Hope’s Beemer is waiting for me in the parking lot. When I climb into the backseat, I find Hope and Carin singing along to some awful pop song, and I don’t feel guilty anymore for making them wait. Clearly they’ve been having a great time.
“So what’s this new place we’re going to?” I ask once the song ends.
“You’ll see,” Hope chirps from the driver’s seat.
My friends exchange amused glances, which immediately raises my suspicions.
“If it’s the weird hippie bar you took me to in Boston that served wheatgrass shots, I’m jumping out right now. Not even kidding.”
“You’ll like this place,” she assures me. “It has all your favorites.”
I don’t need to see their faces to know they’re both smirking at me. “I’m trusting you,” I warn. “Don’t break the friend code.”
Carin turns around. “Forget the friend code. What were you and Beau talking about?”
Leaning forward, I fill them in on the conversation I just had with Briar’s star quarterback.
“Shit, this boy is serious,” Hope exclaims.
“Beau or Tucker?”
“Tucker. Duh. He spoke to one of your exes and declared his intentions? Girl, this man is all in.”
“That’s weird, right? I mean, he’s actively pursuing me. It’s weird.” I direct this mostly toward Carin. Hope’s a romantic. She believes that everyone on The Bachelor is actually there to find love when the rest of the viewing public knows it’s all about nobodies seeking fame.
But Carin disappoints me. “It’s not weird—it’s awesome. I mean, I’ve had hookups. Met a guy’s eyes across the room or struck up a conversation, but I’ve never had someone pursue me.”
“Same,” Hope says, flicking a glance toward me in the rearview mirror. “D’Andre asked me out while I was walking on the treadmill. He said he’d never seen a girl look prettier sweaty than me.” She sighs dreamily. “I said yes immediately. If there was any chase at all, it lasted all of five minutes. I put out on the second date, remember?”
“How does it feel?” Carin stares at me as if I’m some fascinating new discovery she just smeared on a microscope slide.
“When Hope puts out? Well, she’s a good kisser, but the rest of her technique needs work.” The joke is lame, but I’m not ready to acknowledge that I feel like a giddy kid by Tucker’s steady, determined pursuit.
Hope holds up her middle finger. “I’m an awesome lay. My technique is perfect. If I were any better, D’Andre wouldn’t be able to get out of bed. As it is, I have to kick him out.”
“It’s true,” Carin confirms. “D’Andre always begs like a sad child when he has to leave in the morning.”
“Is that how it is with Tucker?” Hope teases.
“You really want to know how I feel about it?” I exhale a long, heavy breath, deciding to be honest with my friends—and with myself. “I feel silly and weak and I don’t like it. I should be immune to this. I mean, he’s just a guy. I’ve slept with lots of guys before and I’m sure there’ll be many in the future. So why am I all weak-kneed and fluttery around this one?”
“Why is feeling something for someone a weakness?” Hope chastises. “I know you don’t think I’m weak.”
“God no. But you’re…”
You’re rich and gorgeous and smart, and I have to work my ass off for everything.
Frustrated, I dig the knuckle of my thumb into my temple. “You’re more together than I am. I always feel like I’m one day away from disaster. The other night I had a dream that Professor Fromm walked into Boots & Chutes while I was on stage wearing nothing but glitter and a G-string. I woke up in a panic because I was fucking convinced there’d be an email on my computer informing me that my admission to Harvard was being rescinded.”
In front of me, Hope shakes her braids. “Honey, you said it yourself. Your schedule is terrible. The reason you’re so stressed out is because you only give yourself an hour or two a week to just relax.”
“She’s right,” Carin says. “And look, I think it’s awesome that you meet up with us once a week, but at this rate, you’re going to flame out before you even get to Harvard. That’s what your dream is telling you.”
“Briar’s full of super students. Law school isn’t going to be more competitive than what you’ve already faced.” Hope fixes me with a stern look in the mirror. “Slow down, B. Or at least slow down while you still can.”
“You don’t have to marry the guy,” Carin chimes in. “Going on a date or having great sex isn’t a commitment. He’s a student too, which means he has to study. He plays hockey, which means he’s got practices and games. If you were going to date anyone, it should be someone who’s got his own busy life, right?”
