by Elle Kennedy
“So, yeah. It got weird, and then Hunter interrupted us, and Fitz drove off.” I avoid her gaze. “And then I agreed to go on a date with Hunter next Saturday.”
“On Valentine’s Day?”
“It’s Valentine’s Day?!”
My screech causes every single person in our vicinity to stare in our direction. Brenna quickly waves her hand again. “Nothing to see, folks. Enjoy the game,” she chirps.
“Oh my God, do you think he knew it was Valentine’s Day when he asked me out?” I hiss.
“I doubt it. Most guys don’t pay attention to that kind of stuff.”
“She’s right,” a familiar voice confirms.
I turn in time to see Brooks Weston flopping down in an empty seat behind us. Jake Connelly is with him, lowering his broad body onto the neighboring seat. Jake’s dark hair is swept away from his chiseled face, and I can’t tell if it’s windblown or slicked back with gel, but either way it looks hot. Both guys wear hoodies conspicuously lacking the Harvard logo or colors.
Because that’s not suspicious.
Sharing my thoughts, Brenna flicks a cagey glance at them. “Scoping out the competition?”
Weston nods, unabashed. “Absolutely. We play you again in a couple of weeks.” He winks. “Correction—we beat you again in a couple of weeks.”
“You wish. We’ve got home-ice advantage,” Brenna reminds him.
Weston simply grins.
She glances at Jake. “What about you? Don’t feel like taunting us about how you’re going to kick our asses?”
He cocks a brow. “We are going to kick your asses. I don’t see the point in rubbing it in.” Jake focuses on me. “And to answer your question, I doubt he knew the date. V-Day isn’t something we usually mark on our calendars, unless we’ve got a girlfriend.”
“Girlfriend?” Brenna echoes, her tone dry. “From what I hear, you don’t know the meaning of that word.”
The smile he gives her is seductive as hell. “You been asking around about me?”
“Nope. Your puck bunnies just like to talk.” She shrugs. “Apparently you never go out with the same girl twice.”
“So?” Somehow, he’s able to inject cockiness, sheepishness, and pure sex into one measly syllable.
I speak up before Brenna can. “Do you think I should give him a heads-up about what day it is?” I ask the boys.
“Depends,” Connelly replies.
“On what?” I’ve completely abandoned the game being played on the rink below us. I twist around in my seat, desperate for some male advice.
Jake licks his bottom lip. I’m not sure if it’s intentional or if his lips are dry. But again, looks hot either way.
It’s a bit alarming, this strange fascination I have with the guy. I don’t want him for myself, but I’m wholly aware of the sex appeal he radiates. Maybe I’m feeding off Brenna’s energy? Despite her constant mocking of him, I’ve noticed that her gaze always lingers on him a bit longer than necessary.
“Depends on whether you want to fuck him or not,” Jake explains.
“True,” Weston agrees. “If you want to bang him, don’t tell him. Chances are he’ll bail if he knows the date. Unless you want him to bail?”
“I don’t know,” I confess.
There’s no denying that Hunter is incredibly attractive. He’s easy to talk to, he makes me laugh, turns me on. But Fitz does something to my stomach. Saying he gives me butterflies would be an understatement. And he does something to my heart too. Damned if I can tell you what that something is, but rest assured he does it for me.
Crap. Maybe agreeing to go out with Hunter was a mistake. Here I am preaching about deserving someone who gives me one hundred percent—well, doesn’t Hunter deserve the same?
As long as Fitz is on my mind, even if he’s only taking up a teeny corner of it, is it fair of me to date someone else?
I don’t say this out loud, because I don’t want to reveal to these Harvard guys that I’m torn between my two roommates. But deep down I suspect there’s not much of a competition there. I wanted Fitz from the moment I met him last year. I think those might actually be the first words I spoke to Dean’s girlfriend. I pointed at Fitz and said, “I want him.”
And this isn’t about me being a spoiled brat and needing a shiny new toy. Fitz isn’t a pair of Louboutin pumps or a Valentino clutch.
