The Risk

by Elle Kennedy

  “So, your school will be facing Harvard in the conference finals,” he says. “What are your thoughts on that?”

  “I’m excited to kick their butts.”

  Mulder’s smile is mocking. “With Connelly at the helm? I’m afraid you’re destined to lose. You’ve heard of Jake Connelly, right?”

  Unfortunately. “Of course.”

  Mulder leans back in his chair. “All right, then here’s a nice test for you—our interns are expected to be statistics savvy. Tell me, what are Connelly’s stats for the season?”

  I hide a frown. That’s the most generalized question I’ve ever heard. His stats? What stats?

  “You’ll have to be a bit more specific,” I reply. “What statistics are you looking for? Goals? Assists? Power play goals? Shots on goal?”

  Mulder seems annoyed by my questioning. Rather than answer, he shuffles through some papers.

  Lovely. This is shitty interview 2.0. I hate this man. He doesn’t care that I’m here, and he has no intention of hiring me. But I patiently sit there even though I can tell he’s totally checked out.

  His intercom buzzes, blessedly breaking the uncomfortable silence. “Mr. Mulder, your wife’s on the line. She says it’s important.”

  He rolls his eyes. “It’s never important,” he informs me. He jams a button with his finger. “I’m in the middle of an interview. Ask her to be more specific.”

  Ohhhh really? He’s allowed to ask people to be more specific, but when I do it, it’s inexcusable?

  After a short delay, Rochelle returns. “She needs to confirm the amount of people to expect for dinner on Friday.”

  “Important, my ass. Tell her I’ll call her after the interview.” He hits the button again. “Women,” he mutters.

  I refrain from commenting, because hello, I’m a woman.

  “We have a dinner party this weekend,” Mulder explains, shaking his head irritably. “As if I give a shit about any of the details. What do I care what the napkins look like? Or if it’s four courses or twenty? I swear that woman obsesses over the most trivial nonsense.”

  I’m surprised he doesn’t follow that up with some progressive commentary about how women are trivial creatures who have teeny pea brains and could never, ever work in a sports environment. The sports treehouse is for men! No girls allowed!

  On the big screen, ESPN is showing a clip of the Oilers’ Connor McDavid scoring one of the most beautiful goals I’ve ever seen. Sadly, it’s not enough to win them the game.

  Mulder whistles loudly, his mood brightening. “That kid is a legend!” he crows.

  “He’s a generational talent,” I agree. “Best thing that’s happened to the franchise in decades.”

  “And next season we have Connelly, too? Yee-haw! We’ll be unstoppable.”

  I nod. “Connelly will bring some much-needed speed to the team. He’s one of the best skaters there is.”

  “Lightning on skates. Lord, Brenna, I’ve never looked forward to a season more!” He rubs his hands together with unabashed glee.

  My body language relaxes. This is the first time Mulder has actually warmed up to me. I’m not particularly thrilled that Jake Connelly is the reason Mulder is thawing, but at this point, I’ll take whatever assistance I can get. Jerk Mountain is harder to climb than frickin’ Everest.

  We discuss Jake for nearly five minutes. I swear, Mulder actually seems to appreciate my opinions. One of my remarks legit causes him to say, “I couldn’t agree with you more.”

  And yet when I try to steer the conversation back to the internship?

  Mulder’s attention goes back to his computer screen.

  Frustration claws at my throat. I just want to scream. I can’t figure out if he likes me or hates me. If he wants to hire me or wants me to GTFO.

  “Anyway. Thanks for coming in again,” he says absently.

  Well, there’s my answer. Get the fuck out.

  “We still have a few more candidates to meet with, but you’ll be notified as soon as any decisions are made.”

  He means I’ll be notified that I didn’t get the job. At the moment, the likelihood of me landing this internship is about as good as me landing on the actual moon.

  Whatever. I swallow my disappointment and try to convince myself that perhaps I’m better off.

  “Thank you for your time,” I say politely.

  “Hmmm. No prob.” He’s once again concentrating on something other than me.

