Twenty-four hours after the shit show that was the conference finals, I’m still dealing with the fallout. My anger over Daryl Pedersen’s actions hasn’t abated in the slightest. That spiteful dickhead didn’t need to drop that bomb and certainly not in public. After he did that, the Harvard players followed him, my dad ushered the Briar boys onto the bus, and I drove home with Summer, who was visibly hurt that I’d kept her in the dark about me and Jake Connelly.
But at least she’s still talking to me. My father hasn’t said one word to me since last night. I genuinely don’t know if he’s pissed or simply indifferent. I’m definitely not confused about how Nate and the others feel, however.
The guys are outraged. Hollis called me a traitor last night. Nate, still sore about being ejected from the finals, was livid that I would even dare to be with a Harvard guy after the bullshit Jonah Hemley pulled during the game. And when I got home from Cambridge, Hunter bitterly texted me: Wrist’s broken in 2 places. Thank your boyfriend for me.
They’re being babies. I’m well aware of this. But these babies are still my friends, and they dealt with a brutal loss yesterday. A loss that might not have occurred if Jake’s teammate hadn’t instigated Hunter’s and Nate’s ejections.
Doesn’t matter that Jake himself wasn’t responsible. He’s the Harvard captain, he’s the enemy, and I’m an asshole for “choosing him over us”—Hollis’s words, not mine.
“I still can’t believe you don’t trust me.”
Summer’s unhappy voice echoes in my ear. I’m lying on my bed staring up at the ceiling, trying to ignore my rumbling stomach. I’d hoped Summer’s phone call would distract me from the hunger, but no such luck. Sooner or later I’ll have to drag myself downstairs to find something to eat. Which means having to face my father, who’s been holed up in the living room all evening.
“I do trust you,” I assure her.
“Do you really?” she says doubtfully.
“Of course. But like I said in the car last night, I didn’t want to risk it. You’re the girl who tells her boyfriend everything, and that’s fine, at least most of the time. But tensions were already running high between us and Harvard, especially after that dumb prank on Jesse’s car. I just didn’t want to take the chance that you might tell Fitz, at least not before the finals. But the game’s over now, and Harvard’s moving on. There’s no reason to hide it anymore.”
“I guess that makes sense,” she says, albeit grudgingly. After a few beats, she changes the subject to Hunter. “I can’t believe that jerk broke Hunter’s wrist.”
“I know.”
“And all because Hunter’s been banging everything in a skirt lately. If he hadn’t slept with that girl, we might’ve won the game.”
“He didn’t know she had a boyfriend,” I point out.
“I know. But still. Why are men so stupid?”
“I honestly don’t know.”
There’s another pause. “So is Jake Connelly your boyfriend?”
“No.” I can’t stop a grin, because I’ve been waiting for this cross-examination since last night. I think Summer was too hurt over being left out of the loop to properly question me about Jake. Now that her feelings aren’t stinging anymore, Detective Di Laurentis is back on the case.
“Have you slept with him?”
“Yes.”
“How was it?”
“It was good.”
“Just good?”
“It was very good,” I amend.
“I’m not doing this anymore, you brat,” I interrupt.
“Sorry.” The interrogation resumes. “So you slept with him. And you’ve been sneaking around with him for years—”
“It has not been years,” I grumble.
“But since my fashion show?” she presses.
“Yeah, around then.”
“Do you like him? Wait, why am I even asking. I know you do.” Her voice is growing more and more excited by the second. “I think this is great, by the way. I mean, he’s insanely attractive—I could stare at him for hours and hours.”
I try not to laugh. “Glad you approve?”
Her tone becomes serious. “I do, you know. Approve.”
“You’re the only one.”
“They’ll get over it.”
We chat for a couple more minutes. After we hang up, my stomach grumbles again, and I decide it’s time to bite the bullet and go downstairs. I can’t avoid my father forever. Plus, I’m famished.
I know he hears me descending the stairs because of the horrible creaking, but he doesn’t turn around as I reach the doorway. He’s watching HockeyNet, and since yesterday’s game aired on the network, they’re not only showing highlights of it, but Kip Haskins and Trevor Trent are actually discussing the game on their show.
Or rather, arguing about it.
“There’s fighting in the pros,” Kip is grumbling. “I don’t see why the NCAA is so severe about it.”
“Because these are kids,” Trevor points out.
