Sweetie. You’re Briar hockey.
“I’M GONNA MISS YOU, G.” MILLER SHULICK THROWS HIS ARM around me and rests his head in the crook of my neck.
We’re in the living room of the townhouse, carving out our own little spot on the couch while the party rages all around us. Well, it’s not quite a rager yet—Trager still has his shirt on. Once that comes off (which is often accompanied by him bellowing and beating his chest like Tarzan), it usually means it’s time to go.
Maybe tonight will end up being more low-key, though. The party is already suffering the strains of Chad Jensen’s email. For the past forty minutes, most of the guys have been bitching about the final roster. At least ten dudes here didn’t make the cut, and a few of them were so bummed they didn’t bother sticking around. They hugged Miller goodbye and glumly left the party. I feel for them.
Across the room, I spot Case standing with Whitney. He holds a plastic cup full of watered-down keg beer, sipping from it as Whitney chats with him about something. Every few seconds, his light-blue eyes flit in my direction.
“Aw, I’m gonna miss you too, Shu. Are you sure about this Minnesota thing?” I speak in his ear so he can hear me over the loud rock song blasting from the speakers.
“They won the Frozen Four last year. Of course I’m sure.” He shrugs ruefully. “Besides, change is good. I’m looking forward to the fresh start.”
I’ve always appreciated that about Miller. How adaptable he is. I don’t love change, personally. I prefer stability. Once I feel comfortable with something—a place, a person, a routine—I want it to last forever.
I hate that it never does.
“G, come have a drink with us,” Case calls.
Miller tugs me to my feet. “Come on. I need a refill and you need a fill.” He gestures to his empty cup, then my empty hands.
I grin.
We dodge four of his teammates who stumble into the room reeking of pot. The party is half indoors, half out. When we were outside earlier, the number of joints being passed around was astounding. But I guess the guys are allowed to let loose this weekend, considering the week Jensen put them through.
Case abruptly swivels from the doorway as we approach, and at first, I think he’s purposely turning his back to me. Then I become aware of a commotion at the front door. Trager is arguing with someone.
Miller and I exchange a look. “That doesn’t sound good,” he says.
I trail him to the hall and…nope, not good. A bunch of hockey players crowd the porch. Eastwood players, to be precise. Beckett Dunne, the blond hottie whose social media Camila has been drooling over since she saw him at practice, holds a twenty-four case of locally brewed lager.
Someone turns down the music, and now I can clearly hear every word being exchanged.
“Seriously, we come in peace.” Beckett’s gray eyes convey sincerity.
“Well, take your peace and get the fuck out of here,” Trager snaps.
“Relax,” Case interjects, placing a firm hand on Trager’s arm. He steps forward to address the newcomers. “Hey,” he says warily. “What’s up?”
I peer past Beckett’s big shoulders to get a better look at who else decided to brazenly crash this party. I don’t know why, but my gaze seeks out only Ryder. I suppose because he’s their leader, and I want to know where he stands on all this. I glimpse him at the edge of the porch, leaning against the railing, looking bored. Seems about right.
“Like we told your boy, we’re here to extend the olive branch,” Beckett tells Case.
“And like I said,” growls Trager, “fuck off.”
Shane Lindley steps forward, annoyance in his eyes. I’ve been doing my research too this week, and I’m starting to recognize individual Eastwood guys. Lindley is tall, dark, and handsome, where Dunne is tall, fair, and equally handsome.
“Look, we know you guys saw the list. We’re just here because going forward, we need to be one team, you know? I’m not sure how you do it here at Briar, but at Eastwood, we won as a team, we lost as the team, and we partied as a team.”
“Same here,” Case answers, albeit grudgingly.
“C’mon, C,” Trager says darkly. “We’re not partying with these guys.” He glares at the interlopers. “You fucking outnumber us in starters.”
“You outnumber us in total,” one of the Eastwood guys snaps back.
It’s the same guy Jordan fought the first day of camp. I think his name is Rand, and I get the feeling he’s the Eastwood version of Jordan. Same rude scowl. Same crimson cheeks tinged with rage. Like Trager, he’s a live wire, liable to explode at any time.
“That doesn’t count,” Trager mutters. “You stole our goddamn slots.”
“You know what?” Lindley sounds bored now. “Forget this shit. Enjoy the rest of your evening, ladies.”
“No, wait,” Case tells them. “Just come in. There’s plenty of booze to go around.”
