by Elle Kennedy
A lowly assistant sprints over to deal with the lights. Georgia Barnes glances at me again, then walks off the set.
I hesitate for a beat. Then I hurry after her, awkwardly calling out her name.
She stops in the brightly lit corridor, turning to face me. She’s wearing a black pinstripe skirt, a white silk top, and black flats. Despite the elegant attire, I know that she has a fiery streak in her.
“I’m sorry to bother you,” I tell her. “But I wanted to let you know what a huge fan I am. I think you’re one of the sharpest, most intelligent journalists in the country.”
Georgia responds with a warm smile. “Thank you. I appreciate that.” Her shrewd gaze sweeps over me. “Do you work here?”
I shake my head. “In fact, I was just informed that I didn’t get the internship I applied for.”
“I see.” She nods ruefully. “It’s a competitive program, from what I hear.” A dry note enters her voice. “Although you should probably be prepared—this entire industry is competitive. Even more so for women.”
“So I hear.”
She studies my face again. “Why did you call Geoff Magnolia a moron?”
A rush of heat suffuses my cheeks, and I hope to hell I’m not blushing. “Uh, right. Yes. I’m sorry I said that—”
“Don’t be sorry. But tell me why you did.”
I offer an awkward shrug. “Because of the questions he was asking. Someone needs to tell that man to perform at least a modicum of research before his interviews. He asked about Lacroix’s parents three times.”
“So what?” Georgia says. Her tone is light, but I sense she’s testing me.
“So the kid’s mom died of cancer less than a month ago, and he looked like he was about to burst into tears. Magnolia should’ve known about that.”
“Yes. He should have. But as we’ve established, Geoff Magnolia is a moron.” She lowers her voice conspiratorially. “I’ll tell you a secret—what’s your name?”
“Brenna.”
“I’ll tell you a secret, Brenna. Magnolia is the rule, not the exception. If you ever find yourself working here someday, be prepared to deal with morons on a daily basis. Or worse, sexist blowhards who will spend every minute of every day telling you that you don’t belong here because you have a vagina.”
I smile halfheartedly. “I think I experienced that today.”
Her features soften. “Sorry to hear that. All I can say is, don’t let one rejection, one door-slam, stop you from trying again. Continue applying to networks, cable stations, anywhere that’s hiring.” She winks. “Not everybody wants to keep us out, and a change is coming. Albeit slowly, but I promise you it’s coming.”
I feel a bit awestruck as Georgia squeezes my arm before sauntering off. I have faith that she’s right, that a change is coming. But I wish it would hurry up. It took decades for female reporters to be allowed to interview athletes in the locker room. It required a Sports Illustrated reporter to file a lawsuit before a court finally ruled that banning female journalists from locker room interviews violated the 14th Amendment.
And yet changing laws does nothing to change social attitudes. ESPN has made strides by hiring more female columnists, analysts. But it pisses me off that women in sports continue to face hostility and sexist behaviors when they’re simply trying to do their jobs, just like their male counterparts.
“Brenna, hey!” Mischa, the stage manager I met last week, bumps into me near the elevator bank. “You’re back.”
“I’m back,” I say wryly.
“Good news, I assume?”
“Sadly, no. Mr. Mulder asked me to come so he could tell me to my face that I didn’t get the job.”
“Oh. I’m sorry. That sucks.” He shakes his head, visibly disappointed. “I would’ve enjoyed having you around.”
“Yeah, well, I’m sure the new interns will be great.”
“Maybe. But I have a feeling Mulder is missing out by letting you go.”
“Feel free to tell him that.” When the elevator doors slide open, I reach out to touch his arm. “It was nice to meet you, Mischa.”
“Nice meeting you too, Brenna.”
My smile fades once I’m alone in the elevator. Tears prick my eyes, but I order myself not to cry. I’m not allowed to cry. It was just an internship. I’m sure I can find a local TV or radio station to gopher at this summer, and in the fall I can reapply at HockeyNet, or maybe I’ll find an even better work placement. This isn’t the end of the world.
