by Elle Kennedy
“Yup, come in.”
He opens the door and leans against the frame. “You want anything special for dinner tonight?”
“Oh, don’t worry,” I tell him, amused. “You don’t have to cook.”
“Wasn’t gonna. I thought we’d order a pizza.”
I snicker. “You know I’ve seen those meal plans you force the boys to follow, right? And meanwhile you’re over here ordering pizzas?”
“You’re home,” he says with a shrug. “It’s cause for celebration.”
Is it? Our interactions are so strained and awkward that it feels like two strangers talking to each other. There’s no warmth between us anymore. No hostility, either, but he’s definitely not the same man who used to call me Peaches.
“Okay, then. Pizza sounds great,” I say.
A short silence falls. He seems to be examining me, searching my gaze for…something.
For some reason, I feel it’s imperative to say, “I’m an adult now.”
Except saying I’m an adult now pretty much ensures that the person claiming adulthood is viewed as the complete opposite.
Dad’s mouth quirks wryly. “Well aware of that.”
“I mean, just because I’m staying here for a week or so doesn’t mean you can give me the ‘you live under my roof, you follow my rules’ shtick. I won’t follow a curfew.”
“And I won’t have you lumbering in here drunk at four in the morning.”
I roll my eyes. “That’s not really a habit of mine. But I might come home a little tipsy around midnight after hanging out with my friends. And I don’t need you to lecture me about it.”
Dad drags his hand over his close-cropped hair. He’s sported this no-nonsense military buzz cut as far back as I can remember. Dad doesn’t like to waste time on frivolous things. Like hair.
“You do your thing, I do mine,” I finish. “Deal?”
“As long as your thing doesn’t harm yourself or others, then I won’t have a reason to interfere.”
My throat grows tight. I hate that when he looks at me, he still sees that self-destructive girl with the poor decision-making process. But I’m not her anymore. I haven’t been her for a long time.
Dad turns away. “Let me know when you’re getting hungry and I’ll place the pizza order.”
He firmly closes the door behind him.
Welcome home, I think.
14
Brenna
“Omigod, Bee, you would’ve died!” It’s Friday night and I’m on the phone with Summer, who’s filling me in on the crazy shit that apparently went down yesterday, courtesy of one Rupi Miller.
“She seriously showed up at the house and dragged Hollis on a date?” The balls on that girl. I love it.
“Yes! She was wearing the cutest black dress with a white lace collar and really sweet heels, and he’s sitting on the couch in sweatpants, playing video games with Fitz. She took one look at him and screamed, ‘Upstairs! Now!’ You should have seen his face.”
I’m in public, so I can’t hoot the way I want to. But I’m hooting inside, because I can totally picture Hollis’s expression. “I bet he thought he was about to get laid.”
“I don’t know what he thought. She’s been texting him all week about their ‘big date,’ but he thought it was some sort of joke. He didn’t actually believe there’d be a date until she showed up at our door to pick him up.” Summer starts laughing hysterically. “So she took him upstairs and went to his closet and picked out an outfit for him—”
A cackle slips out. I can’t help it, and I don’t care if everyone at the train station hears it. This is priceless.
“—and now they’ve been gone for about an hour and I don’t know whether to file a missing-person report or see how this plays out.”
“See how it plays out,” I say immediately. “Please don’t come between Rupi and her man. I beg of you. Hollis needs to feel what it’s like to be harassed.”
“I think they might be a match made in heaven.”
“Here’s hoping.”
Headlights catch my attention. I’ve been outside the train station for the past ten minutes, waiting for a blue Honda Civic to arrive, and I think it’s finally here. I squint as the car approaches the curb. “Sorry, babes, I gotta go. My car’s here.”
“I cannot believe you’re going on a date and I know nothing about this guy.”
“There’s nothing to know. It’s just a Tinder guy. Probably won’t amount to anything other than a hookup.” Yes, I’m a liar. So sue me. And yes, of course I feel bad lying to my friends, but there’s no way I’m telling Summer the truth about tonight. It’s bad enough that I know what I’m doing tonight.
