The Chase

by Elle Kennedy

  He obviously doesn’t want to discuss it, so I shrug and say, “Cool. Sounds interesting.” I perch against the counter and swallow a spoonful of yogurt.

  Silence falls over the kitchen. I watch him as I eat, and he watches me eat. It’s both painfully uncomfortable and strangely comfortable. Figure that one out.

  So many questions bite at my tongue, most of them relating to New Year’s Eve.

  Were you really not into me that night? Did I just imagine the interested vibes? Do you truly believe all those shitty things you said about me?

  I don’t voice a single one. I refuse to reveal even a hint of vulnerability to this guy. He’s not allowed to know how much his judgmental words hurt me.

  Instead, I put him in the hot seat for something else.

  “You weren’t supposed to be skiing.”

  He blows out a quick breath. “No, we weren’t.”

  “So why did you?”

  “Because we’re idiots.”

  I smile, then get mad at myself for smiling at something he said.

  “Coach would freak if he found out. The other guys too, if I’m being honest. It was a real dick move on our parts,” he says roughly. “So let’s keep the ski trip between us, okay?”

  Um…

  I give him a sheepish look. “Too late.”

  “What do you mean?” His tone has sharpened.

  “I accidentally became best friends with your coach’s daughter earlier today. And I accidentally told her you guys went skiing.”

  He gapes at me. “Fucking hell, Summer.”

  I’m quick to defend myself. “Hey, Hollis didn’t say it was a secret when we spoke on the phone.”

  Fitz shakes his head a few times. “How do you accidentally become friends with someone?” he sputters. “And why would our ski trip even be a topic of discussion? Did Brenna say if she was going to tell Coach?”

  “She promised she wouldn’t.”

  He curses under his breath. “That’s no guarantee. Brenna’s dangerous when she loses her temper. Never know what’ll come out of her mouth.”

  “She won’t tell,” I assure him. “Like I said, we’re best friends now.”

  His lips twitch as if he’s trying not to laugh.

  “I’m going to your Harvard game with her tomorrow,” I add.

  “Yeah?”

  “Uh-huh.” I finish my yogurt and walk to the sink to wash the bowl. “She’s cool. We got along really well.”

  I hear him sigh. Loudly.

  I glance over my shoulder. “What was that for?”

  “It’s in anticipation of all the trouble I envision you and Brenna getting into. I predict you two are gonna be terrible influences on each other.”

  I can’t help but laugh. “That is a possibility.”

  He sighs again. “An eventuality. I can already see it.”

  Grinning, I turn off the faucet and set the clean bowl in the drying rack. My heart somersaults when Fitzy’s footsteps come up behind me.

  “‘Scuse me, just grabbing a glass,” he murmurs. One long arm stretches out toward the cupboard, inches from my cheek.

  His scent tickles my nostrils. Woodsy with a hint of citrus. He smells so good.

  I wipe my hands on a dishtowel and turn to face him. His breath hitches slightly, dark eyes flicking toward my chest before hastily dropping to the glass in his hand.

  Oh right. My T-shirt is see-through. And my nipples are hard little buds thanks to the cold water my hands were submerged in a minute ago. Well, that’s why they were hard. Now they’re poking through my shirt for another reason.

  A reason named Colin Fitzgerald, whose bare chest is so close I can touch it. Or lick it.

  I think I might be in trouble. I’m still attracted to him. Too attracted to him. I’m not allowed to lust over someone who harbors such negative thoughts about me.

  I breathe through my mouth to avoid his masculine scent, and dart away from the counter. My gaze seeks out a distraction, something to focus on that isn’t Fitz’s big, muscly, amazing chest. It lands on the fat paperback novel sitting next to the drawing pencils he left on the table.

  “Oh!” My voice sounds overly loud. I quickly lower it before I wake Hunter and Hollis. “I love this series.” I pick up the book and flip it over to skim the blurb. “Are you just starting to read it or doing a reread?”

  When Fitz doesn’t answer, I look over and glimpse the skepticism flickering through his expression. When he speaks, his voice is laced with the same doubt. “You’ve read the Shifting Winds books?”

