The Risk

by Elle Kennedy

  His volatile reaction catches me off-guard. I hear a lot of bitterness in his tone, and I wonder who broke his heart. As far as I know, Pedersen’s never been married. He doesn’t have kids, and if he has a girlfriend then he never talks about her. A few of the guys have posited the theory that he might be gay, but I don’t think he is. There was a team event at a Boston hotel last year, and I saw Coach leave the party with a hot redhead in a skintight dress. That doesn’t mean he isn’t gay, but, hell, who knows?

  From the sound of it, though, he has absolutely no interest in relationships.

  “At the end of the day, these women want something from you, kid. They always want something. They take and take and take, and they don’t give anything back. Nobody gives a shit about anybody else, so you might as well look out for yourself, right?”

  That’s what I usually do. It’s what I’ve done my whole life. I’m not sure why the approach isn’t working for me lately. My stomach’s been twisted up in knots ever since Brenna ended things.

  “You know what I like most about you, Jake?”

  “What’s that?” I ask warily.

  “You’re selfish.”

  I find myself bristling. He’s presenting it as a compliment, and it’s not even a new revelation for me—I know I’m selfish. Yet for some reason, being called selfish by my coach raises my hackles.

  “You don’t let anything come in the way of your goals,” he continues. “Your own needs come first, and that’s how it should be. That’s the reason you’re destined to be a superstar.” Coach shakes his head again. “This girl that’s causing you all this grief? Forget about her. Focus on winning, focus on this sweet new job you’ll have come August. One misstep on the ice can end a career. Loss of focus leads to dangerous outcomes, and not only the risk of injury. A bad game reflects poorly on you, and you’d better believe that your new bosses are watching every single game and studying your film afterward.”

  He’s right.

  “So get your head in the game. Forget this girl. There’ll be others. When you’re up in Edmonton I guarantee you’ll find a lot of cute bunnies to keep you warm.” He leans forward and claps a hand over my shoulder. “We good?”

  I nod slowly. “We’re good. Don’t worry. I’ll get my head on straight.”

  “That’s what I like to hear.”

  And yet the first thing I do when I step out the main doors of the Bright-Landry Hockey Center is contact Brenna again.

  Coach’s speech got to me, but not in the way I’m sure he’d hoped. I don’t want to be the man who gets hurt by one woman and goes on to despise the entire sex. I don’t want to be bitter and angry.

  I can’t force Brenna to go out with me again, but at least I can let her know that she’s still on my mind.

  ME: Hey, Hottie. Me again. Feel free to keep avoiding me, but just know that I’m here if you change your mind.

  24

  Brenna

  It’s Tuesday morning and a skinny blonde is giving me the stink eye.

  My friend Audrey is supposed to be meeting me at the Coffee Hut, but she’s five minutes late. Maybe the skinny blonde at the counter is pissed that I’m taking up a two-person table for myself? But that’s bullshit. She’s alone, too. Why should she get the two-person table? This is America. First-come first-served, girlfriend.

  Still, I send an SOS to Audrey, because the coffee shop is packed, and I can’t nurse the same cup of coffee for much longer without the barista coming by to tell me they need the table.

  ME: Where are you? Peeps are trying to steal our table.

  * * *

  AUDREY: Still waiting to talk to the prof.

  Ugh, really? She’s still at the lecture hall? The journalism building is a ten-minute walk from the Coffee Hut. Her next message confirms my fears.

  AUDREY: I’ll be at least 15. Do you mind waiting or should we meet this afternoon?

  * * *

  ME: I won’t have time this afternoon :( Class starts at 1, ends around 5. We can do dinner maybe?

  * * *

  AUDREY: Can’t :(

  Grrr. Despite sharing a major, Audrey and I haven’t hung out in a while. We don’t interact much during classes, since most of the time we’re assigned a story on the spot and then ordered to go forth and write it. I’ve barely seen my friend Elisa this month, either. I guess it’s that time of year. Final papers and exams, the hockey season at its peak, and before we know it, it’ll be May and the semester will be over.