  Yes. I’m absolutely better off. I’d hate working in even the same building as someone like Ed Mulder. The man doesn’t give a crap about anything but himself and his precious Oilers. The only time he engaged with me or seemed the slightest bit interested was during our brief discussion about Jake. Mulder’s hard-on for Connelly is almost comical—

  My step stutters on my way to the door.

  An idea forms in my head. It’s insane. I’m aware it’s insane. And yet…I think maybe I don’t care that it’s insane.

  I want this internship. I want it so very badly. People have taken far more desperate measures to get a job. In comparison, what I’m about to do is…trivial. You know, just a silly woman with her trivial pursuits.

  “Mr. Mulder?”

  He glances at the door, annoyance in his expression. “Yes?”

  “I…well, I didn’t want to mention this before, because I thought it might be a bit inappropriate, but… Jake Connelly…” I hesitate, second-guessing the insanity.

  I draw a breath, quickly penning a pros and cons list in my head. There are so many cons. Like, a lot of them. The pros don’t seem as satisfying as—

  “What about him?” Mulder says impatiently.

  I exhale in a rush. “He’s my boyfriend.”

  12

  Jake

  Morning practice is grueling, but I don’t expect anything less from Coach. He was already riding our jocks before we made it into the finals—now all bets are off. We’re expected to skate faster, hit harder, take more shots. It’s an intense workout, and some of the skating drills we run leave even me breathless, and I’m the best skater on the ice.

  Not that I’m complaining. Some guys like to grumble about having to haul themselves out of bed so early. They bitch about the nutrition guides, or Coach’s hard-ass nature. I can’t deny that Pedersen’s got a more physical style of play than I do. Me, I rely on my speed and accuracy rather than brute strength. But in Coach’s playing days, he was a goon, and he promotes the same aggression in his players. Brooks is our main enforcer, but lately Pedersen’s been pushing the other guys to throw more elbows. He doesn’t expect it of me, though. He knows what I can do.

  Coach is waiting for me in the hall when I leave the locker room, my hair wet from the shower. He slaps me on the shoulder. “Good hustle out there, Connelly.”

  “Thanks, Coach.”

  “You gonna bring that same hustle to the finals?”

  “Yessir.”

  He slants his head. “Briar’ll be tough to beat.”

  I shrug. “Not worried. We got this.”

  “Damn right we do.” His expression turns grim. “But we also can’t fall into the overconfidence trap. Jensen had a shit season last year, and he’ll be clamoring to make his comeback. I wouldn’t be surprised if they’re doing two-a-days.”

  Me neither. Briar is looking much sharper this year. I’m not sure what happened last season, except that ever since Garrett Graham graduated, they’ve had a tough time finding that offensive breakout. Nate Rhodes is good, but he’s not exceptional. Hunter Davenport is almost as fast as I am, but he’s still young. He’s only a sophomore, with a lot of rough edges that require sharpening. I think next season Briar will be unstoppable with Davenport at the helm. But that’s next season. This season is ours.

  “I need you to come in earlier tomorrow morning,” Coach Pedersen says. “Six thirty, okay? I want you to work with Heath one-on-one.”

  I nod. I noticed Heath dropping some key passes today. “I’m cool with that.�
��

  “Knew you would be.” He claps me on the shoulder again before stalking off.

  I walk toward the lobby of the arena, where Brooks is waiting for me. The moment I reach him, my phone buzzes with an Instagram notification. I rarely use that app, so I’m about to ignore it when I notice the username.

  BrenJen.

  As in Brenna Jensen?

  Curiosity grabs hold of me. “Hey, go on ahead,” I tell Brooks. We’re grabbing lunch at the campus café with a few teammates. “I’ll meet you guys there. Gotta make a call first.”

  “Okay.” He gives me a weird look and lumbers off.

  I load Instagram and open my DMs. The profile picture for “BrenJen” shows a curtain of dark hair and the hint of a profile. But the red lips are a dead giveaway. It’s definitely Brenna, and the green dot beside her pic tells me she’s online right now.

