The Chase

by Elle Kennedy

  “That’s so important. Doing what you love, I mean. A lot of people don’t have that opportunity.”

  Curiosity flickers through me. “What do you love to do?”

  Her answering grin is self-deprecating. “I’ll let you know when I figure it out.”

  “Come on, there’s got to be something you’re passionate about.”

  “Well, I’ve been passionate about stuff—interior design, psychology, ballet, swimming. The problem is, it never sticks. I lose interest quickly. I haven’t found a long-term passion yet, I suppose.”

  Her candidness surprises me a bit. She seems way more down-to-earth tonight compared to our previous encounters.

  “I’m thirsty,” she announces.

  I suppress the urge to roll my eyes, since I’m sure that’s code for go buy me a drink. Only, it’s not. With a naughty smile, she swipes my beer from my hand.

  Our fingers brush briefly, and I pretend not to notice the spark of heat that races up my arm. I watch as she wraps her fingers around the Bud Light bottle and takes a long sip.

  She’s got small hands, delicate fingers. It’d be a challenge to draw them, to capture the intriguing combination of fragility and surety. Her fingernails are short, rounded and have those white French tips or whatever you call ‘em, a style that seems way too plain for someone like Summer. I’d expect extra-long talons painted pink or some other pastel.

  “You’re doing it again.” There’s accusation in her tone. A bit of aggravation too.

  “Doing what?”

  “Zoning me out. Curmudgeoning.”

  “That’s not a word.”

  “Says who?” She takes another sip of beer.

  My gaze instantly fixes on her lips.

  Dammit, I gotta stop this. She’s not my type. The first time I met her, everything about her screamed sorority girl. The designer clothes, the waves and waves of blonde hair, a face that could stop traffic.

  There’s no way I’m her type, either. I have no idea why she’s spending New Year’s Eve talking to a scruffy, tatted-up goon like me.

  “Sorry. I’m not very chatty. Don’t take it personally, okay?” I steal my bottle back.

  “Okay, I won’t. But if you don’t feel like talking, at least entertain me in other ways.” She plants her hands on her hips. “I propose we make out.”

  3

  Fitz

  Once again, I choke mid-sip.

  Oh, sweet Jesus. Did she seriously just say that?

  I glance over, and she’s got one perfect eyebrow arched, awaiting my response. Yup. She said it.

  “Uh…you want to, um…” I cough again.

  “Oh relax!” Summer laughs. “It was a joke.”

  I narrow my eyes at her. “A joke,” I echo. “So you have zero interest in making out with me?” Hell, why am I challenging her? My dick twitches against my zipper, a warning that I shouldn’t be entertaining the idea of kissing Summer.

  “I mean, it wouldn’t be the end of the world if we did,” she says with a wink. “And it’s always nice to have someone to kiss at midnight. I was mostly joking, though. I just like making you blush.”

  “I don’t blush,” I object, because I’m a dude, and dudes don’t go around declaring they’re blushers.

  Summer hoots. “Yes, you do! You’re blushing now.”

  “Oh really? You can see this supposed blush right through my beard, huh?” I rub my face defiantly.

  “Uh-huh.” She reaches out and strokes my cheek above the heavy beard growth. “Right. Here.”

  I gulp. My dick stirs again.

  I hate how attracted I am to her.

  “Fitzy,” she whispers in my ear, and my pulse goes careening. “I think we—”

  “Happy fucking New Year!”

  Saved by Hollis.

  My friend lurches toward us and plants a sloppy peck on Summer’s cheek. They’d just met tonight, but she doesn’t seem offended by the kiss, only mildly amused.

  “You’re about twenty minutes too early with that sentiment,” she informs him.

  “And you don’t have a drink in your hand!” He fixes her with a disapproving glare. “Why doesn’t she have a drink in her hand? Someone get this beautiful woman a drink!”

  “I’m not a big drinker,” Summer protests.

  “Bullshit.” Dean cackles. He’s wandered over, his girlfriend Allie Hayes at his side. “You were off your face when you burned down the sorority house.”

  “You burned down a sorority house?” asks a familiar voice.