Hope raises one eyebrow. “He’s got a game tonight…”
I gape at her. “Are you stalking him? How do you know he has a game?”
“I looked up the team’s schedule on the Briar site.”
Carin nods enthusiastically.
“Who are you guys and where are my friends?” I demand. “You don’t even like hockey.”
“I like it,” Carin protests. “My dad throws a Stanley Cup party every year!”
I turn to Hope, who shrugs. “I neither like nor dislike it. And I have nothing against going to a game if it means watching my bestie finally have some fun.”
“Come on,” Carin urges. “We don’t have to stay for the whole thing. We’ll watch a bit of the game, and maybe afterward you can go up to Tucker and tell him how awesome he played and how sexy he looks in his uniform. In fact…” She waves a hand out the window. “Here we are.”
“This is where we’re eating dinner?” I stare at Briar’s multi-million-dollar hockey facility and all of the students streaming inside.
Carin grins. “Yup. Love a good hot dog, don’t you?”
“D’Andre’s meeting us inside,” Hope adds.
I sigh. “So he was in on this diabolical plan of yours too?”
“Of course. He’s my partner in crime.” Hope kills the engine, and she and Carin unbuckle their seatbelts. “All right, let’s do this shit. Time’s a-wasting, B.”
I peer at the arena again, feeling oddly nervous. “I don’t know about this.”
“Aw come on,” Carin coaxes. “This place is full of your favorite things—athletes.”
I stick my tongue out at her, but she merely laughs.
“Hey, if you don’t want Tuck, then I’ll see if I can check beard off my bucket list.” She blinks innocently. “I mean, if you’re really not into this hot, built guy who gave you the best sex of your life, then you should totally be on board with me and Tuck hooking it up.”
The image of Carin’s petite body underneath Tucker’s big frame roils my stomach. “It’s Tucker. Not Tuck.” I flush when I hear the stiffness in my own voice.
Hope dissolves into a fit of giggles.
“God, if you could see the angry look on your face right now…” Carin giggles. “Honey, you’ve got it bad.”
Hope produces a flask from her purse. “If the game is terrible, we’ll just get super drunk while we watch a bunch of white boys skate around with knives on their feet.”
Her description of what she thinks hockey is makes me and Carin burst out in laughter. And as my friends hop out of the car, I find myself getting out and following them to the entrance of the arena.
They’re right about a lot of things. I do need a break, and maybe, just maybe, I need Tucker.
*
I don’t watch a lot of sports. Not because I don’t like them, but because I’ve never had time to get into one. I know a little bit about football because of Beau. And some baseball because that’s all Ray watches in the spring.
Hockey, not so much.
But I have to admit, watching Briar’s team play is more exciting than I thought it would be.
I’m squished between Hope and Carin, with D’Andre sitting on Hope’s other side. I don’t know if we have good seats or not. Carin says yes, but I would’ve preferred to be sitting right behind the home bench so I could stare at Tucker all night. Instead, I have to satisfy myself by watching him on the ice.
Hope told me that his jersey number is 46. I guess she found that out on the school website too. So I glue my eyes to the black-and-silver jersey that reads #46, marveling at the way he confidently wields his stick. I don’t think I could ever hold on to a hockey stick while I was wearing those bulky boxing gloves.
When I mention this to my friends, D’Andre laughs his ass off. “Those are hockey gloves, baby girl. Not boxing gloves.”
“Oh.” I feel stupid now.
In my defense, I’ve never been to a hockey game before, so why should I be expected to know what the equipment is called? I know there are sticks and pucks and nets. I know some players are forwards, because that’s what Tucker told me he was. And I know other players are defensemen, because that’s what Beau told me Dean was.
Other than that, I’m completely ignorant about this game. There was no reason to ever study up on it, since hockey players have been on my hell no list.
So have boyfriends, for that matter.
Argh. I can’t believe I let my friends talk me into this. I don’t have time for a boyfriend. And even if I did, Tucker isn’t the guy. He’s too nice. And sweet. And amazing.