I offer a hasty goodbye and hang up just as the passenger door of the Civic pops open. Hmmm. Jake is sitting up front with the driver. I peer at the driver’s seat and spot a cute girl with turquoise drop earrings and big hair. Why doesn’t that surprise me?
“Hey,” he calls as he hops out of the car.
For a second I lose my voice. He’s wearing his Harvard jacket, a sin I reluctantly forgive because the rest of him is so damn appealing. His dark hair is swept back from his face, emphasizing chiseled cheekbones and a jawline that makes me drool. He’s completely clean-shaven tonight. Last weekend he had some scruff. Now he looks young and smooth and…fine, he looks incredible.
Unfortunately, Jake Connelly is a very attractive man.
I walk over to him. “Hey.” Then I slide through the back door he holds open for me, and greet the driver as I settle in the backseat.
Jake gets in beside me, we buckle up, and then we’re on our way. According to the email that Ed Mulder’s secretary sent me, Mulder’s address is in Beacon Hill. He must haul in quite the salary at HockeyNet.
“You look weird,” Jake murmurs.
“Weird how?” And that is not what you’re supposed to say to your fake girlfriend. My nerves are already on edge.
“You’re wearing lip gloss. And it’s pink.”
“So?”
“So I don’t like it,” he growls.
“You don’t? Oh no! Let me run home and choose a makeup palette that’s more to your liking!”
From the front seat, the driver snorts.
Jake’s dark-green eyes flicker with amusement. “Fine, disregard my opinion. But I dig the red lips. The pink ones aren’t doing it for me.”
They’re not doing it for me, either, but I won’t give him the satisfaction of admitting it. I purposely toned down my appearance for tonight. Some sad, sick part of me is hoping to impress Ed Mulder.
As we head toward Beacon Hill, I scroll through the sports news on my phone. I frown deeply at one headline. “Have you been following this Kowski thing?” I ask Jake. “I swear, the refs have a conspiracy against him.”
“You think?”
“He’s the most fouled player in the league. And the amount of missed calls on him is astronomical. Something’s going on there.” I scan the rest of the article, but the author doesn’t add any new insights. Basically, the referees keep missing calls and Sean Kowski keeps paying for it.
Our driver turns off Cambridge Street and slows down in front of a row of tall brownstones. Man, what I wouldn’t give to live in one of those townhouses. They’re old and oozing with charm, most of them still retaining their original historical features. With its mature trees and gas streetlights, Beacon Hill is one of the most scenic neighborhoods in the city. And it’s impossibly quiet considering it’s splat in the middle of Boston. Coming here is like stepping back in time, and I love it.
“Here we are,” the driver says.
Jake leans forward and touches her shoulder. “Thanks, Annie. Enjoy the rest of your night.”
“You, too, Jake.”
I’m trying not to roll my eyes as we exit the car. I guess they’re best friends now. For some reason, the way Jake seems to get along with everyone rubs me the wrong way. It’s hard to think of him as THE ENEMY when faced with evidence that he migh
t be a decent guy.
“Your face is a bit green,” Jake remarks as we climb the front stoop. “I thought you had balls of steel.”
“I do,” I mutter, but he’s right. I’m beyond nervous. I chalk it up to the two very terrible encounters I’ve already had with Mulder. “I don’t know. I just feel sick that I have to try to impress this jackass.”
“No one’s forcing you to,” he points out.
“I want this internship. That leaves me no choice but to impress him.”
I ring the doorbell, and two seconds later the door swings open to reveal a woman clad in black pants, a black shirt, and white apron. I doubt it’s Mulder’s wife, because I see another woman in an identical outfit hurrying toward a doorway I assume is the kitchen.
“Please come in,” she says. “You’re the last guests to arrive. Mr. and Mrs. Mulder are entertaining the others in the sitting room.”
Oh brother, they’re one of those couples? I suppose we’ll all congregate in the sitting room before being ushered into a dining room and the men shall retire to the study while the women do the dishes. Seems like a Mulder move, for sure.
“May I take your coat?” the woman prompts.
Jake slips out of his and hands it over. “Thank you,” he tells her.