  Dean spins around. “G!” he crows. “Just under the wire!”

  “Yeah, we almost didn’t make it,” Garrett Graham says as he strides up to the table. “There was a ten-car pileup on the bridge. Sat there for almost an hour before traffic started moving again.”

  “Han-Han!” Allie says happily, throwing her arms around Hannah Wells. Hannah is Garrett’s girl, but she also happens to be Allie’s best friend. “I’m so glad you’re here!”

  “Me too! Happy New Year’s Eve.”

  “Garrett Eve,” her boyfriend corrects.

  “Dude,” Hannah retorts, “give it up. I’m not calling it that.”

  Summer snorts. “Garrett Eve?”

  Dean rolls his eyes at our old team captain. “Pompous ass.” He glances at Summer. “His birthday is New Year’s Day.”

  “Garrett Day,” G says automatically, before turning to greet me and Hollis and the other guys from the team who made the trek to Brooklyn. Summer gets a quick hug and a peck on the cheek. “Good to see you, Summertime. You torched a sorority house?”

  “Oh my God. No. I didn’t torch anything!” She glowers at her brother.

  “Bro, everyone’s staring at you,” Hollis suddenly says, grinning at Garrett.

  Hollis is right—several heads have turned in our direction. Most of the people here are too hammered to pay much attention to their surroundings, but some of them have recognized Garrett. He’s in the middle of one of the most explosive rookie seasons in Bruins history, so I’m not surprised he’s attracting attention even outside of Boston.

  “They’re probably gonna start heckling me soon,” he says glumly. “We lost to the Islanders last night. Final score was five-four.”

  “Yeah, but you scored a hat trick,” Hannah counters. “Anyone who heckles a player with a hat trick is a stupid moron.”

  “Can a moron be anything other than stupid?” Dean asks with a grin.

  “Oh, shut it, Di Laurentis. You know what I mean.”

  When a few more people start looking and pointing at Garrett, Allie teases, “How does it feel to be famous?”

  “You tell me,” G jokes back.

  “Ha. I’m so not famous,” says the person with a role on an HBO show.

  Allie’s show is actually based on a book I really enjoyed, and although I’m happy that she’s a working actress, I secretly think the book was better.

  The book is always better.

  “Stop being so modest!” Summer slings an arm around Allie, who’s almost a head shorter than her. “Guys. I saw her sign four autographs tonight. She’s a star.”

  “Only half the season has aired so far,” Allie protests. “We might not even get renewed.”

  “Of course you will,” Dean says, as if it’s not even up for debate.

  Summer releases Allie and returns to my side, laying a hand on my arm. It’s not a possessive grip by any means, but I don’t miss the way both Garrett and Hunter zoom in on it. Dean doesn’t notice, thank God, because Allie is dragging him away, saying she wants one more dance before the countdown.

  Beside me, Hollis examines the room with a surprising degree of intensity for a drunk guy. “I gotta decide whose tongue I want in my mouth at midnight,” he announces.

  “Classy,” Summer says.

  He leers wolfishly. “You play your cards right, that tongue could be yours.”

  Her response is to throw her head back and laugh.

  Luckily, Hollis has an ego m
ade of Kevlar. He shrugs and wanders off, which spurs most of the other guys to scatter. Pierre, our resident French-Canadian, and Matt Anderson, a junior defenseman, head for the bar. Only Garrett and Hannah remain. And Hunter, who’s got a beer in one hand and his phone in the other. He’s taking a video of the crowd for his Snapchat story.

  “How about you?” Summer asks Hunter. “I saw you dancing with seven different girls tonight. Which one are you going to kiss?”

  “None of them.” He lowers the phone, his blue eyes dead serious. “I don’t do New Year’s kisses. Chicks always try to find meaning in them that isn’t there.”

  Summer rolls her eyes so hard I’m surprised she doesn’t pull a muscle. “Right, because all women start planning their weddings after one kiss.” She glances at a laughing Hannah. “Wanna hit the ladies’? I want to touch up my makeup before the countdown. My lip gloss needs to be perfect for when I kiss my future husband at midnight.” She directs another eye roll at Hunter.

