by Elle Kennedy
When the second period starts, Harvard is leading two-zip.
“Does Connelly’s slap shot look a lot deadlier this year or is it just me?” Kelvin asks warily, his gaze glued to the screen.
“Oh, it’s deadlier,” Coach confirms. “And he’s even faster now. He’s scored on every breakaway he’s had this season.” He points a finger around the room. “Don’t let him rush the net. Understood?”
There’s a chorus of “Yessir.”
An aforementioned breakaway kicks off the second. Sure enough, Connelly dekes out four opponents, including two defensemen who literally look like they don’t know where they are. It’s like this old ’90s show I binge-watched last year, where the main character time-jumps into random people’s bodies in order to change history. Dude spends the first five minutes of every episode trying to figure out where the hell he is and whose body he jumped into.
That’s what Connelly does to these defensemen. Their heads swivel around in confusion as if they were just dropped onto the ice in the middle of a hockey game. By the time they realize what’s happening, Connelly has blown past them and is already taking a shot. The puck sails into the upper left corner of the net with laser precision, like an osprey diving into the ocean to pluck up its dinner. Coach pauses on the goalie’s look of sheer frustration as the lamp lights behind him.
“Beautiful shot,” Nate says grudgingly.
“Yes,” Coach agrees. “And I don’t want to see anything like it tonight, unless it’s coming from one of you. Got it?”
“Got it,” everyone answers.
We settle in to examine the rest of the tape. As Coach points out what he deems to be weaknesses on Harvard’s team, we hang on to his every word. We’re gonna have to exploit every single weakness if we want to kick their asses tonight.
10
Summer
“Can you believe he said that?” It’s been a whole day since my kitchen encounter with Fitz, and I’m still fuming.
“Yes, I can believe it,” Brenna answers irritably. “I believed it when you told me during the first period, and I believed it during the second period, and now it’s the third and I still fucking believe it, so will you please, for the love of little baby Jesus, just let it go?”
“Never,” I declare.
Her response is a cross between a groan and a laugh. “Omigod, you’re so stubborn. Have you always been this stubborn?”
“Yup. I am stubborn. I’ll own that. But you know what I won’t own?” I cross my arms tight to my chest. “Being illiterate. Because I know how to read!”
Brenna stares up at the rafters as if to ask the heavens for help. Or maybe she’s meditating, though that’d be difficult to do in a packed arena. Plus, we need to stay vigilant, because we showed up late and got stuck sitting in a section overrun by Harvard fans. We’re two black-and-silver dots drowning in a sea of crimson.
There are tons of other fans wearing Briar colors, but most of them seem to be congregated on the other side of the arena. Despite Brenna teasing me about it yesterday, we’re not wearing Briar jerseys. I’m glad for that. We’ve already received more than enough dirty looks for not representing the Crimson.
“Summer. Honey. He didn’t accuse you of being illiterate.” Brenna’s tone is one you’d use on a preschooler you’re teaching to paint with watercolors. Barely checked patience.
“He implied I was too stupid to read Shifting Winds.”
“Everybody’s too stupid for Shifting Winds!” she growls. “You honestly think all those people who claim to love the series actually read the damn books? They haven’t! Because they’re fucking five thousand pages long! I tried to read the first book one time, and the dickwad author spent nine pages describing a tree. Nine pages! Those books are the worst. The absolute worst.”
She runs out of breath, grinning when she notices me laughing my butt off.
“And that was my TED Talk about Shifting Winds,” she says graciously. “You’re welcome.”
My good humor doesn’t last long. “He was just so condescending, Brenna.”
Her tone becomes cautious. “Was he? Or are you just extra sensitive to everything he says now, because of what he said about you being surface level?”
I bite my bottom lip. It’s true. I am overly sensitive these days, especially about Fitz. It’s just… I keep trying to perceive myself through his eyes, and the picture that forms isn’t something to be proud of.
I see a ditzy blonde who got kicked out of one sorority and banned from another, who’s always on academic probation, whose father had to call in a favor to get her into college, whose brother called another one in to find her a place to live.