That trickle of shame I felt when Ray interrupted us having sex still flutters through me every time I think about it. It was so humiliating. And even though Tucker assured me that it didn’t make him think any less of me, a part of me thinks less of me.
I hate where I come from. I hate Ray. Sometimes I even hate my own mother. I know I’m supposed to love her because she gave birth to me, but the woman abandoned me. She just left.
“You got this, boys!” an enthusiastic fan shouts, jerking me out of my bleak thoughts.
I glance at the ice to see Tucker skating again. The night we met, he’d admitted that he was slow because of an old knee injury, but holy hell, he doesn’t look slow. He’s a blur of motion, getting from one end of the ice to the other before I can even blink.
His teammates are equally fast, and I can barely keep up with the puck. I thought Tucker had it, but then the crowd roars with disappointment and I swivel my head to see the black disk bounce off one of the net posts. I guess someone else had it, but Tucker scoops up the rebound. He passes to one of his teammates. When the guy slaps it right back to Tuck, I find myself bolting to my feet so I can get a better view of him taking a shot.
He misses. I groan in frustration. Carin laughs as I flop back down in my seat, but she doesn’t make fun of me for my sudden burst of fangirldom.
The game remains scoreless all the way into the third period. I can’t believe we’ve already watched thirty minutes of hockey and no one has scored yet. You’d think I’d find it boring, but I’m on the edge of my seat, wondering which team will draw first blood.
It’s Briar.
As the lamp over the net lights up, a rock anthem blasts over the PA system and the home crowd screams in celebration. The announcer calls the goal for someone named Mike Hollis and the assist for…John Tucker.
I jump to my feet again, cheering loudly. This time, my friends do say something.
“She’s got it bad,” D’Andre remarks.
“Told you so,” Hope says to her boyfriend.
“What?” I mutter defensively. “That was a very nice scoring maneuver.”
Carin doubles over. “Scoring maneuver?” she echoes between giggles. “Jeez, B, get with the program. It’s called a goal.”
“You’re called a goal,” I retort childishly.
D’Andre snickers. “Good one.”
I sit down and watch the fast-paced game with bated breath. To my relief, Briar holds the other team off, and we win 1-0 when the final buzzer goes off. Everyone is in good spirits as they shuffle out of the arena, myself included.
I’m happy I came tonight. And as unsure as I am about whether to get involved with Tucker, I can’t deny I’m excited to see him and give him a hug and tell him what a great game he played. He’ll hug me back. Thank me. Maybe he’ll suggest we get in that truck of his for some celebratory sexytimes…
If he does that, I honestly don’t think I would say no this time.
“Apparently all the bunnies hang out outside the locker rooms,” Carin whispers to me as we file into the main lobby. “So let’s wait for him outside. It’ll be less crowded.”
“The bunnies?”
“Puck bunnies. Hockey groupies. Whatever you want to call them.” She shrugs. “You know, the chicks looking to get nasty with a hockey player.”
“Ah. Gotcha.” I shrug back, because I have nothing against girls who want that. After all, my own requirement for hookups is athletes only.
But when the athlete I’m waiting for finally emerges from the building, he’s not alone.
My spine stiffens as I watch Tucker pause on the steps with his arm slung around a short blonde. He’s in his hockey jacket and she’s bundled up in a bright red parka, but the way my stomach twists up with jealousy, you’d think they were buck-naked and brazenly fucking on the stairs.
“Let’s go,” I hiss to my friends.
A firm hand circles my wrist. “They’re just talking,” Hope says quietly.
My cheeks hollow as I grind my teeth. “He has his arm around her.”
I am not about to make a fool of myself over some hockey player, especially one who says how much he wants to go out with me and then comes out for a postgame celebration with his arm around some other girl.
I sneak another peek. Yep. Arm’s still around her. And he’s laughing at whatever Blondie’s saying.
My molars are being crushed to dust, but I can’t seem to look away. Blondie wraps both arms around Tucker’s waist and gives him a tight hug. She tips her head up at him. He smiles down at her.
And then my heart is shredded to pieces, because Tucker’s head is dipping toward hers. His mouth drops lower and lower and lower, until finally he kisses her…