I try to mask my surprise. I half expected Case to send them away, if only to avoid the potential disaster. Inviting these Eastwood guys to the party is…dangerous.
But it’s happening, and Whitney glances at me in delight as eight or so new hockey players trudge into the house.
“This should be fun,” she murmurs.
Ryder takes up the rear of the group. Clad in jeans and a gray hoodie. Completely expressionless, even as his blue eyes conduct a sweep of his surroundings. I can tell he’s entirely aware of everything going on around him. Not quite a live wire like his teammate, but always on the ready.
“Gisele,” he drawls, nodding.
Case narrows his eyes. “Don’t push it,” he warns Ryder.
Ryder merely smirks and saunters past him toward the kitchen.
I give Case a wary look. “Sure this is a good idea?”
“Guess we’re about to find out.”
It doesn’t stop with the eight new bodies. More Eastwood guys trickle in, along with a bunch of my teammates. Camila arrives in a bodycon red dress on the arm of some guy from the basketball team, only to pout when she realizes Beckett Dunne is here and she can’t flirt with him in front of her date.
I text Diana and Mya to see if they want to come. Mya has other plans. Diana passes because she’s watching Fling or Forever and apparently just applied a charcoal and smashed pea mask as part of a new beauty routine. I choose not to comment on the charcoal-and-peas part. I think one of my favorite things about Diana is how much she loves her own company. That’s rare these days.
I sip on a watery beer and chat with Miller and Whitney, all the while on guard. I don’t trust this. These boys have been battling it out for roster slots all week. The lingering antagonism hangs in the air like the radiation cloud after a nuclear bomb. Even as they drink, dance, and pass joints around, there’s still a distinct separation between the two factions.
For at least two hours, the waters remain calm. When it gets too stuffy inside, I go outside for some air. Although they have no permit for it, someone’s gotten the fire going at the very edge of the backyard. The firepit is much too close to the fence. If my mother saw this, she’d have a heart attack.
When the wind changes direction, I’m suddenly hit with a face full of smoke that makes my eyes water. I edge backward until my shoulders hit a hard wall.
I turn in surprise and realize it’s Ryder’s chest.
Jesus Christ. This guy is pure muscle.
“Sorry,” I say.
“All good.” He gestures to the guy beside him. “You know Shane, right?”
“Not officially.” I stick out my hand. “I’m Gigi.”
Shane’s handshake lingers, as does his seductive gaze. “Short for Gisele, right?”
I snatch my hand back and glower at Ryder. “Actually, no. Not at all. Prom king over here is just an ass.”
Shane starts to laugh. “Aw, look at that,” he says to his friend. “You two have your own inside jokes. How adorable.”
Ryder glares at him.
“Lindley!” someone shouts from the firepit. “Need your lighter.”
“And that’s my cue,” he says cheerfully. He winks at me. “Nice seeing you, Gisele.”
“Look what you’ve started,” I accuse Ryder.
“I refuse to believe your name isn’t short for something,” is his response.
“It’s really not. Blame my father. He’s the one who named me. Mom was in charge of my brother’s name, and she picked a normal one.”
For a moment, Ryder contemplates the orange-red embers dancing in the air. Then he glances over. “You looking forward to our secret session tomorrow?”
“Why do you have to make it sound so dirty?”
He tips his head. “I’m not doing that at all. I think this might be a you problem.”
God. Maybe he’s right. I went full carpet and now I have sex on the brain twenty-four/seven. I got myself off twice last night after watching one of the couples on Fling or Forever bang in the Sugar Suite. Stupid reality show with all those stupid oiled-up hotties.
I don’t know what compels me to remain beside him. I could walk away. Go join Case and Miller, whose heads I see in the kitchen window. Or find Whitney and Cami, who’ve been swallowed up into the bowels of the party.
But I stay outside. Staring at the fire with Ryder.
“That thing’s a fucking hazard,” he remarks, eyeing the pit. “One gust of wind and that fence goes up in flames.”
“You sound like my mom. She’s been watching this firefighter show on TV, and now all she talks about is fire safety. Dad thinks it’s ‘cute.’” I use air quotes. “My brother and I think she might be going insane. She bought a roll-down rope ladder for our top floor ‘just in case.’ And it comes with this pet basket you can use to lower your dogs down. And I was like, dude, no way Dumpy and Bergeron are willingly getting into that fucking thing. You’re better off trying to fling them out the window into the pool.”
Ryder stares at me.
“What?”
“Your dogs are named Dumpy and Bergeron?”