But dammit, I really, really wanted this internship.
My fingers tremble as I pull my phone out of my purse. I should order a car to take me to the train station. Instead, I think about Jake’s text from yesterday, the one urging me to call him.
I bite my lip.
Calling him is probably a terrible idea.
But I do it, anyway.
“Wow, you’re talking to me again,” Jake says when we meet up twenty minutes later. “What did I do to deserve this honor?”
My spirits are so low I can’t even conjure up a sarcastic remark. “I didn’t get the internship,” I say flatly. “Mulder chose three guys with penises instead of me.”
“As opposed to guys without penises?” He smiles, but his humor doesn’t linger. “I’m sorry, Hottie. That sucks.” He reaches out as if to touch me, but then thinks better of it and drops his arm to his side.
We’re on the front steps of the Bright-Landry Hockey Center, which feels like absolute blasphemy. Luckily, none of his teammates are around. When I called him, he admitted that practice ended hours ago and he’d stayed behind to watch game tape on his own. That’s dedication. And while I admire it, that also means I have to meet him here instead of his condo. The condo would have been highly preferable.
To add insult to injury, the sky decides to mimic my mood, taking this exact moment as opportunity to dump a mountain of rain on us. It’s been cloudy and chilly all day, but suddenly the sky is black and it’s pouring buckets, soaking our hair in seconds.
“Come inside,” Jake urges, grabbing my hand.
We rush into the building, where I cringe at the sight of the championship pennants and all the framed crimson jerseys. “What if someone sees us?” I hiss as I shove my damp hair away from my forehead.
“Then they see us. Who cares? We’re just talking, right?”
“I feel exposed. We’re too out in the open,” I grumble.
He rolls his eyes. “Fine. Let’s go to the media room. It’s private and I’m the only one in there.”
I follow him down the hall, my gaze eating up his long stride. It’s been less than a week since I last saw him, and somehow I forgot how tall he is, how attractive. He didn’t hug or kiss me hello. I didn’t hug or kiss him hello, either. Now I kinda wish I had.
In a state-of-the-art media room that rivals the one we have at Briar, I unzip my leather jacket and drape it over the back of a nearby chair. Then I plop into one of the plush chairs and stick out my chin glumly. “I really wanted that internship.”
“I know you did.” Jake settles in the chair next to mine, stretching those impossibly long legs out in front him. “But maybe it’s a blessing in disguise. Even if he hadn’t been your direct supervisor, you still would’ve had to interact with Mulder. And that guy is the worst.”
“True.” I suddenly notice the image on the big screen. It’s Hunter Davenport’s lean body crouching during a faceoff. “Spying, are we?” I crack.
“It’s not spying, it’s due diligence. And don’t tell me your boys aren’t doing the exact same thing right now.”
“Well, I didn’t come here to reveal Briar secrets, so don’t ask me anything about my boys.”
He glances over, his chiseled face serious. “Then why are you here?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, your cousin lives in the city. And I assume you have other friends here, too.”
“So?”
“So why was I the first person you called after y
ou got the bad news?”
I flick my gaze to his. “You don’t know that you’re the first person I called. Maybe nobody else picked up.”
“Did you call anybody else?” Jake asks politely.
“No,” I admit, which forces me to look inward, because why did I call him? We went on a couple of dates, talked on the phone a few times, fooled around a time or two. There is no reason why Jake should have been my go-to comfort person today. I have a good support system—Summer, Audrey, Elisa, to name a few. Why didn’t I reach out to any of them?
“Why me?” he pushes.
I let out a frazzled breath. “I don’t know.”
“Yes, you do.” He chuckles softly. “You like me.”
“I don’t like you.”
“Yes, you do. That’s why you kicked me out last week.”
“No, I kicked you out because my father was standing outside the door while we were sixty-nine-ing.”
Jake makes a growly sound. “You just had to bring that up.”
“What, my father?”