I unbutton my pea coat and slide it off my shoulders. I hear a sharp intake of breath, and glance over to find Jake’s admiring gaze on me. “You clean up nice, Jensen,” he murmurs.
“Thanks.” I couldn’t very well wear my usual all-black attire, so I chose a tight gray sweater, black leggings, and cute brown suede ankle boots. My makeup is subtle and I feel naked without my lipstick, AKA, my armor. But I wanted to look classy tonight.
I don’t know what to expect as we approach the sitting room. Will it be an older crowd? Younger? And how many people?
To my relief, there aren’t many. The dinner party consists of Mulder and a pale-skinned woman at his side who I assume is his wife. Then there’s an older couple in their forties, and a younger couple in their twenties. The younger guy seems familiar, but it isn’t until Jake whispers in my ear that I realize who it is.
“Holy shit, that’s Theo Nilsson.”
Nilsson is a defenseman on the Oilers, whose humble nature and Nordic good looks have made him popular with fans and foes alike. Unfortunately, he’s out for the rest of the season with a leg injury.
“I heard he’s originally from Boston, but I didn’t realize he was in town,” Jake murmurs. “This is awesome.”
When Mulder notices us lurking in the doorway, his face lights up. “Jake Connelly!”
I swallow my displeasure. And what am I, chopped liver?
“So glad you could make it!” Mulder exclaims. “Come in, come in. Let me introduce you to everyone.” He gestures for us to come closer.
Introductions are quickly made. The pale woman is Ed’s wife, Lindsay. Her eyebrows are so blond they’re almost white, and her hair is arranged in a severe twist at the nape of her neck. She greets us with a wan smile. Next there’s Nilsson, who goes by “Nils,” and his wife Lena, who has a heavy Swedish accent but speaks perfect English. The older couple rounding out the group is Mulder’s brother David and sister-in-law Karen.
“It’s an honor to meet you,” Jake tells Nils, sounding a wee bit star struck. “I’ve been following your season. I hated seeing you go out like that.”
“That game was so hard to watch,” I say sympathetically. Hockey injuries are par for the course, but it’s not very common for someone to break their leg on the ice. “It looks like you’re doing better, though.”
The blond man nods. “Cast came off a couple weeks ago. Now I’m starting the physio, and dear Lord, it is brutal.”
“I can imagine,” I say.
Nils glances at Jake. “I was watching the draft when you went in the first round. We’re excited to have you on board next year.”
“I’m excited to be there.”
For the next few minutes, Jake and Nils discuss the Oilers organization. The Mulder brothers are quick to join in, and it isn’t long before the men slowly ease away from the women toward the wet bar near the grand piano.
Seriously?
The women are relegated to two loveseats near the stately fireplace. Frustration burns my throat as I watch the men talk hockey, while halfheartedly listening to Karen chat about the new yoga studio she recently discovered in Back Bay.
“Oh, the Lotus!” Lena Nilsson gushes. “That’s where I’ve been going now that we’re back in the city. The instructors are wonderful.”
“How long are you in town for?” I ask Lena.
“Until Theo has to report for training camp. I wish we could stay forever. I’m never excited about going back to Edmonton.” Lena’s bottom lip sticks out. “It’s a very cold place.”
The ladies keep chatting, and I have absolutely nothing to contribute to the conversation. I stare longingly at Jake, who’s involved in an animated discussion with Nils. He must sense my gaze on him, because suddenly he glances over. I see understanding dawn in his eyes. Then he says something to Nils before waving to me. “Babe, come here and tell them your conspiracy theory about Kowski and the refs.”
“Excuse me.” I gratefully hop to my feet and hope that Lindsay and the others aren’t offended by my obvious eagerness to escape their company.
Ed Mulder doesn’t look thrilled by my arrival, but Nils greets me warmly. “Conspiracy, eh? To be honest, I’m starting to wonder the same thing.”
“There’s no other explanation,” I answer. “Did you see the clip from yesterday? The ref was clearly watching that play and decided not to call a foul. And honestly, every time they discount an infraction, it’s such a disservice to Kowski. He’s fast, but he can’t showcase his speed because he’s constantly being knocked around without any repercussion to the guys doing the knocking.”