“Are you kidding me? Some of these guys are older than actual NHL players!” Kip argues. “Toronto has an eighteen-year-old on their active roster. Minnesota is starting two nineteen-year-olds. Those boys are thrust into a high-stakes violent environment and they’re able to handle it. And what, you’re telling me twenty-one and twenty-two-year-old college men are too delicate to throw a few punches and—”
Dad pauses the DVR when he notices me.
“Hey,” I say.
He grunts. I don’t know if that means hello or get out of my face.
“Can we talk?”
Another grunt.
Swallowing a sigh, I enter the room and sit on the other end of the couch. Dad watches me warily but doesn’t say a word. He’s clearly waiting for me to start, so I do.
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you I was seeing Jake Connelly.” I shrug awkwardly. “If it helps, I didn’t tell anyone.”
His jaw ticks. “Daryl Pedersen seemed to know.”
“He saw us together at Harvard once.”
Anger sharpens Dad’s features. “You’ve been around Pedersen?”
“Yes. I mean, no. Just one time, one conversation.”
My father goes silent for a long, tense moment. I can’t read his expression anymore, and I have no idea what’s going through his mind.
“I want you to stay away from that man,” he finally mutters.
“Dad—”
“I mean it, Brenna!” He raises his voice, and now his expression is easy to decode—bitter, cold, and disapproving. But what else is new? “Daryl Pedersen is a selfish prick. He was a dirty player, now he’s a dirty coach, and he has no honor, on or off the ice. Stay away from him.”
I shake my head in exasperation. “Dad. I don’t care about your stupid feud with Coach Pedersen, okay? I. Don’t. Care. It has nothing to do with me, and if you’re worried I’m hanging out with him in my spare time, I can assure you I’m not. Why would I? As for Jake—”
“Stay away from him, too,” Dad growls.
“Come on.” I exhale slowly. “Jake’s a good guy. What’s wrong with me seeing him?”
“I’m not doing this with you again.” He locks his gaze to mine. “I will not watch this happen again. We already did it with Eric—”
“Jake is not Eric. And our relationship is nothing like my relationship with Eric was. I was fifteen when we started dating. And I was sixteen when—”
“We’re not going through it again!” he booms. “Do you hear me?”
“I hear you. But you’re not hearing me.” I rake my fingers through my hair, agitation rising inside me. “Jake is nothing like Eric. He’s smart, he’s disciplined, he doesn’t party. I swear, this guy is a generational talent, Dad. People will be talking about his career for decades to come. And he’s a good guy. He was with me the night I went to help Eric—”
“So that’s the friend you spent the night with?” Dad’s lips tighten. “And I suppose he’s the one you keep going to Boston to see? Is this why the HockeyNet internship fell through? Because your mind’s been so wrapped up in this guy that you didn’t properly prepare for your interviews?” He laughs humorlessly. “And you’re telling me this is nothing like it was with Eric?”
My jaw drops. “Is that a joke? I absolutely prepared for those interviews. I didn’t get the job because the man in charge thinks my sports knowledge is cute.” Anger heats my throat. “And yes, I stayed at Jake’s place that night, and I’m not apologizing for that.”
“Fine, then maybe you should go and spend a few more nights there,” Dad snaps back.
A second ticks by. Two. Three.
“Are you kicking me out?” I ask in amazement.
“No.” He shakes his head. “Actually, yes. If you’re determined to revert back to this bullshit high school behavior, where you stay out all night and throw your life away for another hockey player—”
“I’m not throwing my life away. Not only are you overreacting, but you’re being ridiculously irrational right now.”
“Irrational? You have no idea what it’s like to almost lose your child,” he spits out. “You have no idea, Brenna. And forgive me if I’m not feeling optimistic about this relationship with Connelly. You have a track record of making terrible decisions.”
I feel like I’ve been struck. My heart beats double time as I try to collect my thoughts. As I try to put into words why his accusations are such a slap in the face.
“Despite what you think, I’ve actually been making solid decisions,” I say bitterly. “I turned a miserable high school transcript around by going to community college, where I excelled. So much so that I was able to get into an Ivy League university, without you pulling strings, without anyone else’s help. How’s that for terrible decisions? But no, you refuse to acknowledge that I’ve grown up or matured. You want to keep thinking of me as the selfish teenager who lost her head over a guy? Then fine, keeping doing that.” I stand up on stiff legs. “I’ll get my stuff and leave.”