“No, what we were doing.” His eyes gleam seductively. “Now I’m hard.”
“I feel like you’re always hard,” I grumble back.
“Come here and test that theory.” He pats his lap, while enticingly waggling his eyebrows.
I can’t stop a laugh. “What theory? You already admitted to being hard.”
He crosses his ankles together, staring down at his Converse sneakers for a few seconds. “Okay. So you’re saying you threw me out because your father almost caught us.”
“Yup.”
That’s not entirely true. I kicked him out because I refused to show him any more vulnerability. In the span of an hour or two, I allowed him to see how badly I wanted him, how wildly he turned me on. I allowed him to overhear a mortifying exchange with my father, in which I was admonished like a child and accused of being a train wreck.
I don’t want anybody else, let alone a guy, to ever view me the way my father does.
I feel Jake’s gaze on me. “What?” I mutter.
“I don’t believe what you’re saying.” His tone roughens. “What are you so afraid will happen if we keep seeing each other?”
“I’m not afraid. I simply don’t see the point when it can’t go anywhere.”
“Do you only spend time with guys you think it’ll go somewhere with?”
“No.”
He looks thoughtful. “C’mere.”
Before I can blink, he’s tugging me off my chair. I wind up in his lap, and the bulge in his jeans is impossible to miss or ignore. I sigh in resignation, adjusting my position so that I’m straddling him. His quickly growing erection is pressed directly against my core, and it feels so good I can’t help but rock against it.
Jake makes a husky sound. He slides one big hand to the base of my spine, while the other moves upward to tangle in my hair.
Against my better judgment, I lower my head. My tongue prods the seam of his lips, and he parts them to grant me access. I whimper when my tongue touches his. He tastes like mint gum and his lips are so soft and warm. I lock my hands around his neck, losing myself in the heat of him.
“Kissing you makes me so hard,” he murmurs.
“You were hard before I kissed you.”
“Yeah, because I was thinking about kissing you.”
I laugh, and it comes out a bit breathless. “You’re—” A crash of thunder drowns out my voice. The overhead lights flicker for a second.
Jake’s dark eyebrows fly up. “Shit, that was nuts.”
I stroke the wispy hairs at his nape. “Aw, Jakey. Are you scared?”
“Terrified,” he whispers.
Our lips meet at the same time the lights flicker again. This time they go out.
Darkness engulfs us. But instead of jumping up in a panic, we kiss harder. Jake’s hands travel beneath my black sweater. He pulls the thin material up to reveal my bra, but he doesn’t unclasp it, just pushes it down to reveal my boobs. Wet heat surrounds my nipple. He draws it deep in his mouth, and I shiver uncontrollably.
He squeezes my breasts while continuing to lave my nipple, licking and suckling until it grows impossibly harder in his mouth. I moan, louder than I should considering our surroundings.
Jake responds by capturing my other nipple and teasing it senseless. Then he gives an upward thrust, rubbing our lower bodies together. God. This guy. I’m so hot for him, it’s insane.
The room is still dark, but just when I’m starting to get used to it, the fluorescent lights flash back on.
Jake lifts his head, his gaze burning as he gets a nice eyeful of my chest. “So fucking beautiful.”
Groaning, he cups both my breasts before burying his face between them.
And that’s when Coach Pedersen walks into the room.
25
Jake
“For fuck’s sake, Connelly!”
At the incredulous exclamation, my head flies up and I swiftly shove Brenna’s sweater down to cover her bare tits. She dives off my lap and into the neighboring chair. But it’s too late. Pedersen’s not an idiot. He saw us, and he knows exactly what we were doing.
“Coach, hey.” I clear my throat. “We were…” I decide against lying. I’m not an idiot, either. “I’m sorry,” I say simply. “This isn’t the place.”
“No shit,” he snaps. “I’d expect this kind of behavior from Weston or Chilton, but not you, Connelly. You don’t usually screw around on the job.”