And it’s not about me wanting him simply because he’s been making me chase him.
And while it may have begun as a physical kind of wanting, that’s changed.
I think I might want more now.
Fuck.
The game is surprisingly low scoring. We’re playing Eastwood, our conference rival, and they’re damn good at keeping the puck out of their zone. Whenever the Briar guys cross the blue line, they need to take full advantage of the opportunity, and they haven’t been doing it so far in the first two periods. Plus, Eastwood has this goon on their team that’s driving me nuts. He’s already instigated several scrums, but nothing to warrant the attention of the refs.
“Man after my own heart,” Weston cracks from behind us. He says this after the goon once again gets a few good shoves in on a Briar player before skating away.
“Figures you’d fall in love. A goon always recognizes the goon in another,” Brenna says sweetly.
Weston reaches out and ruffles her hair good-naturedly. “I wear my goon badge with pride, babe.”
On the ice, the Eastwood goon just stole the puck from Matt Anderson after slamming the defenseman against the boards. He takes possession and flies toward our net, his teammates skating fast in tow.
“Ugh! I hate this guy!” Annoyance has me jumping to my feet. “Go away!” I shout at him. “Nobody wants you here!”
Jake and Brenna snort in unison, then frown at each other as if any sort of united reaction is unacceptable.
Weston taps the back of my knee. “Hey, you know who that is, right?”
“No.” I can’t see his jersey number or his name. I just know I hate him.
“It’s Casper Cassidy. From Greenwich Prep,” he replies, naming the high school that my brother Dean attended.
I went to Greenwich for freshman year, but I transferred to Roselawn because I couldn’t handle the workload. Greenwich places a lot more importance on academics than Roselawn does. In fact, in the prep-school circuit, Roselawn has a rep for being a party school. The kids are rich enough to buy their way into college, so nobody is too concerned about getting straight As.
Despite the fact that my dad pulled strings to get me into Briar, I’m at least proud to say I was admitted to Brown all on my own. My GPA wasn’t something to write home about, but I made up for it with my extra-curriculars and community service.
“Are you kidding me?” I marvel, trying to spot the goon again. There are too many jerseys battling it out behind the net. “That’s Casper Cassidy? Did he have some sort of growth spurt? He looks enormous.”
“No, he was always that big,” Weston argues.
I twist in my seat again. “I played 7 Minutes in Heaven with him at a Greenwich party, and he fingered me in a closet. Trust me, he was not that big.”
Connelly starts to laugh. “You’re really something else, Di Laurentis. No filter whatsoever.” He tips his head. “Doesn’t embarrass you at all to admit that, huh?”
“Nope.”
“Why should she be embarrassed?” Brenna challenges. “What, you don’t think girls are allowed to hook up?”
Jake’s mouth hitches in a wry grin. “Jensen, I think no matter what I say, you’d still argue the point.”
“That’s not true.”
“You’re arguing right now.”
“Because you’re annoying me.”
“What a coincidence,” he mocks. “You’re annoying me too.”
A collective gasp from the crowd interrupts their bickering. I’d turned away, so I’m not certain what happened, but I stumble to my feet when I glimpse the blood.
“O
h shit, that’s Fitz,” Brenna says. “What the hell happened?” I guess she hadn’t been watching, either.
The freshmen in the row ahead help us out. “He took a shot to the face,” one girl says.
“What!” My heart jumps to my throat.
“He laid out to block Cassidy’s shot,” Weston explains. “Puck was deflected.”
“But he’s wearing a visor,” I protest.
“Visor’s probably what cut him,” Jake says wryly.
“He’s fine,” Weston says. “Doesn’t look too bad.”
Now that the whistle has been blown and the players have skated away from the net, I can clearly see the red drops staining the white surface. It’s not as much blood as I thought. But still.
My panicked gaze seeks out Fitz. He’s on the Briar bench. His head is being tipped back by a woman I assume is the team doctor. She’s pressing a square of gauze to the outer edge of his right eyebrow. Not his eye, then. Relief flows through me.