I see a screw-up.
With a heavy heart, I say as much to Brenna, but a roar from the crowd drowns out her response.
Her gaze hasn’t left the ice once during our conversation, and now she’s shooting to her feet. “Are you blind, ref!” she screams. “That was tripping!”
A group of guys a few rows behind us start cackling at her outrage. “Hey, it’s not our fault your shitty players can’t skate without tripping over their own feet!” one of them mocks.
“Oh, you really want to go there?” She spins around and I smother a laugh.
Aside from her silvery-gray scarf, she’s wearing all black again, plus the red lipstick I’m beginning to realize is her trademark. With her dark hair loose and her eyes blazing, she looks like a total badass. She kind of resembles Gal Gadot, the actress who plays Wonder Woman. Come to think of it, she resembles the original Wonder Woman too.
AKA she’s frigging gorgeous, and the boys she’s glaring at do a double take when they notice who they’ve been heckling.
“The only shitty thing I see is the huge dump your goalie just took on the ice,” she taunts back.
I snort, a chortle breaking free.
“Take a look at the scoreboard, douchenozzles, and tell me what you see,” she chirps, pointing to the screens above center ice.
The score clearly reads Briar – 1, Harvard – 0.
None of them follow her gaze. “Watch your mouth,” one snaps.
“Watch yours,” she snaps back.
“Your boys are pussies,” he jeers. “Standing there begging for a call instead of taking it like a man. Oh nooo, the bad man tripped me!”
His buddies break out in gales of laughter.
“Don’t make me come up there,” Brenna warns, hands planted firmly on her hips.
“Don’t tempt me. I don’t fight chicks, but I might make an exception for you.”
“I don’t hit men, either,” she says sweetly. “But luckily I don’t see any men around here. Do you?”
“You bitch—”
I yank on Brenna’s arm and force her to sit back down. “Relax,” I order. I’m acutely aware of the death glares all around us.
“They’re a bunch of jerks,” she grumbles. “And that ref was a dick! Anderson was totally tripped. They should’ve called a penalty.”
“Well, they didn’t. And we’re about three seconds away from getting assaulted, or thrown out. So let’s move on, shall we?”
“Move on, huh? You mean, what you should be doing right now instead of obsessing over one trivial comment?”
I clench my teeth. “Sorry if it bothers me that one of the guys I live with thinks I’m nothing but a fluffy sorority girl.”
“You know who else was viewed as a fluffy sorority girl?” she challenges. “Elle Woods. And you know what she did? She went to law school and showed everyone how smart she was, and then she became a lawyer and everybody loved her, and her slimy ex tried to win her back and she sent him on his way. The end.”
I have to smile, though her recap of Legally Blonde isn’t quite a parallel of my own life, since I won’t be going to law school despite the fact that everyone else in my family has. Well, except for Dean. He followed his own path, deciding at the last minute to bail on law because he realized he’d rather coach hockey and work with kids. If my parents were ri
ch snobs with sticks up their asses, they’d no doubt be horrified that Dean Heyward-Di Laurentis became a gym teacher.
Fortunately, my parents are awesome and supportive, and now Dean’s paved the way for me to be able to veer off course too.
Once I decide what I want to do, that is. I love fashion, but I don’t know if I want to design clothes, and fashion merchandising doesn’t interest me much, either. My goal is to see how the rest of my college career plays out before I make any final decisions. And senior year we have work placement, so I’ll get an even better idea of what I like or dislike.
“It doesn’t matter how other people see you,” Brenna finishes. “It’s how you see yourself—” She stops abruptly, then curses up a blue streak as Harvard ties up the game.
“How do you like them apples!” her new archrival yells.
“How would you like an apple shoved up your ass!” she retorts, but her tone is absent-minded, and her gaze is still glued to the game. Her eyes fill with admiration for one brief moment before narrowing angrily. “Ugh. Connelly. Why does he have to be lightning on skates?”