  ME: OK, I’ll wait. I miss your face.

  * * *

  AUDREY: Aw love you, boo. See you soon.

  “Brenna Jensen?”

  I lift my head to see the stink-eye girl from the counter. She’s two feet away now, and her expression hasn’t gotten any brighter. It matches the overcast sky beyond the window.

  “Who’s asking?” I ask warily.

  “I’m Hazel. Hazel Simonson.”

  I give her a blank look. “Okay. Do we know each other?”

  A groove digs into her forehead, but I’m not quite sure what that signifies. “Jake never mentioned me?”

  My hand tightens around my coffee cup. “You know Jake?”

  “Yes. Very well, actually.”

  I attempt to keep my expression neutral. Swear to God, if this girl tries telling me that he’s her boyfriend…

  No. I’d call bullshit if she did. I don’t think Jake is a dishonest person. He said he doesn’t do girlfriends, and I don’t believe he’s got a side piece stashed somewhere.

  “Can I join you?” Hazel says coolly.

  “I’m actually meeting somebody—”

  She sits down, anyway. “I’ll keep you company until they get here.” Hazel clasps her hands on the tabletop. “There’s a couple things we need to discuss.”

  I lean back in the chair, keeping my body language relaxed. Hers is confrontational, and I always meet aggression with indifference. It’s a tactic that tends to ruffle the aggressor’s feathers. “Look. Hazel. No offense, but I don’t know you. You’re claiming to know Jake, but he hasn’t once brought up your name to me.”

  Her light-brown eyes flash briefly.

  “So forgive me if I don’t trust the strange girl who sits down without invitation and glares at me like I strangled her cat.” I cross my legs, loosely resting a hand on my right knee.

  “I do know Jake,” Hazel says curtly. “We grew up in Gloucester together. Went to school together. I know his parents… Lily and Rory?” she prompts.

  I can’t challenge her on that. Jake never mentioned his parents’ first names to me.

  “We all had breakfast together on Saturday. At their place.” A trace of smugness creeps into her expression. “Jake and I took the train up.”

  An unwelcome feeling pulls at my stomach.

  “I know him better than anyone,” she finishes. And it’s no longer a trace—she’s smug as fuck.

  “Is that so?” I drawl.

  “Yes. I know he has a good head on his shoulders, and I also know he’s way smarter than he looks. He doesn’t usually get played like this.”

  The lioness act is starting to grate. “He’s getting played?”

  “Don’t play dumb.” She laces her fingers together in a tight grip. “I know exactly who you are. I cyber-stalked you after he told me you were dating.”

  I manage to swallow my surprise before it reaches my eyes. Jake told this chick that we were dating?

  Hazel smirks. “Like I said, Jake and I are old friends. We don’t keep secrets from each other.”

  That sensation in my gut intensifies. It starts churning in a hot eddy of…I think it might be jealousy. But there’s a hefty dose of anger in there, too, because who the hell is this girl?

  I meet her haughty eyes. “That’s great that you two are so tight. Although if that’s truly the case, then you would know that he and I aren’t seeing each other anymore.”

  Saying it out loud triggers a wave of regret. I won’t deny that I miss him. It hasn�
�t even been a full week since I asked him to leave my house, but it feels like forever. He’s constantly been on my mind, which has been made worse by his daily texts. The one he sent yesterday about being around if I change my mind…I almost caved and called him.

  At the last second, I regained my senses. Reminded myself why it’s better that it’s over. I don’t want a boyfriend, and especially not one who’s moving to another country in a few short months. And fine, maybe a part of me is still embarrassed by what happened in my bedroom. I could barely meet Jake’s eyes afterward. He got a front-row seat to my father lecturing me in the hallway as if I was a disobedient child.

  It was so humiliating.

  “Yes, I do know that,” Hazel says, interrupting my thoughts. “He told me that you ended it. And say what you will about Jake, but he’s not a cynical person—”

  “What does cynicism have to do with this?” I interject.