“I agree,” Nils says, shaking his head incredulously. “It’s downright bizarre. The ref—was it McEwen? I think it was Vic McEwen—he had a perfect line of sight to Kowski and the Kings winger who cross-checked him.”
Mulder sounds annoyed as he joins in. “Kowski initiated contact.”
“It was typical puck protection on his end,” I counter. “Meanwhile, the resulting check could have resulted in a serious head injury.”
“But it didn’t,” Mulder says, rolling his eyes at me. “Besides, injuries come with the job, right, Nils?”
I stifle my annoyance.
Nils responds with a shrug. “For the most part, yes. But I agree with Brenna about Kowski. There’s a difference between normal contact and the kind of contact that can give you brain damage.” He gives Jake a wry smile. “Still want to come play with us next season knowing a ref might allow you to get murdered?”
“Absolutely.” No hesitation from Jake, though he follows it up with a rare display of humility. “I just hope I don’t disappoint you guys.”
“You’re going to kill it,” I say firmly, because I truly believe he will. “I bet you you’ll be the youngest player ever to win the Art Ross.” That’s the trophy for the most points in a season, previously won by legends like Gretzky and Crosby.
“Babe. That’s a lot of pressure,” Jake grumbles. “I’d be happy if I got an assist or two.” Then he smirks, displaying the familiar Connelly confidence. “Or a Stanley Cup.”
Nils raises his glass. “I’ll drink to that.”
“You guys are definitely due,” I tell them. “The Oilers haven’t won a cup since, what, the 1989 season? Not since the Gretzky era.”
Nils nods in confirmation. “You know your hockey.”
“We went to the finals in ’06,” Jake points out. He pauses. “Lost, though.”
And what followed was an eleven-year playoffs drought, which is embarrassing when you consider that more than half the teams in the league make it to the playoffs. I don’t mention that particular statistic, however. I wouldn’t dream it, not in front of an Oilers superfan, an Oilers active-roster pl
ayer, and a soon-to-be Oilers rookie.
Speaking of the superfan, I feel Mulder’s gaze on me, and I turn to find him wearing a shit-eating grin. My first thought is that he’s impressed.
But I should know better by now.
“Sorry, it’s just funny sometimes.” Chuckling, he swirls the ice cubes in his glass. “You know, hearings hockey stats and breakdowns coming from a woman. It’s cute.”
It’s cute?
A red mist washes over my vision. Attitudes like that are the reason why women still face massive roadblocks when trying to break into sports journalism. It’s a historically sexist profession, and even now there really aren’t that many established female sports journalists. It’s not for lack of talent—it’s because of men like this, who think vaginas don’t belong in sports.
“Stats knowledge is one of the many talents Brenna brings to the table,” Jake says roughly.
Ed Mulder completely misconstrues that. I know Jake wasn’t trying to be sleazy, considering he went out of his way to include me in the hockey talk. But Mulder’s brain operates on a different level.
“I bet she does,” he drawls. He leers at my chest for several fist-inducing seconds before winking and clapping Jake on the shoulder.
Jake stiffens.
I grit my teeth, pressing my balled fists to my sides. This man is such a pig. I want nothing more than to smack him across the face and tell him to shove his internship up his ass.
Jake sees my face and gives a slight shake of the head. I force myself to relax. He’s right. I wouldn’t be doing myself any favors by causing a scene.
From the doorway, Mulder’s wife consults with the caterer before turning to address the group. “Dinner is served!”
15
Jake
Last summer I tagged along with Brooks and his parents to Italy for a couple weeks. The Weston family owns a villa in Positano, one of the wealthier regions on the Amalfi Coast. The coast was stunning, but Brooks and I explored other areas as well, including Naples and Pompeii and the infamous Mount Vesuvius. I imagine living anywhere near a volcano would be insanely stressful. I’d constantly be shooting wary glances at it, wondering when it was going to erupt—and knowing it can erupt. Knowing it has the power to wipe away an entire civilization, because it happened to Pompeii.