Fitz is arguing with the doc. His mouth is moving, and his body practically vibrates with frustration. He wants to go back on the ice, but the woman keeps shaking her head. She readjusts the gauze, and my stomach churns when I glimpse the river of blood pouring down the side of his face.
“He needs stitches,” Brenna says unhappily.
Fitz flings a gloved hand toward the scoreboard, I assume to point out the game clock. There are eight minutes left in the third. Clearly he’s determined to keep playing. The doc once again shakes her head, unyielding. Then Coach Jensen shouts something at them, and Fitz stands up.
With my heart still lodged in my throat, I watch as he’s ushered away. He slams an angry glove against the boards before disappearing in the tunnel that leads to the locker rooms.
I’m already marching toward the aisle. “Later, spies,” I call to the Harvard boys. To Brenna, I issue a sharp order. “Come on, Bee.”
I expect her to object, insist we need to watch the rest of the game, but she surprises me by following me down the steps. Outside the rink doors, I gaze imploringly at her. “Can you sneak me into the locker room? Or the medical room? Whatever you call it. I want to make sure he’s okay.”
She nods, her eyes softening. “Sure. I’ve got you.”
In the hallway, she takes the lead, while I scramble to keep up with her brisk pace. When we reach a door that requires a keycard, Brenna whips one out of her purse and holds it to the scanner. It turns green and off we go. Being the coach’s daughter comes with perks, apparently.
The doctor who’d been arguing with Fitz exits the locker room at the same time we approach it.
“Hey, Alex,” Brenna greets her. “How’s Fitzy?”
“Physically? He’s fine. I stitched him up.” The woman—Alex—rubs the bridge of her nose. She’s visibly aggravated. “But his attitude could use an adjustment. Your dad said he’s done for the night.”
Brenna nods. “Makes sense. We’re ahead by two.” She gestures to me. “You mind if Summer pops in to see him?”
Alex scrutinizes me for a moment. She’s a short, stocky woman with sharp features and a narrow jaw, but there’s kindness in her eyes. Finally she nods. “Be quick,” she tells me. To Brenna she says, “If your father asks, I never saw either of you.”
“You rock, Alex.” Once the team doc disappears around the corner, Brenna gives me a cheeky grin. “I’ll stand out here and keep watch. If someone comes, I’ll hoot like an owl.”
I swallow a laugh. “Solid plan,” I reply, reaching for the door handle.
When I enter the locker room, I find it completely empty. No Fitz, only sleek benches, padded lockers, and a faint whiff of sweat and old socks. In all honesty, the room smells a hell of a lot better than other locker rooms I’ve been in. Briar’s hockey facility boasts the kind of ventilation system other teams probably have wet dreams about.
The sound of rushing water captures my attention. I glance toward the wide doorway across the room. Wisps of steam float out of it, but I don’t see any light. There’s nothing but darkness beyond that doorway.
“Fitz?” I say warily.
A beat.
Two.
Then his equally wary, albeit muffled, voice replies with, “Summer?”
“Yeah, it’s me. I’m coming in, okay?”
I cross the threshold and am greeted by a cloud of steam. It takes a second for my eyes to adjust to both the darkness and the haze, for me to make out the bulky figure in the stall nearest the door. I’m not sure why I don’t turn on the light. I guess because he didn’t. If he wants to take a shower in the dark, who am I to stop him?
I inch my way toward the stall. In the shadows I glimpse the swirl of his tats and the ridges of his abs. Cotton fills my mouth when it occurs to me that he’s naked. The only barrier between Fitz’s naked body and myself is a short swinging door. All I have to do is nudge that partition, and I’d get an eyeful of—
“What are you doing in here?” His gruff voice interrupts my thoughts.
“I wanted to make sure you’re all right. How’s the eye?”
“Fine,” he grunts.
He turns the shower off and steps toward the little door. My heart rate triples. Water drips down his bare chest, rippling over his tattoo and trickling between his defined pecs. One muscular arm reaches out, and I forget how to breathe. Is he—
Reaching for the towel on the hook behind my head? Yes, he certainly is.