  “Everything. Because I am a cynical person, and I know what you’re up to.”

  “Okay.” I’m beginning to grow tired of this entire exchange.

  “Coach Jensen’s daughter hooks up with the Harvard hockey captain during the playoffs. She puts him under her spell, gets under his skin, and drops him right before the biggest game of the season. And now he’s so upset he can barely focus on hockey—the only thing that’s ever mattered to him, by the way—because this girl ghosted him.”

  A new emotion joins the cocktail brewing in my gut. Guilt. “He’s upset?”

  “Yeah. Congratulations. You got what you wanted.”

  “That’s not what I wanted at all.”

  “Right. I’m sure.” She scrapes her chair back but doesn’t stand yet. “Stay away from him. Jake and I watch out for each other, we have since we were kids, and I’m not going to let some puck bunny sabotage his season or distract him from his goals.”

  “You’re not going to let me, huh? I’m sorry to break it to you, but, to quote my cousin Leigh’s four-year-old daughter—you’re not the boss of me.” I chuckle. “And I’m the farthest thing from a puck bunny.”

  “Right,” she drawls again.

  “Oh, and FYI, I’m not sabotaging a damn thing, but that’s the last thing I’m saying on this subject. I’m not going to explain myself to you or discuss my relationship with Jake, because it’s none of your business.”

  She stiffly gets to her feet. “Whatever. You ended it. Keep it that way and we won’t have a problem.”

  I smile, all teeth and no warmth. “Are you done?”

  “For now. Enjoy the rest of your day.” She marches to the door, and I watch as Jake’s (alleged) best friend in the whole wide world saunters out of the Coffee Hut.

  On one hand, I do appreciate it when claws come out in defense of someone you care about. But I don’t appreciate the accusation that I’m sabotaging Jake’s season, or that being with him was some nefarious scheme on my part.

  I didn’t intend on hooking up with him. Ed Mulder and his stupid obsession with Edmonton was the only reason Jake and I went out. And things turned physical because that’s what happens when two people have chemistry. Chemistry is hard to find and even harder to fight.

  Ha. I’d like to see Hazel try to resist Jake. If he fixed that seductive green-eyed gaze on her and—

  Something occurs to me. Was this encounter more than just a friend defending her friend? Does she have a thing for him?

  On further thought, I realize that wouldn’t surprise me in the least.

  When my phone rings, I half expect it to be Jake, and my pulse speeds up. When the words HockeyNet flash on the screen, my heart beats even faster. Finally.

  I take a breath, trying to steady my nerves. “Hello?”

  “May I speak to Brenna Jensen, please?” inquires a brisk female voice.

  “Speaking.”

  “Brenna, hi. This is Rochelle from Ed Mulder’s office. Mr. Mulder was hoping you’d be able to come in tomorrow to discuss the internship position.”

  “Oh. Um.” I quickly run through tomorrow’s schedule. My first class isn’t until one o’clock again. It’ll be close, but I could make it. “Yes, but only if it’s first thing in the morning. I have a seminar at one.”

  “I’m afraid he’s all booked up in the morning.” I hear typing on the other line. “How about later afternoon? Does five thirty work for you?”

  “I can make it work,” I say instantly, because I’m not about to be difficult.

  “Perfect. We’ll see you tomorrow.”

  She disconnects.

  Excitement flutters inside me. In the back of my mind, a little voice cautions me not to get ahead of myself. This doesn’t mean I got the job.

  But…how am I not supposed to be hopeful? He wouldn’t make me drive all the way to Boston just to turn me down.

  Nobody is that big of an asshole, right?

  “We decided to go with somebody else.”

  Oh. Apparently Ed Mulder is that big of an asshole.

  From my perch on his visitor’s chair, I swallow my resentment and muster up a calm tone. “For all three slots?” There were three internships up for grabs.

  “Yes. We’ve got some good guys coming in. Don’t get me wrong, your academics are on par, but two of them are athletes, and all three simply brought something unique to the table.”

  Penises.