“That’s a bad thing?”
“It is when he’s on the other team.”
“Oh. Whoops.” It’s obvious I need to study the Briar roster. I only know Fitz, Hunter, Hollis, and a couple others I met in Brooklyn on New Year’s. “So he’s the enemy?”
“Damn right he is. He’s dangerous. If he gets you one-on-one, you’re screwed. Doubly screwed if it’s a breakaway.” She points to Briar’s side of the rink. “And so is that jerk who’s got Hollis pinned behind the net. That’s Weston. We don’t like him either.”
“I went to school with a guy named Weston. He played hockey too.”
Her head swivels toward me. “Swear to God, Summer, if you say that you’re friends with Brooks Weston, I’m punching you.”
I stick out my tongue at her. “No, you won’t. And we’re totally talking about the same guy—how weird is that? I didn’t realize Weston went to Harvard. For some reason I thought he was on the West Coast.” When I notice her glare, I grin. “Relax, we’re not BFFs or anything, but we did hang out in high school. He’s a fun guy.”
“He’s an evil demon goon.”
“Doesn’t make him any less of a fun guy.”
“True,” she says grudgingly. “I just don’t like the idea of my friends fraternizing with the enemy.” She raises her index and middle finger, then points them back and forth between her eyes and mine. “I’m watching you, Greenwich Barbie.”
Smiling broadly, I lean in and smack a kiss on her cheek. “I love you. You’re my soul mate.”
“You’re such a dork.” Rolling her eyes, she refocuses her attention on the game.
Watching live hockey is such a rush. It’s fast-paced, intense. If you take your eyes off the ice even for a split second, you might come back to a completely different game.
Harvard was on the attack before. Now it’s Briar’s turn. Our forwards rush toward Harvard’s zone, but they’re offsides.
Brenna curses impatiently. “Come on, boys!” she shouts. “Get it together!”
“Can’t get nothing together when you SUCK!” her heckler crows.
She gives him the finger without turning around.
There’s a face-off to the left of the Briar net. The centers are coiled rattlesnakes ready to pounce as they wait for the puck to drop.
“Nate’s the center,” Brenna tells me. “That’s Fitz on his right, Hunter on the left.”
My gaze unwittingly shifts to Fitz. His jersey number is 55. I can’t see his face because of his visor, but I can imagine the lines of deep concentration creasing his forehead.
The puck drops and Nate wins the face-off. He gains possession but passes the puck off immediately. To Fitz, who skillfully stickhandles it, deking out two opponents. It’s hard to believe someone so big could be so graceful. His six-two frame flies into Harvard’s zone, and excitement dances in the air for anyone wearing black and silver.
The puck was dumped behind the net and Fitz chases after it. He slams someone against the boards and wedges out the puck with his stick, then flicks a quick shot at the net. The goaltender easily stops it, but I don’t think Fitz was trying or expecting to score. He was creating a rebound for Hunter, who shoots a bullet at the net.
The Harvard goalie stops that one too, just barely.
Brenna wails. “Why!!”
“Because we’re better than you!” her new best friend sings.
It happens again—I turn my head for one measly second to glare at Brenna’s heckler, and when I look back, Briar doesn’t have the puck anymore. A Harvard player passes to Weston, who snaps it to Connelly, and I suddenly remember Brenna’s warning about what happens if this particular player gets a breakaway.
“Get him!” I urge the Briar defenseman who’s chasing after Harvard’s captain.
But nothing can keep up with lightning. Connelly is too fast. He turns into Keanu Reeves, moving all Matrix-like, left and right, speeding away from his would-be defenders. If there was dust on the ice, every Briar player would be left in it.
Brenna moans and hangs her head. Connelly shoots. Brenna doesn’t even look. I do, and I can’t fight my disappointment as I watch the puck fly past Corsen’s glove.
“GOALLLLLL!” a voice blares out of the PA. Seconds later, the buzzer goes off to signal the end of the game.
The Harvard fans erupt with joy as Briar loses.