I gulp hard, hoping to bring some moisture to my arid mouth. Fitz wraps the towel around his waist and exits the stall, but rather than go into the other room, he stays put. We stand there in the darkness, facing each other. The air is still hot and muggy from the steam, but now it’s also thick with tension.
The sexual kind.
The “holy shit, this guy is looking at me like he’s already inside me” kind.
I try to ease backward, but my knees knock together. I honestly didn’t think it through when I decided to check on him. He’d just left the ice in the middle of a fast-paced, demanding game. He’s in pain because he took a puck to the face. He’s probably still hopped up on adrenaline.
He’s dangerous.
I don’t fear for my safety. But I fear for my sanity.
Shadows dance across his masculine features. I catch a glimpse of his tongue dragging over his bottom lip. Long fingers scraping over his wet hair. Then he speaks in a gravelly voice that sends a hot shiver up my spine.
“You should leave.”
My pulse hammers in my throat. It’s all I hear, the relentless thump-thump of my heart. “What if I don’t?” I find myself asking, and we both hear the breathy note in each word.
He moves closer. Slowly. Deliberately. Until he’s completely backed me up against the tiled wall.
“If you don’t go? Then I’ll probably kiss you,” he says bluntly.
My mouth is so dry I can’t answer him. I swallow, once, twice. It’s pointless, though. There’s nothing to swallow. No saliva, just the sawdust that’s coating my throat. My heart beats even faster. I swear it’s going to give out on me any second.
He dips his head, and his next words rumble in my ear. Low and silky. “What do you think, Summer? You want me to kiss you?”
It’s the sexiest question I’ve ever heard in my life, voiced by the sexiest guy I’ve ever met in my life. I find the strength to lift my head so I can meet his eyes. It’s too dark to fully make out his expression, but I don’t need to. I know exactly what he’s feeling right now. I’m feeling it too.
Hot, uncontrollable lust.
“Yes or no,” he whispers.
I finally find my voice. “Yes.”
20
Fitz
I’m gone for this girl.
So gone.
I should be urging her to leave the locker room. My teammates could come barreling in at any second—there wasn’t much time left in the third period before Doc Alex forced me to leave the ice so she could stitch me up.
But although common sense te
lls me this isn’t a good idea, I’m helpless to stop it. My surroundings disappear. When I inhale, I breathe in nothing but Summer and Chanel No. 5.
Fuck it. I need this too much. She needs it too, otherwise she wouldn’t have said yes.
I curl one hand over the back of her neck and thrust the other one through her hair. It feels like silk between my fingers.
“Colin,” she whispers, and the sound of my name on her lips is what spurs me to action.
I lower my head and press my lips to hers, and she makes the sweetest sound in the world. A soft, desperate moan. Then she deepens the kiss and it’s my turn to moan. When our tongues meet, I feel like I’ve been struck by a Taser gun. A jolt of electricity sizzles right down to my dick. Fries my brain. Makes my hands shake.
She tastes like cola and mint, and her lips are so damn soft. We stand there in the dark, her tongue in my mouth, my fingers in her hair. One of her legs comes up and hooks around my waist. And I don’t know if it’s intentional or not, but her foot nudges the edge of my towel, causing the terrycloth to slide to the floor.
Her mouth abruptly leaves mine. “Your dick’s out,” she informs me.
I choke on a laugh. “Yup.”
“Cool.” Humor colors her tone. “Just making sure you know.”
Our gazes lock as she flattens one palm against my bare chest. Meanwhile, my hard-on is impossible to ignore. It’s like a sharp sword between us, poking her in the belly.
Her fingertips drift lower. Only an inch, hovering over my abs. Despite the steam still hanging in the air, I shiver.
Her hand stops moving. “Are you cold?”
“No,” I say thickly.
I’m enjoying her slow, torturous exploration of my chest. Delicate fingers caress my abdominal muscles before skimming even lower.
“Remember the night we met?” she murmurs. “When I teased you about showing me your dick?”
A laugh slips out. “How could I forget?”
