Nate Rhodes, our team captain this year, grins. “Home job or salon?”

Hollis rolls his eyes at the tall senior. “Home. Why would I pay someone to do something I can do myself? That’s stupid.” He twists around so he can wave at Kelvin. “And you? Get off your ivory horse, dude—”

“Ivory tower,” I say helpfully.

“Whatever. We all know you wax your chest and your back, Kelvin. Hypocritical fucktard.”

I snort and rub soap over my chest. My body temperature is finally dropping.

“I don’t wax my back!” Kelvin protests.

“Yes you do. Nikki Orsen ratted you out, you back-hair motherfucker.”

Nikki is a right-winger on the Briar women’s team. She’s a great player and an awesome girl, but she also happens to be a serious blabbermouth. You can’t tell her anything you don’t want anyone else knowing.

As Nate and a couple other seniors hoot loudly, Kelvin’s face turns beet red. “I’m gonna kill her.”

“Oh relax, princess,” Hunter drawls. “Every dude you see on Instagram waxes some part of his body.”

“Yeah, what’s the big deal?” Hollis says. “There’s no shame in manscaping.”

“This is a safe place,” Nate agrees solemnly.

“Exactly. Safe place. We all manscape here—or at least we all fucking should if we consider ourselves fucking gentlemen,” Hollis chides.

Swallowing a laugh, I place the soap back in its tray and start rinsing off.

“Seriously, bro, what’s with the makeover?” Matt Anderson pipes up. Like Kelvin, he’s a junior D-man. The two of them were beyond shitty last year, but our new defensive coach, Frank O’Shea, has been working the D-men hard all season, and he’s really whipped them into shape.

“Got a date after the game tonight,” Hollis reveals.

“What, the chick has something against body hair?”

“Hates it. She swallowed a pube once, and it triggered her gag reflex so she threw up all over her boyfriend’s dick. And then he started ralphing too because vomit makes him vomit, and they broke up right after that.”

For one long moment, the only sound in the huge room is the rushing water.

Then it transforms into the weeping laughter of a bunch of buck-ass naked dudes.

“Oh my fucking god, that is the best thing I’ve ever heard in my life,” Hunter moans.

“She told you all this?” Our team captain is doubled over, and I can’t tell if it’s tears or water streaming down his face.

“Said she wouldn’t even consider boning down if a guy had body hair. That includes chest, arms, legs, so…” Hollis shrugs.

“You did your arms and legs too?” Nate squawks.

Hunter laughs harder.

“Women are nuts,” Kelvin grumbles.

He has a point. Women are messed up. I mean, Summer told me off last night for no good reason other than me being surprised that she’d read Shifting Winds.

Apparently she took that to mean that I thought she couldn’t read?

Seriously?

Although…fine, if I look at it from her perspective, I can see why she overreacted. Maybe it did come off a bit like I was implying she wasn’t smart enough for the series or that she was lying about reading it.

That wasn’t my intention, though. Those books are legitimately tough to read. Hell, I barely got through them myself, and I’ve been reading fantasy religiously for years.

If she’d given me a chance to respond, I could’ve told her that. And I would’ve apologized for insinuating I didn’t believe her.

But, just as I’ve always suspected, Summer is all drama. Ten measly words could have cleared it up—I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it like that, forgive me—if she’d let me speak. Instead, she’d stomped off like a five-year-old.

I grab a towel and hastily wrap it around my waist. Drama, I reiterate to myself. I’m not interested in drama. Never have been, never will be.

So why can’t I get her hurt expression out of my mind?

Briar’s top-notch hockey facility is the land of luxury. We’ve got state-of-the-art equipment, well-ventilated locker rooms, an awesome shower setup, a lounge, kitchen, physio rooms, whirlpool—name it, and we’ve got it. The viewing room is especially sweet. It resembles a small movie theater, only with three semicircular rows of tables and huge padded chairs. At the bottom of the gallery, the coaches have an A/V setup similar to that of sports announcers, with an input for laptops and a video screen they can write on. When they highlight plays or circle players, their scribbles show up on the big screen too.

I plop down in the chair next to our goalie, Patrick Corsen. “Hey.”

“Hey.” He’s staring at the screen, which is frozen on a shot of the Harvard arena. It looks like last week’s game, Harvard versus Boston College. BC got creamed that day.

Harvard is definitely the team to beat this year. In the past, they were an easy divisional opponent for us, because Briar’s always had the superior program. But this season they’re on fire, with more talent on the roster than ever before. After last year’s seniors graduated, the lowerclassmen who didn’t get a chance to shine were given more ice time, and every single one of them has stepped up. Harvard’s no longer relying solely on the skill of their team captain like they did last year. Jake Connelly is damn good, but he can’t carry an entire team.

“Connelly’s line is wicked fast,” Corsen says glumly.

“Our line is faster,” I assure him, referring to me, Hunter, and Nate.

“Fine. But their second and third lines are just as fast. Can you say the same about ours?” He lowers his voice. “Plus they’ve got a better D. Those two sophomores? Can’t remember their names, but they’re so good at keeping the puck out of their zone. Takes so much heat off Johansson.”

Johansson is Harvard’s goalie, and he’s phenomenal. Truthfully, Corsen’s right to worry.

“Kelvin and Brodowski aren’t that strong,” he mutters.

“No,” I agree. “But Matty is.” I nod toward Anderson, who’s texting on his phone.

Like the Harvard boys, Matt stepped up after Dean and Logan graduated. He’s now the leading scorer among the defensemen and one of our best penalty killers. He’s also the only black player on the team, which he’s damn proud of. He’s entering the draft this year and eager to make his mark in a pro league that’s predominantly white.

“True. Matty’s an asset,” Corsen relents, but he still sounds unhappy.

I get why he’s worried. He’s signed by LA and playing for them next season, so it’s always a concern if your draft team sees you shit the bed. A lot of the time that guarantees you a spot on the farm team, though sometimes that’s the better option, truth be told. That’s what Logan is doing right now, playing for the Providence Bruins and developing his skills. Not everyone is like Garrett Graham, a born superstar. And not every college player is instantly ready for the pros.

Coach marches into the room and claps his hands. “Let’s get started.” He doesn’t shout, just uses his speaking voice, but everyone snaps to attention as if he’d screamed like a drill sergeant. Jensen is the kind of man who just commands respect. He’s also a man of few words, but the words he does use wield a lot of power.