There’s a face-off to the left of the Briar net. The centers are coiled rattlesnakes ready to pounce as they wait for the puck to drop.

“Nate’s the center,” Brenna tells me. “That’s Fitz on his right, Hunter on the left.”

My gaze unwittingly shifts to Fitz. His jersey number is 55. I can’t see his face because of his visor, but I can imagine the lines of deep concentration creasing his forehead.

The puck drops and Nate wins the face-off. He gains possession but passes the puck off immediately. To Fitz, who skillfully stickhandles it, deking out two opponents. It’s hard to believe someone so big could be so graceful. His six-two frame flies into Harvard’s zone, and excitement dances in the air for anyone wearing black and silver.

The puck was dumped behind the net and Fitz chases after it. He slams someone against the boards and wedges out the puck with his stick, then flicks a quick shot at the net. The goaltender easily stops it, but I don’t think Fitz was trying or expecting to score. He was creating a rebound for Hunter, who shoots a bullet at the net.

The Harvard goalie stops that one too, just barely.

Brenna wails. “Why!!”

“Because we’re better than you!” her new best friend sings.

It happens again—I turn my head for one measly second to glare at Brenna’s heckler, and when I look back, Briar doesn’t have the puck anymore. A Harvard player passes to Weston, who snaps it to Connelly, and I suddenly remember Brenna’s warning about what happens if this particular player gets a breakaway.

“Get him!” I urge the Briar defenseman who’s chasing after Harvard’s captain.

But nothing can keep up with lightning. Connelly is too fast. He turns into Keanu Reeves, moving all Matrix-like, left and right, speeding away from his would-be defenders. If there was dust on the ice, every Briar player would be left in it.

Brenna moans and hangs her head. Connelly shoots. Brenna doesn’t even look. I do, and I can’t fight my disappointment as I watch the puck fly past Corsen’s glove.

“GOALLLLLL!” a voice blares out of the PA. Seconds later, the buzzer goes off to signal the end of the game.

The Harvard fans erupt with joy as Briar loses.

After the game, we don’t immediately leave the arena. Brenna wants to say hi to her dad before he boards the team bus back to Briar, and I want to track down Brooks Weston.

I remember he used to throw the best parties in high school. My parents are cool, but they knew better than to let me or my brothers have more than a few friends over. Mr. and Mrs. Weston, on the other hand, were always out of town, so their son had the huge mansion to himself almost every weekend. His backyard was legendary. It was actually modeled after the yard in the Playboy mansion, grotto included. I’m fairly sure I made out with a guy or two behind the manmade waterfall.

“I’ll meet you out front in ten,” Brenna says. “And if you’re dead-set on chatting up the enemy, at least try to get some trade secrets out of him.”

“I’ll do my best,” I promise.

She disappears in the crowd. I thread my way toward the wide hallway outside the team locker rooms, where I encounter a handful of security guards and a slew of females. Brenna warned me that the hockey groupies linger after the games, hoping to catch the eye of a player. I remember this phenomenon from my brother’s games too.

I stand a short distance away and shoot a quick text off to Weston, banking that he still has the same number from high school.

Hey!! It’s Summer H.D.L. Here w/ a friend and waiting for u outside locker room.

* * *

Come say hi! Would luv to see u.

I include my name just in case he deleted my number. There’s no reason he would, though. We’re not exes. Didn’t part on unfriendly terms after he graduated.

I decide to give him five minutes, and if he doesn’t show I’ll go find Brenna. But Weston doesn’t disappoint. Barely two minutes pass before he’s barreling toward me.

“Yessss! Summer!” He lifts me off my feet and spins me around happily, and I’m sure the groupies who were waiting for him are plotting my demise. “What are you doing here?” He seems thrilled to see me. I have to admit, it’s good to see him too.

His dirty-blond hair is longer than it was in high school, almost to his chin now. But his gray eyes are just as devilish. They always had this gleam to them, like he was plotting something naughty. That’s one of the reasons I never dated him, because he was (and I suspect still is) the definition of manchild. Plus, he went out with one of my friends, so girl code dictated he was off-limits.

“I go to Briar,” I inform him after he releases me.

His jaw drops. “Are you shitting me?”

“Nope. Started this semester.”

“Weren’t you supposed to go to Brown?”

“I did.”

“Ah, okay. What happened to that?”

“Long story,” I confess.

Weston slings one big arm over my shoulders and lowers his voice conspiratorially. “Let me guess—partying and shenanigans were involved, and you were very politely asked to leave.”

My outraged glare lasts about half a second. “I hate that we went to high school together,” I grumble.

“Why? ‘Cause it means I know you too well?” He smirks.

“Yes,” I say grudgingly. “But I’ll have you know, I wasn’t even partying when the shenanigans happened.” That’s all I say on the subject, though. I’m still horribly embarrassed by the entire incident.

Only my parents know the whole story, but that’s because I’ve never been able to hide anything from them. One, they’re lawyers, which means they can extract information as skillfully as any Russian spy. Second, I adore them and don’t like to keep secrets from them. Obviously, I don’t tell them everything, but there’s no way I could keep something as big as a sorority house fire from them.

“You have no idea how good it is to see you!” Weston says, hugging me again.

Oh yeah. The groupies hate me.

The temperature in the hallway becomes utterly glacial when another player approaches us. The covetous looks and hushed wave of whispers tell me that he’s the one most of them were waiting for.

“Connelly, this is Summer,” Weston introduces. “We went to high school together. Summer, Jake Connelly.”

The superstar who won the game for Harvard. Oh boy. I really am fraternizing with the enemy. This is the guy Brenna hates.

He also happens to be incredibly attractive.

I find myself speechless as I stare into eyes the darkest shade of green I’ve ever seen. And I swear his cheekbones are prettier than mine. He doesn’t look feminine, though. He’s chiseled as fuck, like a young Clint Eastwood. Which I guess would make him Scott Eastwood? Oh, who cares. All I can say is…yum.

I manage to shake myself out of it. “Hi,” I say, sticking out my hand. “What should I call you? Connelly or Jake?”

He gives me a long onceover, and I think he likes what he sees because his lips curve slightly. “Jake,” he says, and briefly shakes my hand before pulling his long fingers back. “You went to high school with Brooks?”