“Yes. Got a problem with that?”
“Sort of.”
I roll my eyes. “Take it up with my father. We’ve already established he’s a bad namer.”
“About that… How’s my endorsement going?”
“Haven’t spoken to him today. But don’t worry, I’ll be showering you with praise next time we talk.”
A burst of laughter sounds from the firepit. I glance over, astounded to discover someone was brave enough to cross the Eastwood-Briar divide. It’s none other than Will, who’s now chilling with Shane, Beckett, and two others whose names I don’t know. He chortles at something Shane said, but the good humor dies fast. Will is midchuckle when one of his friends forcibly drags him away from the Eastwood players.
Ryder notices the same thing, rumbling under his breath.
“So how is this ever going to work, cocaptain?” I can’t help but taunt. “Because it seems like you’ve got a serious stalemate happening. No one’s budging.”
“You’re budging,” he points out.
“I’m not part of this.”
“Sure, you are. You’re Briar hockey.”
“Sweetie. You’re Briar hockey.”
He cringes.
I laugh in sheer delight. “Aw, you just hate to hear that, don’t you? I kind of like knowing how much it pains you to be here. Why didn’t you transfer?” I ask curiously.
Before he can answer, loud shouts spill out from the open back doors of the house.
Yeah.
That was bound to happen. Surprised it took this long.
I hurry inside to find a full-blown fistfight has broken out in the living room between—who else?—Trager and that guy Rand. They’re going at it hard, and once again nobody does a goddamn thing to stop them.
“You still think it’s funny?” Trager spits out as he slams his knuckles into Rand’s cheek.
Rand’s head rears back, but he barely misses a step. He lunges at Trager, and the two men go tumbling onto the hardwood floor. I hear a sickening crunch of bone on bone when Rand lands a blow that triggers an eruption of blood from Trager’s nostrils. Cheers break out all around us, drowning out the music that’s still blaring in the room.
“What are they fighting about?” I hiss at Camila, who appears beside me, her face creased with concern.
“The Eastwood guy made some joke about Miller transferring because he’s too much of a pussy to stick around to see if he’d make the roster, and Jordan just lost it.”
On the floor, Trager now straddles Rand, peering down at him with a bloody smile. His eyes are bright and feral.
“You wanna talk about the roster? Eastwood is shit. Jensen only put you on the roster because he fucking feels bad that your school went under.”
“We’re better than all of you combined,” Rand sneers half a second before Jordan’s fist smashes into his mouth.
I push my way forward and seek out Case. “Come on, Case. Stop this,” I urge.
“I don’t know,” he says grimly. “Maybe they need to get it out of their systems.”
But I can tell it’s more than that. These guys are going to beat each other to death if they’re not stopped. And I’m not nearly as entertained by this fight as some of the other partygoers, many of whom are shouting and egging it on, several actually filming it.
“Fucking prick,” Rand roars, managing to roll himself out from Jordan’s grip and get up. “Y’all are a bunch of entitled Ivy League assholes.”
“Not my fault you’re goddamn poor,” Jordan grunts out, lurching to his feet.
“Fuck you.” Rand launches himself at Trager again.
Abandoning Case, I grab Ryder’s arm instead. He’s so tall I have to tip my head back to meet his eyes. Dark blue and deadly.
“Stop this?” I say softly.
Case realizes who I’m talking to and his expression flashes with disapproval. But he had his chance to put an end to this. He said no.
Ryder looks at me for a moment. Then he lets out a breath and takes a step forward. Completely unfazed when a fist flies past his cheekbone.
“Enough.”
One word. Deep. Commanding.
It succeeds in stopping Rand cold. Ryder shoves his teammate’s chest. “Get your shit together, Hawley.”
Rand is breathing hard. Blood drips from his split eyebrow in a sticky line down one side of his face. I wince. Trager doesn’t look much better. His nose is swollen, bloody, and likely broken.
But while Rand has been reined in thanks to Ryder, Trager remains a loose cannon. He shoots forward again, and now one of his teammates, Tim Coffey, decides he’s going to be the hero.
“Dude, stop,” Coffey orders, grabbing Trager’s arm.
But Trager is still a wild beast. He pushes Coffey off him.
Hard enough that Coffey loses his balance and crashes into the coffee table, which collapses under his weight and breaks apart like a house of cards. Wood splinters fly in all directions, table legs creaking and snapping, and then a cry of pain as Coffey lands awkwardly on the floor.
Directly on his wrist.
