His dark eyes burn like hard, angry coals. “You’d better have a damn good excuse for this, Connelly. We’re facing off against Michigan in three goddamn days.”

My shameful gaze drops to my skates. He’s right. This was a colossal screw-up on my end. The regionals are being held in Worcester this weekend. We’re the number-one seed, playing Michigan, the number-four seed. But that doesn’t mean we’re guaranteed a win. Anything can happen in the national tourney.

“My alarm clock didn’t go off,” I lie, because the alternative is not an option. I was having sex with Chad Jensen’s daughter who I’m pretty sure I’m in love with. Coach would have an aneurysm.

“That’s what Weston said probably happened,” Coach mutters.

I force myself not to send a grateful look in Brooks’s direction. He didn’t come home last night, otherwise he would’ve been pounding on my door earlier reminding me about morning skate. And obviously Brooks knows that Brenna is staying with us, so I’m beyond relieved he kept his mouth shut about it with Coach. I make a mental note to stop calling him Bubble Butt around the house. At least for a few days.

“I’m sorry. It won’t happen again. I’ll set three alarms tomorrow.” Fortitude rings in my voice. The reason I gave for being late is bogus, but that doesn’t alter my determination to never let this happen again.

“You’d better.” Coach spins around and blasts the whistle a couple times. “McCarthy! You’re up!”

Practice is particularly draining, since I’m going out of my way to kick ass. I need to make up for what happened this morning, to absolve myself of this cardinal sin.

I’ve only been late to practice twice in my entire athletic career—and to put that in perspective, that career began when I was five years old. Both times I was late occurred in high school. The first time, I had the stomach flu, yet I still dragged myself out of bed and drove to the rink. I was thirty minutes late and my coach took one look at me and ordered me to drive right back home. The second time, the coast was hit by an unexpected blizzard and I woke up to a foot and a half of snow outside the door. I spent most of the morning shoveling the driveway and trying to dig our cars out. And even then, I was only forty minutes late.

Today? There was no stomach bug, no blizzard. I was an hour late because of a girl.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not blaming Brenna. And despite my complete dissatisfaction with myself, I don’t entirely regret what happened this morning. The sex was goddamn spectacular. It was our first time without a condom, and I shiver at the memory. Her tight heat surrounding me…fuuuck. So hot and so good.

I’m about to leave the ice when I glimpse a familiar figure waving at me from the stands. Fans are allowed to come and watch us when it’s an open practice, like today’s.

I execute a sharp turn and skate the opposite direction from the boards. Hazel descends the steps, her blonde braid swinging as she walks. She’s wearing a light jacket, and, as usual, her fingers are stacked with rings, including the one I got her for Christmas. She smiles at me through the plexiglass, reaching the little door on the boards at the same time I do.

“Hey. What are you doing here?” I ask.

“I didn’t get to properly congratulate you for winning this weekend.” Her expression becomes rueful. “You were a bit occupied, what with that little scene between your coach and your girlfriend.” The last word—girlfriend—has a slight bite.

I stifle a sigh. “Yeah, that was awkward, to say the least.”

“Anyway, I owe you a celebratory meal, so I thought I’d surprise you with brunch at that place we both like in Central Square.”

“Sounds good.” I hope she doesn’t notice that I’m not as enthusiastic as I usually am at the idea of eating food. I’m just eager to see Brenna and find out if she spoke to her father yet. “Let me hit the locker room and I’ll meet you out front in ten.”

A short while later, Hazel and I are seated across from each other at a small table in the cheesy breakfast place we discovered sometime last year. It’s called Egggggs, and although all the dishes have silly names and the way-too-colorful decor is an assault on the eyes, the food is actually excellent. Or eggcellent, as Hazel likes to say.

“Thanks for surprising me,” I tell her as I set down my menu. “Please don’t tell me you showed up at eight thirty, though.”

She blanches. “God, no. The world doesn’t exist before nine a.m., remember?”

A waitress comes by to take our orders. And we’ve been friends for so long that I know exactly what Hazel’s going to get before she even says it—two eggs, scrambled. Brown toast. Sausage, because she’s the one person in the world who doesn’t like bacon. And coffee, two sugars, no milk or cream. And I’m sure she knows my order, too: whatever the biggest breakfast on the menu is, because I’m a total pig.

I wonder what Brenna’s breakfast preferences are. She’s eaten eggs and fruit for breakfast since she started crashing with me, but I wonder what she’d order at a place like this. Probably makes me a massive loser, but I’m excited to find out. I’m enjoying getting to know her.

Hazel and I catch up as we wait for our food, but it’s all very surface level. We talk about our classes and hockey, her mom’s new boyfriend, how neither of my parents showed up for the conference finals. That last one still grates. I’m used to them being no-shows, but I had really hoped they might surprise me this time, especially because it was such a big game.

We’re about halfway done with our meals when Hazel sets down her fork and demands, “So are you with her now?”

“You mean Brenna?”

“Who else would I mean?”

I chuckle. “Yes. I guess I am. She’s actually been staying with me and Brooks since the finals.”

My friend is shocked. “You’re living together?”

“We’re not living together,” I answer quickly. “She’s just crashing at my place until hers is ready. She got flooded out.”

Hazel is quiet for a beat. She picks up her coffee. Takes a long sip. “This is very serious,” she finally remarks.

Slight discomfort makes me shift in my seat. “It’s not ‘very serious.’ It’s just…” I rely on my trusty motto. “It is what it is.”

“Yeah, and what it is, is serious, Jake. I don’t think you’ve ever had a girl spend one night at your place, let alone several nights.” She watches me pensively. “Are you in love with her?”

I fidget with my fork, pushing some hash browns around on my plate. My appetite is slowly abandoning me. I don’t like talking about this. Or rather, I don’t like talking about it with Hazel. For a while now, it’s felt as if she’s passing judgment on me, disapproving of my actions, and I’ve never felt that way in all the years we’ve known each other. Even when I did dumb shit like get wasted at a party and throw up in her bushes, or indulge in a one-night-stand, I didn’t feel judged. But I do now.

“It’s fine, you don’t have to tell me,” she says when I remain silent.

“No, it’s… It’s awkward for me, I guess,” I say sheepishly. “I’ve never really been in love before.”