guys on the ice for the last minute, treating it like a penalty kill. It’s the A-Team: Will Bray and Dmitry Petrov on defense; Connelly, Weston, and Chilton filling the forward slots. And they’re so fucking solid. The puck remains in their possession the entire time. Harvard is on the attack and Corsen is like a ninja, fending off shot after shot after shot. And although it helps us, this is not what we need to be doing. We shouldn’t be stopping bullets, we should be unleashing our own.

Ten seconds to go. Disappointment forms in my belly. I peer toward the Briar bench, seeking out my dad. His face is completely expressionless, but his jaw holds a lot of tension. He knows what’s about to happen.

BUZZZZZ!

The third period is over.

Briar loses.

Harvard wins.

“I can’t believe this.” Summer tucks a strand of golden hair behind her ear as she and I stand in one corner of the lobby. “I feel so bad for Fitzy.”

“Me too. And for the rest of the guys.”

“Well, of course. Them, too.” She rests her head against my shoulder, her glum gaze fixed on the entry to the corridor. We’re waiting for the players to come out, and we’re not the only ones. Fans and puck bunnies alike loiter in the cavernous space, ready to offer support and comfort to both the winners and the losers. At least most of the Briar guys will get laid without much effort tonight.

Since it’s an away game, my father and the guys have to ride the bus back to campus. Some Harvard players trickle out first, and the girlfriends and groupies swarm like bees. Jake and Brooks appear, both looking undeniably fine in their dark suits. I love whoever came up with the after-game dress code. Their suit jackets stretch across impossibly broad shoulders, and my heart does a little flip when I notice Jake’s hair is still damp from the shower. Which plants in my head the image of a naked Jake in the shower. Which is delicious.

Weston’s face lights up when he spots Summer. “Di Laurentis!” He saunters over and opens his arms for a hug.

She glowers at him. “Don’t you dare. No hugs tonight.”

“Come on, don’t be a sore loser.” He widens his arms.

After a moment, she gives him a quick hug.

Jake winks at me from over Weston’s shoulder and Summer’s head.

My lips curve slightly. “Good game, Connelly.”

I see him fighting a smile. “Thanks, Jensen.”

Summer steps out of Weston’s embrace. “So,” she tells him. “Looks like your penalty provoking didn’t work too well in the second and third.”

“Yeah, the refs got meaner after the Jonah thing.”

“The Jonah thing?” she echoes, poking Brooks in the center of his chest. “It was more than a ‘thing’! He broke Hunter’s wrist!”

“It was an accident,” Brooks protests.

As they argue, a familiar face catches my eye. It’s the girl from the Coffee Hut—Jake’s friend. Hazel, was it? She’s moving through the crowd, scanning faces until her gaze suddenly collides with mine. Then she notices Jake standing two feet away from me, and a frown mars her face.

I tense in anticipation of her approach, but for some reason she stays rooted in place. Interesting. Didn’t she proclaim herself Jake’s closest friend and confidante?

I arch a brow in her direction. Her frown deepens.

As I break the eye contact, my peripheral vision snags on another familiar figure. I turn to see my father emerging from the corridor. Unfortunately, his arrival is perfectly timed with that of Daryl Pedersen.

Uh-oh.

The two coaches exchange a few words as they fall into step with each other. Dad is stone-faced, as per usual. He nods at something Pedersen says. I can easily guess their exchange—the usual good game, thanks, some fake camaraderie. But as they get closer, I distinctly hear Pedersen say, “Nice try.”

I’m not sure what he means, and I guess Dad is also stumped, because rather than walk away, he stops. “What do you mean by that?”

“You know exactly what I mean. Solid effort with the tricks.” Pedersen chuckles. When he notices me standing near Jake, his eyebrows flick up, and a little smirk forms on his lips.

A sick feeling swirls in my stomach.

Since my father doesn’t think rationally when it comes to the Harvard coach, he digs his feet in, his stance aggressive. “What tricks?” he asks coldly.

“I’m just saying, your plan to distract my star player didn’t work.”

From the corner of my eye, I see Jake frown.

“I didn’t expect that of you, though.” Pedersen shrugs. “Not the Chad I know, that’s for sure.”

Jake steps closer to me, and it feels almost like a protective gesture. My father doesn’t notice, however. He’s too busy glowering at Pedersen. The interaction has drawn a small audience, mostly comprised of Briar players.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” my father says irritably.

“I’m sure you don’t.” Pedersen laughs again. “But it’s nice knowing you’re not above pimping out your own daughter.”

Oh my God.

Silence descends, like dead air in a live newscast. My pulse races, and I’m pretty sure my blood pressure has dropped, because I’m feeling light-headed.

Dad glances at me for a second, before directing a glacial stare at his nemesis. “As usual, Daryl, you’re talking out of your ass.”

The other man cocks a brow. “To be honest, it was extremely satisfying being proven right. I’ve always suspected you’re not the honorable, rule-abiding martyr you present yourself as. The pillar of honesty and integrity, right?” Pedersen rolls his eyes. “Always thought it was an act. And while I’m glad to know the level you’ll stoop to, for chrissake, Chad. Your daughter setting up a honey trap for Connelly? I get that you hate me, but come on, that move was beneath you.”

Pedersen stalks off, leaving my father and the rest of our audience to absorb the impact of his accusation. Several seconds of silence pass.

Summer is the first to address the issue. “Bee?” she says uncertainly. “Is that true?”

And suddenly all eyes are on me and Jake.

31

Brenna

Twenty-four hours after the shit show that was the conference finals, I’m still dealing with the fallout. My anger over Daryl Pedersen’s actions hasn’t abated in the slightest. That spiteful dickhead didn’t need to drop that bomb and certainly not in public. After he did that, the Harvard players followed him, my dad ushered the Briar boys onto the bus, and I drove home with Summer, who was visibly hurt that I’d kept her in the dark about me and Jake Connelly.

But at least she’s still talking to me. My father hasn’t said one word to me since last night. I genuinely don’t know if he’s pissed or simply indifferent. I’m definitely not confused about how Nate and the others feel, however.

The guys are outraged. Hollis called me a traitor last night. Nate, still sore about being ejected from the finals, was livid that I would even dare to be with a Harvard guy after the bullshit Jonah Hemley pulled during the game. And when I got home from Cambridge, Hunter bitterly texted me: Wrist’s broken in 2 places. Thank your boyfriend for me.