“So, yeah. It got weird, and then Hunter interrupted us, and Fitz drove off.” I avoid her gaze. “And then I agreed to go on a date with Hunter next Saturday.”
“On Valentine’s Day?”
“It’s Valentine’s Day?!”
My screech causes every single person in our vicinity to stare in our direction. Brenna quickly waves her hand again. “Nothing to see, folks. Enjoy the game,” she chirps.
“Oh my God, do you think he knew it was Valentine’s Day when he asked me out?” I hiss.
“I doubt it. Most guys don’t pay attention to that kind of stuff.”
“She’s right,” a familiar voice confirms.
I turn in time to see Brooks Weston flopping down in an empty seat behind us. Jake Connelly is with him, lowering his broad body onto the neighboring seat. Jake’s dark hair is swept away from his chiseled face, and I can’t tell if it’s windblown or slicked back with gel, but either way it looks hot. Both guys wear hoodies conspicuously lacking the Harvard logo or colors.
Because that’s not suspicious.
Sharing my thoughts, Brenna flicks a cagey glance at them. “Scoping out the competition?”
Weston nods, unabashed. “Absolutely. We play you again in a couple of weeks.” He winks. “Correction—we beat you again in a couple of weeks.”
“You wish. We’ve got home-ice advantage,” Brenna reminds him.
Weston simply grins.
She glances at Jake. “What about you? Don’t feel like taunting us about how you’re going to kick our asses?”
He cocks a brow. “We are going to kick your asses. I don’t see the point in rubbing it in.” Jake focuses on me. “And to answer your question, I doubt he knew the date. V-Day isn’t something we usually mark on our calendars, unless we’ve got a girlfriend.”
“Girlfriend?” Brenna echoes, her tone dry. “From what I hear, you don’t know the meaning of that word.”
The smile he gives her is seductive as hell. “You been asking around about me?”
“Nope. Your puck bunnies just like to talk.” She shrugs. “Apparently you never go out with the same girl twice.”
“So?” Somehow, he’s able to inject cockiness, sheepishness, and pure sex into one measly syllable.
I speak up before Brenna can. “Do you think I should give him a heads-up about what day it is?” I ask the boys.
“Depends,” Connelly replies.
“On what?” I’ve completely abandoned the game being played on the rink below us. I twist around in my seat, desperate for some male advice.
Jake licks his bottom lip. I’m not sure if it’s intentional or if his lips are dry. But again, looks hot either way.
It’s a bit alarming, this strange fascination I have with the guy. I don’t want him for myself, but I’m wholly aware of the sex appeal he radiates. Maybe I’m feeding off Brenna’s energy? Despite her constant mocking of him, I’ve noticed that her gaze always lingers on him a bit longer than necessary.
“Depends on whether you want to fuck him or not,” Jake explains.
“True,” Weston agrees. “If you want to bang him, don’t tell him. Chances are he’ll bail if he knows the date. Unless you want him to bail?”
“I don’t know,” I confess.
There’s no denying that Hunter is incredibly attractive. He’s easy to talk to, he makes me laugh, turns me on. But Fitz does something to my stomach. Saying he gives me butterflies would be an understatement. And he does something to my heart too. Damned if I can tell you what that something is, but rest assured he does it for me.
Crap. Maybe agreeing to go out with Hunter was a mistake. Here I am preaching about deserving someone who gives me one hundred percent—well, doesn’t Hunter deserve the same?
As long as Fitz is on my mind, even if he’s only taking up a teeny corner of it, is it fair of me to date someone else?
I don’t say this out loud, because I don’t want to reveal to these Harvard guys that I’m torn between my two roommates. But deep down I suspect there’s not much of a competition there. I wanted Fitz from the moment I met him last year. I think those might actually be the first words I spoke to Dean’s girlfriend. I pointed at Fitz and said, “I want him.”
And this isn’t about me being a spoiled brat and needing a shiny new toy. Fitz isn’t a pair of Louboutin pumps or a Valentino clutch.
And it’s not about me wanting him simply because he’s been making me chase him.
And while it may have begun as a physical kind of wanting, that’s changed.
I think I might want more now.
Fuck.
The game is surprisingly low scoring. We’re playing Eastwood, our conference rival, and they’re damn good at keeping the puck out of their zone. Whenever the Briar guys cross the blue line, they need to take full advantage of the opportunity, and they haven’t been doing it so far in the first two periods. Plus, Eastwood has this goon on their team that’s driving me nuts. He’s already instigated several scrums, but nothing to warrant the attention of the refs.
“Man after my own heart,” Weston cracks from behind us. He says this after the goon once again gets a few good shoves in on a Briar player before skating away.
“Figures you’d fall in love. A goon always recognizes the goon in another,” Brenna says sweetly.
Weston reaches out and ruffles her hair good-naturedly. “I wear my goon badge with pride, babe.”
On the ice, the Eastwood goon just stole the puck from Matt Anderson after slamming the defenseman against the boards. He takes possession and flies toward our net, his teammates skating fast in tow.
“Ugh! I hate this guy!” Annoyance has me jumping to my feet. “Go away!” I shout at him. “Nobody wants you here!”
Jake and Brenna snort in unison, then frown at each other as if any sort of united reaction is unacceptable.
Weston taps the back of my knee. “Hey, you know who that is, right?”
“No.” I can’t see his jersey number or his name. I just know I hate him.
“It’s Casper Cassidy. From Greenwich Prep,” he replies, naming the high school that my brother Dean attended.
I went to Greenwich for freshman year, but I transferred to Roselawn because I couldn’t handle the workload. Greenwich places a lot more importance on academics than Roselawn does. In fact, in the prep-school circuit, Roselawn has a rep for being a party school. The kids are rich enough to buy their way into college, so nobody is too concerned about getting straight As.
Despite the fact that my dad pulled strings to get me into Briar, I’m at least proud to say I was admitted to Brown all on my own. My GPA wasn’t something to write home about, but I made up for it with my extra-curriculars and community service.
“Are you kidding me?” I marvel, trying to spot the goon again. There are too many jerseys battling it out behind the net. “That’s Casper Cassidy? Did he have some sort of growth spurt? He looks enormous.”
“No, he was always that big,” Weston argues.
I twist in my seat again. “I played 7 Minutes in Heaven with him at a Greenwich party, and he fingered me in a closet. Trust me, he was not that big.”