  They brought penises to the table.

  There is no doubt in my mind of that. But I force myself to remain courteous. “I see. All right. Well, thank you for your consideration.” Thank you for making me drive all the fucking way here.

  He could have easily sent an email like a regular old jackass, but noooo, he had to prove that he’s a supreme jackass.

  I start to get up, but Mulder chuckles and holds up a hand. “Wait. That’s not the only reason I asked you to come in.”

  My butt sinks back on the chair. Despite myself, a teeny flicker of hope tickles my throat. Maybe he’s offering me a different position. Maybe a paid one, or—

  “I wanted to invite you and Jake to the Bruins game this Sunday.” He beams at me, as if expecting me to clap my hands together in glee. “The network has a private box at TD Garden. Oh, my brother and sister-in-law will be there, too. Lindsay and Karen really enjoyed meeting you the other night. You ladies can catch up while us boys enjoy the game.”

  Is murder illegal in Massachusetts?

  It’s illegal in all fifty states, I remind myself.

  Maybe I could get a good lawyer who could spin it as self-defense? Summer’s dad is a defense attorney. I’m sure he’d be able to keep me off Death Row.

  The fury bubbling inside me is so close to spilling over. This asshole made me drive all the way to Boston so he could reject my internship application and invite me to talk about knitting and interior design with his wife and sister-in-law while he and my fake boyfriend get to watch my favorite hockey team.

  It’s probably a good thing I don’t own a gun.

  “I appreciate the invitation. I’ll have to ask Jake,” I say tightly, hoping the sheer rage isn’t showing on my face. “I’ll let you know.”

  “Perfect. Hope you guys can make it. My wife can’t stop gushing about what a great couple you two make.” He winks. “Don’t worry, it’s still our little secret.”

  I fake a smile. “Thank you.”

  “Let me walk you out.”

  “No bother!” My cheery expression is in grave danger of collapsing. “I know the way out. Enjoy the rest of your day, Mr. Mulder.”

  “Ed.”

  “Ed.”

  The fake smile disappears the moment I exit the office. My movements are stiff as I grab my coat from the row of hooks near the door. “It was nice meeting you,” I tell Rochelle.

  “Yes. Best of luck to you,” she says sympathetically.

  I step out into the corridor, but I don’t leave the building right away. I want to walk by the studio one last time, give it one last longing look. When I reach the cavernous space, there’s a news show i
n progress. I creep in, keeping a discreet distance, and watch as two analysts recap last night’s Ottawa Senators game and the game-winning goal by Brody Lacroix. One of them says, “Geoff spoke to Brody after the game. Here’s what the rookie had to say.”

  From the corner of my eye, I catch a flurry of activity in the control booth. The director signals to someone, and a video of the interview suddenly comes on the screen between the two hosts. Geoff Magnolia’s annoying face appears. He’s the one who does most of the locker room interviews after games, and players view him as “one of the bros.”

  Most of the time, Magnolia is too busy exchanging wisecracks with the players to ask about the actual game. With this Senators’ game, however, he’s attempting to be a real journalist while chatting with star player Brody Lacroix. They discuss Lacroix’s success in the third period, as well as his overall success during the season so far. At three different times, Magnolia says that Lacroix’s parents must be very proud of their son, and all three times, Lacroix gives an uncomfortable half-smile before finally mumbling some lame answer and turning away.

  I shake my head. “Moron,” I mutter at the same time that a low female voice growls, “Idiot.”

  I spin around to find Georgia Barnes, my idol, standing a few feet away. She eyes me, looking intrigued.

  “And it’s time for a commercial,” one of the hosts tells the audience. “After the break, we’ll catch up with Herbie Handler down in Nashville and hear his predictions for tonight’s Predators matchup against the Flyers.”

  “And we’re out,” a cameraman barks.

  As if a switch has been flipped, the set comes to life. Bodies rush by, the chatter of voices echoing in the studio. “Someone fix that light!” one of the hosts complains. “It’s burning my goddamn retinas.”