  He winks at her, unfazed. “Better hurry, Blondie. Only sixteen minutes left.” He nods at the huge digital clock hanging over the DJ station.

  “Be right back.” Hannah gives Garrett a kiss and then follows Summer.

  “I need a refill,” I tell Garrett. I gesture at his empty hands. “And you need a drink.”

  He nods, and we leave Hunter at the table and make our way to the bar. We stop at the far end of it where it’s quieter, near the arched doorway leading to the restrooms.

  I order two beers and hand over some cash. When I turn back, I find Garrett eyeing me.

  “What?” I say awkwardly.

  “What’s going on with you and Summer?”

  “Nothing.” Fuck. Did I answer too fast?

  “Liar. You answered way too fast.”

  Goddammit.

  His tone becomes cautious. “When she got handsy back there…you didn’t seem to mind.”

  He’s right. I didn’t mind. The last time I saw Summer, I made a conscious effort to keep my distance. Tonight, I let her touch my arm. I shared a drink with her. Honestly, if I liked to dance, I probably would’ve let her drag me onto the floor.

  “She’s… Well, she’s into me,” I say slowly.

  Garrett snorts. “No shit, dude. That chick wants to ride your dick.”

  “I know.” Guilt pricks my throat. I hope I haven’t been leading her on tonight. “Don’t worry,” I assure him. “I won’t go there.”

  He looks startled. “Why would I be worried?” His eyebrows furrow. “Wait. You might be misunderstanding. I’m not warning you away from her. I think this is a good thing.”

  A frown touches my lips. “You do?”

  “Of course. I mean, one—you never hook up.”

  I swallow a laugh. That’s not true at all. I get lots of action. I just don’t talk about it.

  “Two—Summer’s cute. She’s fun. Easy to talk to.” He shrugs. “She could be exactly what you need. You’d have to run it by Dean first, though. He thinks she’s a brat, but he’s protective of her.”

  Run it by Dean? As in, ask Dean for permission to bone down with his little sister? Garrett is frickin’ crazy if—

  My thought process halts.

  “You’re talking about more than a casual hook-up here,” I say.

  “Well, yeah. She’s Dean’s sister. He’d kill you otherwise.”

  “I’m not dating her, G.”

  “Why not?” He reaches forward to grab our beers, passing one my way.

  I twist off the top and take a deep gulp before answering. “Because she’s not my type. We’ve got nothing in common.”

  “She likes hockey,” he points out. “That’s a start.”

  “And I think it might end there,” I say dryly. “I design and review video games. I’m into art. I’m covered in ink and I binge-watch crime shows on Netflix. And she’s… I don’t even know.” I scan my brain. “She’s obsessed with shoes, according to Dean. And he insists she has a shopping problem.”

  “Okay. So she’s into fashion. Some people consider that art.”

  I snicker. “You’re reaching.”

  “And you’re judging. She seems like a good girl, Fitz.”

  “Dude, she got kicked out of Brown for partying too hard. She’s a party girl. She’s in a sorority.”

  I’m on a roll now, because my dick is still semi-hard and I’m desperately grasping for reasons to not screw Summer.

  “She’s…fluff,” I finish.

  “Fluff.”

  “Yeah, fluff.” I shrug helplessly. “You know, not serious about anything. She’s surface level.”

  Garrett pauses for a long moment, searching my face.

  He stares for so long that I fidget with the sleeve of my hoodie, feeling like a specimen under his microscope. I hate that intrusive sensation of eyes boring into me. It’s a scar left over from childhood, a need to blend into the background, to be unseen.

  I’m two seconds from telling him to cut it out when he starts to laugh. “Oh, I get it. I was wasting my time trying to sell you on her. You were already sold.” His gray eyes light up gleefully. “You have a thing for Dean’s sister.”

  “Naah,” I say, but it’s a halfhearted denial at best.

  “Really? ‘Cause it sounds like you’re trying to convince yourself that she’s not right for you.” He grins. “Is it working?”

  I sigh in defeat. “Kind of? I mean, I’ve managed to keep my hands off her all night.”

  That gets me a laugh. “Look, Colin—can I call you Colin?” His jaw drops. “I just fucking realized I’ve never called you Colin.”