  Connelly. It’s Brenna. Can we meet up?

  My eyebrows shoot up to my hairline. I instantly start typing with total disregard to the long lecture Brooks gave me one night about response etiquette. He has a strict rule about waiting minimum an hour before replying to a chick, so that she doesn’t feel like she’s the one with all the power. But I’m way too curious to abide by that.

  ME: Did you seriously just slide into my DMs?

  * * *

  BRENNA: Unfortunately. Do you want to meet up?

  * * *

  ME: Are you asking me out?

  * * *

  BRENNA: In your dreams, Jakey.

  I smile at the screen, just as Brenna follows up with another message.

  BRENNA: I’m in the city and have about an hour before I need to go back to Briar. I was hoping we could meet up.

  * * *

  ME: Gonna need a lot more than an hour for our first time, babe. I mean, foreplay alone will eat up most of that time.

  * * *

  BRENNA: An hour of foreplay? Aren’t you ambitious.

  * * *

  ME: Not ambitious. Realistic.

  And maybe I shouldn’t be trying to lure her into a sexting conversation right now, because the idea of foreplay with her is very enticing.

  ME: Why do you want to meet?

  * * *

  BRENNA: Need to talk to you about something. And I’m not doing it on a stupid app, so yes or no?

  I’m too intrigued to turn her down. I mean, the daughter of Briar’s head coach is trying to arrange a clandestine meeting with the captain of the Harvard hockey team? Who wouldn’t be intrigued?

  So I type, where and when?

  We meet up at a coffee shop in Central Square. Once again, it’s pouring outside, and I’m cold and wet when I join Brenna at a small table in the back.

  She’s holding a coffee cup, wisps of steam rising up from the lip to redden her nose. She gestures to the cup in front of the empty chair. “I ordered you a coffee. Black.”

  “Thanks,” I say gratefully, wrapping my wet hands around the hot mug. My fingers are fucking freezing.

  As I take a long sip, Brenna sits there watching me.

  I set the cup down. “So,” I drawl.

  “So,” she drawls back.

  Damn, she looks cute today. Her long hair is pulled back in a neat braid, and her complexion is devoid of makeup. Or, if she’s wearing any, she’s opted for a totally natural look. There’s a fresh-faced, rosy glow to her cheeks and—holy shit, she’s not wearing red lipstick. Her lips are pink and glossy.

  I almost blurt out, “What’s wrong with your face,” but corral the question before it’s too late. That is never something you want to ask a chick.

  “Are you finally going to enlighten me about why I’m here?” I ask instead.

  “Yes, but first you have to promise me a few things.”

  “Nah. I make no promises, ever.”

  “Fine. Then I’m out. And at least I get to leave with the satisfaction of knowing I made you come all the way here for nothing.” She starts to rise. “Later, Jakey.”

  “Sit that pretty ass back down,” I order, rolling my eyes. “Fine. What am I promising?”

  “One, that you’ll hear me out until I’m done. And two, that you won’t gloat.”

  The mystery deepens. I lean back in my chair and say, “All right. Cross my heart and hope to die.”

  “Okay.” She blows out a breath. “So I applied for an internship at HockeyNet.”

  “Nice.”

  “Sure, it would be. If my interviewer wasn’t an enormous dickwad.” Brenna’s fingers tighten around her mug. “I’ve had two interviews with him, and he didn’t take me seriously either time.” She scowls at me. “And before you make some snarky comment about how maybe I’m not qualified for the job—”

  “I wasn’t going to,” I cut in.

  “Good. Because I am qualified. I don’t think he takes any women seriously. Or at least, women trying to break into sports. You should’ve heard the derisive way he spoke about Georgia Barnes. He acted like she didn’t belong at the network. He acted like I didn’t belong there.” Brenna’s tone is thick with frustration, but her eyes convey pure defeat. “He’s such a dick.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say, and I mean it. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Brenna lose her confidence. I’m surprised she’s even letting this jackass get to her. “Want me to go beat him up?”