Coach doesn’t even acknowledge Brenna. He stalks to the front of the room and grabs one of the laptops. From the corner of my eye I see Brenna smoothing out the front of her sweater. She wiggles discreetly, and I realize she’s trying to put her bra cups back in place.
“I’m having a meeting with the assistants and forgot this,” he says tightly. “And here I thought you were being a conscientious player, studying film on your own time. But boys will be boys, won’t they?” There’s a sharp edge to his every word.
Brenna warily tracks his movements as he tucks the laptop under his arm and stalks to the door. “Get your guest out of here, Connelly. This is no place for girlfriends.”
“I’m not his girlfriend,” Brenna blurts out, and I know it was completely involuntarily because she briefly closes her eyes, as if mentally scolding herself for speaking.
Pedersen finally spares her a look. A long, intent one. During his scrutiny, his frown gets deeper and deeper until his eyebrows are practically touching. “You’re Chad Jensen’s kid.”
Shit.
Brenna blinks. For once, she doesn’t have a smartass comment locked and loaded.
I want to lie and tell him he’s mistaken, but he clearly recognizes her. He places the computer on a desk near the door and slowly approaches. His cynical gaze takes in Brenna’s rumpled sweater, her disheveled hair.
“We met at a banquet a couple years ago,” he tells her. “Yale alumni dinner. You were still in high school at that point. Chad brought you.”
“Oh.” She visibly swallows. “Yes. I remember that.”
“Brianna, is it?”
“Brenna.”
“Right.” His beefy shoulders lift in a shrug. “Even if we hadn’t met, I’d know you from anywhere. You’re the spitting image of your mother.”
Brenna does a terrible job of hiding her shock. Or maybe she’s not trying to hide it. She openly gawks at my coach. “You knew my mother?”
“We went to college together.” His tone is completely wooden, and his expression lacks any and all emotion. Which isn’t out of the ordinary. Pedersen’s emotional repertoire is limited. His go-to ones are anger and disapproval.
He continues to stare at her. “You really do look like her.” Then he shakes his head, turning to address me. “You didn’t tell me you were seeing Jensen’s daughter.”
Brenna answers for me. “He’s not. This is just…it was nothing. So, please, don’t say anything to my father, okay?”
Pedersen arches a brow at me as
if to ask what I think.
I shrug. “She’s right. It was a one-time thing.”
“The only reason I’m here right now is because it’s pouring outside and Jake didn’t want me waiting in the rain for my Uber. Speaking of which,” she says with false brightness. She holds up her phone. “My car is here. I just got an alert.”
The back of her phone case is facing Coach, while the screen faces me. Which means I can clearly see that there’s no alert.
“I should get going,” she says hastily. “Thanks for letting me wait out the storm, Connelly. Nice to see you again, Mr. Pedersen.”
“Nice to see you, too.”
“I’ll walk you out,” I offer.
Pedersen glances at me. “You might as well take off, too. There’s already been one power outage. I don’t want you sitting here in the dark if the storm knocks out the power again.” With that, he stalks offs.
I release the breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. “Shit,” I say.
“Shit,” Brenna echoes. “You think he’ll tell my dad?”
“Doubtful. They’re not best buds.”
“Exactly. What if he snitches out of spite?”
“That’s not really Coach’s style. He prefers to let out all his aggression on the ice.”
We reach the lobby to discover that the apocalypse is in full swing beyond the huge front windows. The sky is nearly black. Gusts of wind smash tree branches against each other, and one branch has already crashed onto the hood of someone’s car. Thankfully it’s not Weston’s Mercedes, which I borrowed again. I might as well start calling it my own, considering how infrequently Brooks drives it.
My gaze shifts from the windows to Brenna, who’s zipping up her leather jacket. “I think you should come back to my place,” I suggest seriously.
“Of course you do.”
“I’m not kidding, Hottie. That storm looks deadly, and you know the roads are going to be terrible. Bad weather turns drivers into maniacs.” My voice grows firm. “Wait it out at my place. Please.”
Brenna finally relents. “Okay.”