After the game, we don’t immediately leave the arena. Brenna wants to say hi to her dad before he boards the team bus back to Briar, and I want to track down Brooks Weston.
I remember he used to throw the best parties in high school. My parents are cool, but they knew better than to let me or my brothers have more than a few friends over. Mr. and Mrs. Weston, on the other hand, were always out of town, so their son had the huge mansion to himself almost every weekend. His backyard was legendary. It was actually modeled after the yard in the Playboy mansion, grotto included. I’m fairly sure I made out with a guy or two behind the manmade waterfall.
“I’ll meet you out front in ten,” Brenna says. “And if you’re dead-set on chatting up the enemy, at least try to get some trade secrets out of him.”
“I’ll do my best,” I promise.
She disappears in the crowd. I thread my way toward the wide hallway outside the team locker rooms, where I encounter a handful of security guards and a slew of females. Brenna warned me that the hockey groupies linger after the games, hoping to catch the eye of a player. I remember this phenomenon from my brother’s games too.
I stand a short distance away and shoot a quick text off to Weston, banking that he still has the same number from high school.
Hey!! It’s Summer H.D.L. Here w/ a friend and waiting for u outside locker room.
Come say hi! Would luv to see u.
I include my name just in case he deleted my number. There’s no reason he would, though. We’re not exes. Didn’t part on unfriendly terms after he graduated.
I decide to give him five minutes, and if he doesn’t show I’ll go find Brenna. But Weston doesn’t disappoint. Barely two minutes pass before he’s barreling toward me.
“Yessss! Summer!” He lifts me off my feet and spins me around happily, and I’m sure the groupies who were waiting for him are plotting my demise. “What are you doing here?” He seems thrilled to see me. I have to admit, it’s good to see him too.
His dirty-blond hair is longer than it was in high school, almost to his chin now. But his gray eyes are just as devilish. They always had this gleam to them, like he was plotting something naughty. That’s one of the reasons I never dated him, because he was (and I suspect still is) the definition of manchild. Plus, he went out with one of my friends, so girl code dictated he was off-limits.
“I go to Briar,” I inform him after he releases me.
His jaw drops. “Are you shitting me?”
“Nope. Started this semester.”
“Weren’t you supposed to go to Brown?”
“I did.”
“Ah, okay. What happened to that?”
“Long story,” I confess.
Weston slings one big arm over my shoulders and lowers his voice conspiratorially. “Let me guess—partying and shenanigans were involved, and you were very politely asked to leave.”
My outraged glare lasts about half a second. “I hate that we went to high school together,” I grumble.
“Why? ‘Cause it means I know you too well?” He smirks.
“Yes,” I say grudgingly. “But I’ll have you know, I wasn’t even partying when the shenanigans happened.” That’s all I say on the subject, though. I’m still horribly embarrassed by the entire incident.
Only my parents know the whole story, but that’s because I’ve never been able to hide anything from them. One, they’re lawyers, which means they can extract information as skillfully as any Russian spy. Second, I adore them and don’t like to keep secrets from them. Obviously, I don’t tell them everything, but there’s no way I could keep something as big as a sorority house fire from them.
“You have no idea how good it is to see you!” Weston says, hugging me again.
Oh yeah. The groupies hate me.
The temperature in the hallway becomes utterly glacial when another player approaches us. The covetous looks and hushed wave of whispers tell me that he’s the one most of them were waiting for.
“Connelly, this is Summer,” Weston introduces. “We went to high school together. Summer, Jake Connelly.”
The superstar who won the game for Harvard. Oh boy. I really am fraternizing with the enemy. This is the guy Brenna hates.
He also happens to be incredibly attractive.
I find myself speechless as I stare into eyes the darkest shade of green I’ve ever seen. And I swear his cheekbones are prettier than mine. He doesn’t look feminine, though. He’s chiseled as fuck, like a young Clint Eastwood. Which I guess would make him Scott Eastwood? Oh, who cares. All I can say is…yum.