  “If it were that easy, I would beat him up on my own. A good kick in the balls would do him a world of good.”

  I snicker. “Why am I here, then?”

  “So…he’s from Edmonton,” she starts.

  A frown touches my lips. I’m not quite sure where this is going. I assume this guy is an Oilers fan, but I won’t be playing there until next year. “I still don’t see where I fit into this.”

  “The only time during the interview today that he actually seemed interested in me was when we were discussing Edmonton. And you,” she adds grudgingly. “He thinks you’re exactly what they need to win the Cup.”

  I think I agree with him. The team’s record is decent, but I plan on making it even better. I’m a damn good hockey player, not only due to talent, but because I work my ass off. I’ve worked for this my entire life.

  “Anyway…” Brenna trails off. She takes a hasty sip of her coffee.

  “Why’d you bring me here, Jensen? I’ve got class soon, too.”

  “Because, like I said, the first time he paid any positive attention to me was when I told him I knew you.”

  I grin in delight. “Dropped my name, eh?”

  “Shut up. It made me sick doing it.”

  Laughter spills out. This chick is really something. I’m so used to girls throwing themselves at me that it’s almost refreshing when one does the opposite.

  “I did more than drop a name,” she confesses.

  My forehead wrinkles. “Okay. What’d you tell him?”

  She mumbles something under her breath.

  I lean forward. “What’s that?”

  “I told him you were my boyfriend,” she grinds out. Her jaw is so tight I’m surprised it doesn’t snap in two.

  I stare at her for a second. When I realize she’s dead serious, I’m hit with another wave of laughter. “You fucking didn’t.”

  “I did. And you promised not to gloat.”

  “Sorry. Promise broken.” I can’t stop chuckling. “This is too fucking good. That was so much more than a name drop. It was like…like Human Centipede level of kiss-ass.” I wipe tears from the corner of my eye.

  Brenna glares daggers at me. “First of all, gross. And second, I’m sorry, but unlike you I actually need to get a job when I graduate. I don’t have the luxury of a multimillion-dollar contract with a professional hockey franchise. Journalism is my dream, so if kissing that jerk’s ass is what I need to do to get this internship, then I will.”

  I force myself to stop laughing. It’s difficult. “Okay, so you told him I’m your boyfriend.” Oh man, I love this. I love it hard. I can practically picture the expression on her face when she told him
. The agony. “That doesn’t explain why we’re sitting here right now.”

  “Needless to say, he came in his pants at the idea of having easy access to you.” She sighs. “He’s hosting a dinner party on Friday and he wants us to go.”

  “Us?” I’m grinning so hard. “We’re an us now?”

  “Trust me, that’s the last thing I want, but I told him we’d be there. And now, as humiliating as it is, I’m asking you to do me a solid and go with me.” She looks and sounds like she’d rather roll around in a dark pit full of razor blades.

  I grin even harder. I think my face might break.

  “Don’t do this to me,” she says miserably. “I’m aware of how ridiculous this is, but I need your help. You already pretended to be my boyfriend once, remember? You had no problem putting your hands all over me at the concert, but I guess that was okay because it was your idea to put on the charade?”

  She has a point.

  “Well, I need you to do it again, okay?” There’s a splash of bitterness in her tone. “It’s one night—I’ll even pay you if you want.”

  “Hey, I’m no gigolo.”

  “Fine, then do it for free. Be a good Samaritan.”

  I ponder for a moment. “Nah.”

  “Come on, Connelly.” I don’t think I’ve ever seen Brenna so flustered. “Don’t make me beg.”

  A bolt of lust streaks straight to my groin. “That sounds so fucking appealing.”

  Her mouth tightens. “It’s not happening.”

  “Mmmm, you on your knees…begging…” My cock twitches.

  It’s official. I’m hot for this girl. I’ve slept with my share of women, but I can’t remember the last time I lusted this hard over someone. I can feel my eyes glazing over as I envision the scene I just described. Brenna on her knees, unzipping my pants. Gripping my cock. Peering up at me with big eyes. Pleading for it.