  “The first three. I haven’t gotten around to number four yet.” I hold up the paperback, which is well over a thousand pages. “I heard it’s even longer than these ones.”

  “Blood of the Dragon? Yeah, it’s double the length,” he says absently. Still eyeing me uncertainly. “I can’t believe you read this series.”

  A frown forms on my lips. “Why’s that?”

  “It’s just really dense, and…” He trails off awkwardly.

  It takes a second for the implication to sink in.

  It’s not that he can’t believe I’ve read these books.

  It’s that he doesn’t believe I’ve read these books.

  Indignation rises in my chest and sticks to my throat, forming a hot lump. Well, why would he, right? In his eyes, I’m surface level. The dumb sorority girl couldn’t possibly comprehend such lengthy, dense material! Hell, he probably thinks I’m illiterate too.

  A growl rips out of my mouth. “I know how to fucking read.”

  He startles. “What? I didn’t say—”

  “And just because I don’t have dragons and fairies and elves tattooed all over my body, doesn’t mean I’m not allowed to read fantasy books—”

  “Allowed? I didn’t say—”

  “—however dense they may be,” I finish with a scowl. “But it’s good to know your thoughts on the matter.” With a tight smile, I drop the book on the table. Thud. “Goodnight, Fitz. Try not to stay up too late.”

  “Summer—”

  I’m out of the kitchen before he can say another word.

  9

  Fitz

  Pregame skates aren’t usually grueling, but this morning Coach wants to run a few shooting drills he anticipates will help us tonight. Harvard has been unstoppable this year. They’re well on their way to a perfect season, and although I’d never say it out loud, I think they might be the better team in this matchup.

  Coach must secretly think so too, because he pushes us harder than usual. I’m a sweaty mess by the time I lumber off the ice. My hair is plastered to my forehead, and I swear there’s cartoon steam rolling out of my helmet.

  Coach smacks me on the shoulder. “Good hustle, Colin.”

  “Thanks, Coach.”

  “Davenport,” he says to Hunter. “Show me that same ruthlessness tonight, son. Shoot through Johansson, not around him. Feel me?”

  “Got it, Coach.”

  We have thirty minutes to shower and change before a mandatory meeting in the screening room to review game tape. This will be our first of two games against Harvard this season, and we want to send a message. It’s an away game, to boot, so it’ll be extra tough—but extra sweeter if we can get a W in their arena.

  In the locker room, I strip off my sweaty practice gear and duck into the shower area. The stalls are divided by partitions and have saloon-style doors that mean we can’t see each other’s junk, but chests are fair game. Stepping into the stall next to Hollis, I crank the cold water and dunk my head. I swear I’m still sweating even under the cool spray.

  “Are we really not gonna acknowledge the fact that Mike shaved his chest?” Dave Kelvin, a junior defenseman, demands.

  Laughter bounces off the acoustic tiles. I glance at Hollis and lift a questioning brow. I’ve showered, worked out, and gone swimming with the guy enough times to know that he usually has hair on his chest. Now it’s smoother than a baby’s bottom.

  Nate Rhodes, our team capta
in this year, grins. “Home job or salon?”

  Hollis rolls his eyes at the tall senior. “Home. Why would I pay someone to do something I can do myself? That’s stupid.” He twists around so he can wave at Kelvin. “And you? Get off your ivory horse, dude—”

  “Ivory tower,” I say helpfully.

  “Whatever. We all know you wax your chest and your back, Kelvin. Hypocritical fucktard.”

  I snort and rub soap over my chest. My body temperature is finally dropping.

  “I don’t wax my back!” Kelvin protests.

  “Yes you do. Nikki Orsen ratted you out, you back-hair motherfucker.”

  Nikki is a right-winger on the Briar women’s team. She’s a great player and an awesome girl, but she also happens to be a serious blabbermouth. You can’t tell her anything you don’t want anyone else knowing.

  As Nate and a couple other seniors hoot loudly, Kelvin’s face turns beet red. “I’m gonna kill her.”

  “Oh relax, princess,” Hunter drawls. “Every dude you see on Instagram waxes some part of his body.”