  Garrett literally shocks himself into silence, until I let out a growl of impatience.

  “Sorry,” he says. “That just blew my mind. Anyway. Fitzy. On paper, Wellsy and I don’t seem like we’d work, right? But we do, don’t we?”

  He has a point. When I first saw them together, I couldn’t make sense of it. Hannah was an artsy music major. Garrett was a smartass jock. They’re opposites in so many ways, and yet they really do click as a couple.

  But Summer and I… We’re not even on the same piece of paper. From what I’ve seen and what Dean has told me, she’s drama-llama at full force, all the time. She craves the spotlight. I shy away from it. It’s bad enough that our games are televised every Friday night on the local New England network. And the major games make it to ESPN. Makes me cringe to think of strangers watching me skate and shoot and brawl on some huge screen.

  “All I’m saying is, keep an open mind. Don’t fight it.” He claps me on the shoulder. “Just let it happen.”

  Let it happen.

  And, fuck, it absolutely could happen. All I’d have to do is smile in Summer’s direction, and she’d be in my arms. She’s been sending out interested vibes left and right. But…

  I think what it boils down to is that she’s out of my league.

  I play hockey. I’m fairly intelligent. I’m good-looking, if we go by my success in the chick department.

  But at the end of the day, I’m that nerdy kid who would hole up in his bedroom playing video games, trying to pretend his parents weren’t fighting like cats and dogs.

  In high school I had a brief moment where I tried expanding my horizons. I started hanging with a nihilistic crew who got a charge out of rebelling against any cause. But that came to an abrupt end when they got into a brawl with some kids from a neighboring school, and half the group was arrested for assault. I quickly reverted back to my loner state after that, not just to save my place on the hockey team, but to keep from giving my parents new fighting ammunition. I listened to them scream at each other for two hours about which one was to blame for me running with a “bad crowd.” It was easier just being a loner.

  Needless to say, I didn’t have girls like Summer throwing themselves at me. And I didn’t party with my teammates after hockey games, so not even the puck bunnies wasted their energy on me.

  In college, I’ve made more of an effort to be social, but deep dow
n I’m still the guy who wants to remain invisible.

  Summer is the most visible person I’ve ever met.

  But Garrett’s right. I’m being a judgmental bastard. She might come off as a bit spoiled and superficial at times, but she deserves a chance. Everyone does.

  Hannah’s already back at the table when Garrett and I return. “Cutting it close!” she scolds, pointing at the big clock. It’s two minutes to midnight.

  I frown, because Summer’s not with her. Dammit. Where is she?

  I’ve decided to take G’s advice and stop fighting it. I’m going to give in, kiss the hell out of her when the clock strikes midnight and see where it goes from there.

  “One minute to go, boys and girls!” the DJ’s voice thunders.

  I give the room a visual sweep. Summer’s still nowhere to be found.

  I want to ask Hannah where she is, but Hannah’s got her arms looped around G’s neck, and they only have eyes for each other.

  “Thirty seconds!” shouts the DJ.

  All around me, people are coupling up or gathering with their group of friends. Allie and Dean are already making out. Hollis has reunited with the brunette he was dancing with earlier.

  Still no Summer.

  “TEN!” everyone yells.

  The red numerals on the clock tick down in time with the crowd’s screams.

  “NINE!”

  Each passing second brings another jolt of disappointment.

  “EIGHT! SEVEN!”

  And then I spot her. Or at least I think it’s her. The strobe lights are going off now, zigzagging over the sea of bodies crammed in the bar. Each burst of light helps me form a clearer picture of the girl against the wall.

  “SIX! FIVE!”

  White dress. Red ballet flats. The ponytail.

  “FOUR! THREE!”

  It’s definitely Summer.

  “TWO!”

  But she’s not alone.

  “ONE!”

  I wrench my gaze away the moment Hunter’s mouth hungrily collides with Summer’s perfect lips.

  “HAPPY NEW YEAR!”

  4

  Fitz

  I wake up the next morning without a hangover. That’s what happens when you only drink three beers and are back in your hotel room before one a.m.