  “Yeah, what’s the big deal?” Hollis says. “There’s no shame in manscaping.”

  “This is a safe place,” Nate agrees solemnly.

  “Exactly. Safe place. We all manscape here—or at least we all fucking should if we consider ourselves fucking gentlemen,” Hollis chides.

  Swallowing a laugh, I place the soap back in its tray and start rinsing off.

  “Seriously, bro, what’s with the makeover?” Matt Anderson pipes up. Like Kelvin, he’s a junior D-man. The two of them were beyond shitty last year, but our new defensive coach, Frank O’Shea, has been working the D-men hard all season, and he’s really whipped them into shape.

  “Got a date after the game tonight,” Hollis reveals.

  “What, the chick has something against body hair?”

  “Hates it. She swallowed a pube once, and it triggered her gag reflex so she threw up all over her boyfriend’s dick. And then he started ralphing too because vomit makes him vomit, and they broke up right after that.”

  For one long moment, the only sound in the huge room is the rushing water.

  Then it transforms into the weeping laughter of a bunch of buck-ass naked dudes.

  “Oh my fucking god, that is the best thing I’ve ever heard in my life,” Hunter moans.

  “She told you all this?” Our team captain is doubled over, and I can’t tell if it’s tears or water streaming down his face.

  “Said she wouldn’t even consider boning down if a guy had body hair. That includes chest, arms, legs, so…” Hollis shrugs.

  “You did your arms and legs too?” Nate squawks.

  Hunter laughs harder.

  “Women are nuts,” Kelvin grumbles.

  He has a point. Women are messed up. I mean, Summer told me off last night for no good reason other than me being surprised that she’d read Shifting Winds.

  Apparently she took that to mean that I thought she couldn’t read?

  Seriously?

  Although…fine, if I look at it from her perspective, I can see why she overreacted. Maybe it did come off a bit like I was implying she wasn’t smart enough for the series or that she was lying about reading it.

  That wasn’t my intention, though. Those books are legitimately tough to read. Hell, I barely got through them myself, and I’ve been reading fantasy religiously for years.

  If she’d given me a chance to respond, I could’ve told her that. And I would’ve apologized for insinuating I didn’t believe her.

  But, just as I’ve always suspected, Summer is all drama. Ten measly words could have cleared it up—I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it like that, forgive me—if she’d let me speak. Instead, she’d stomped off like a five-year-old.

  I grab a towel and hastily wrap it around my waist. Drama, I reiterate to myself. I’m not interested in drama. Never have been, never will be.

  So why can’t I get her hurt expression out of my mind?

  Briar’s top-notch hockey facility is the land of luxury. We’ve got state-of-the-art equipment, well-ventilated locker rooms, an awesome shower setup, a lounge, kitchen, physio rooms, whirlpool—name it, and we’ve got it. The viewing room is especially sweet. It resembles a small movie theater, only with three semicircular rows of tables and huge padded chairs. At the bottom of the gallery, the coaches have an A/V setup similar to that of sports announcers, with an input for laptops and a video screen they can write on. When they highlight plays or circle players, their scribbles show up on the big screen too.

  I plop down in the chair next to our goalie, Patrick Corsen. “Hey.”

  “Hey.” He’s staring at the screen, which is frozen on a shot of the Harvard arena. It looks like last week’s game, Harvard versus Boston College. BC got creamed that day.

  Harvard is definitely the team to beat this year. In the past, they were an easy divisional opponent for us, because Briar’s always had the superior program. But this season they’re on fire, with more talent on the roster than ever before. After last year’s seniors graduated, the lowerclassmen who didn’t get a chance to shine were given more ice time, and every single one of them has stepped up. Harvard’s no longer relying solely on the skill of their team captain like they did last year. Jake Connelly is damn good, but he can’t carry an entire team.

  “Connelly’s line is wicked fast,” Corsen says glumly.

  “Our line is faster,” I assure him, referring to me, Hunter, and Nate.

  “Fine. But their second and third lines are just as fast. Can you say the same about ours?” He lowers his voice. “Plus they’ve got a better D. Those two sophomores? Can’t remember their names, but they’re so good at keeping the puck out of their zone. Takes so much heat off Johansson.”

  Johansson is Harvard’s goalie, and he’s phenomenal. Truthfully, Corsen’s right to worry.

  “Kelvin and Brodowski aren’t that strong,” he mutters.

  “No,” I agree. “But Matty is.” I nod toward Anderson, who’s texting on his phone.

  Like the Harvard boys, Matt stepped up after Dean and Logan graduated. He’s now the leading scorer among the defensemen and one of our best penalty killers. He’s also the only black player on the team, which he’s damn proud of. He’s entering the draft this year and eager to make his mark in a pro league that’s predominantly white.

  “True. Matty’s an asset,” Corsen relents, but he still sounds unhappy.

  I get why he’s worried. He’s signed by LA and playing for them next season, so it’s always a concern if your draft team sees you shit the bed. A lot of the time that guarantees you a spot on the farm team, though sometimes that’s the better option, truth be told. That’s what Logan is doing right now, playing for the Providence Bruins and developing his skills. Not everyone is like Garrett Graham, a born superstar. And not every college player is instantly ready for the pros.

  Coach marches into the room and claps his hands. “Let’s get started.” He doesn’t shout, just uses his speaking voice, but everyone snaps to attention as if he’d screamed like a drill sergeant. Jensen is the kind of man who just commands respect. He’s also a man of few words, but the words he does use wield a lot of power.

  “Take a good look at this kid,” he orders. He presses play and the picture on the screen jumps to life.

  A skater, jersey number 33, whizzes across the blue line. Coach pauses the frame, draws on his tablet, and a bright red circle appears on the player like a target.

  “Junior, left wing,” he says briskly. “Brooks Weston.”

  “The goon,” a sophomore pipes up.

  “So?” Hollis cracks. “We’ve got our own goons. We can take him.”

  “He’s more than an enforcer,” Coach Jensen tells us. “He’s a goddamn instigator and a scourge to this earth.”

  We snicker.

  “This little fucker has the superhuman ability to commit infraction after infraction without being called. And he’s very, very skilled at drawing
penalties from other guys. His specialty is provoking fights. End result is him usually coming out smelling like roses, while the other guy draws a major or, worst case, an ejection.”

  A mumble of general disapproval ripples through the room, even though I’m sure we’ve all been guilty at one point or another of trying to provoke opponents into committing an infraction. Some players do it habitually, though, using it as a strategy. Coach Jensen doesn’t believe in this strategy. If it were up to him, the NCAA would take a much stronger stance on penalty gameplay.

  “No matter what trash comes out of this kid’s mouth, you don’t let it get to you, you hear me?” He fixes us all with a deadly look.

  “I’m not scared of some rich kid with a potty mouth,” drawls Kelvin.

  “How do you know he’s rich?” Hunter asks in amusement.

  “His first name is also a last name. That usually means his parents called him that to honor two filthy-rich grandparents.”

  “My first name is also a last name,” Hunter points out.

  “Yeah, and you’re filthy rich!” Hollis chimes in, snorting with laughter. “Hell, you probably know this Wesley Brooke guy.”

  “Brooks Weston,” someone corrects.

  “I do know him,” Hunter admits, drawing another snort from Hollis. “We both played for Roselawn Prep. He was a couple years ahead of me.”

  Coach nods. “Pain in the ass, those Roselawn guys.”

  “I literally just said I went to Roselawn,” Hunter protests.

  “I repeat—pain in the ass, those Roselawn guys.”

  Hunter sighs.

  We spend the next fifteen minutes analyzing the first period of the Harvard/Boston College game. Coach is right. Weston Brooks or Brooks Weston or whatever the hell his name is, is a damn nuisance. He’s aggressive as hell, getting away with high-sticking three minutes in, and almost instigating a fight before the buzzer. Weston manages to taunt his opponent into a couple harmless shoves, but just as the BC player is about to lunge, a teammate yanks him back. Weston is chortling as he skates off.

  I dislike him already.