“Tell you what, I’ll email you a sample essay question, something Tolbert would come up with. Give yourself two hours to write it, and tomorrow we’ll go over it together. That way I can get a sense of what we need to work on.”
“Fine,” he concedes. “I’ve got practice in the morning and then class. Come over at noon?”
“Sure, but I’ve gotta be out of there by three for rehearsal.”
“Cool. See you tomorrow then.” He ruffles my hair as if I’m a five year old, then saunters off.
A wry smile tugs on my lips as I watch him go, his silver and black hockey jacket plastering to his chest as he walks into the wind. I’m not the only one looking—several females also swing their heads in his direction, and I can practically see their panties melt away as he flashes that rogue grin around.
Rolling my eyes, I head off in the opposite direction. I don’t want to be late for rehearsal, especially since Cass and I still haven’t reached an agreement about his ludicrous choir idea.
But when I walk into the music room, Cass is nowhere to be seen.
“Hey,” I greet MJ, who’s at the piano studying sheets of music.
Her blond head pops up, a strained smile on her face. “Oh, hey.” She pauses. “Cass isn’t coming today.”
Annoyance erupts in my belly. “What do you mean he’s not coming?”
“He texted me a few minutes ago. He has a migraine.”
Yeah right. I know for a fact that a bunch of our classmates, Cass included, went out for drinks last night, because one of them texted me an invite when Garrett and I were watching Breaking Bad. It’s easy to put two and two together—Cass is hung-over and that’s why he bailed.
“We can still rehearse, though,” MJ says. This time her smile reaches her eyes. “It might be nice to run through the song without stopping to argue every five seconds.”
“Yeah, except whatever we do today, he’ll just veto tomorrow.” I plop into a chair near the piano and pin her down with a hard look. “The choir idea is bullshit, MJ. You know it is.”
She nods in defeat. “I know.”
“Then why didn’t you back me up?” I demand, unable to mask my resentment.
A blush appears on her pale cheeks. “I…” She gulps visibly. “Can you keep a secret?”
Shit. I don’t like where this is going. “Sure…”
“Cass asked me out.”
“Oh.” I try not to sound surprised, but it’s hard to hide it. MJ is a sweet girl, and she’s certainly not unattractive, but she’s also the last person I’d consider Cass Donovan’s type.
As much as I loathe him, Cass is drop dead gorgeous. He’s got the kind of album-cover-friendly face that will sell a lot of records one day, no doubt about that. And look, I’m not saying the plain girl can’t get the hot guy. I’m sure it happens all the time. But Cass is a pompous, image-obsessed jerk. Someone that superficial would never be caught dead with a mousy thing like Mary Jane, no matter how sweet she is.
“It’s okay,” she says with a laugh. “I know you’re surprised. I was too. He asked me before rehearsal that day.” She sighs. “You know, the choir day.”
Annnnd all the puzzle pieces swiftly slide together. I know exactly what Cass is up to, and it takes some serious effort to swallow my anger. It’s one thing to coax MJ into backing him up during our fights, it’s another to lead the poor girl on.
But what am I supposed to say to her? He only asked you out so you’d support all his crazy ideas for the showcase?
I refuse to be an asshole, so I paste on the most polite smile I can muster and ask, “Do you want to go out with him?”
Her cheeks go even redder, and then she nods.
“Really?” I say skeptically. “But he’s such a diva. Like, giving Mariah Carey a run for her money diva. You know that, right?”
“I know.” She looks embarrassed now. “But that’s only because he’s so passionate about singing. He’s actually a nice guy when he wants to be.”
When he wants to be? She says it like it’s the endorsement of the year, but the way I see it, people should be nice because they are, not because it’s a calculated move on their part.
But I keep that opinion to myself, too.
I adopt a tactful tone. “Are you afraid that if you disagree with his ideas, he’ll renege on the date?”
She winces. “It sounds pathetic when you phrase it like that.”
Um, how else does she want me to phrase it?
“I just don’t want to make any waves, you know?” she mumbles, looking uncomfortable.
No, I don’t know. At all.
“This is your song, MJ. And you shouldn’t have to censor your opinions just to make Cass happy. If you hate the choir idea as much as I do, then tell him. Trust me, men appreciate a woman who speaks her mind.”
Yet even as I say the words, I know Mary Jane Harper is not that woman. She’s shy and awkward and spends most of her time hiding behind a piano or curled up in her dorm room writing love songs about boys who don’t return the sentiment.
Oh shit. Something suddenly occurs to me. Is our song about Cass?
I’m icked out at the thought that the emotional lyrics I’ve been singing for months might actually be about a guy I loathe.
“I don’t hate the choir idea,” she hedges. “I don’t love it, either, but I don’t think it’s terrible.”
And in that moment, I know without a doubt there’s going to be a three-tiered fucking choir standing behind Cass and me at the winter showcase.
13
Garrett
I’m working at the kitchen counter tonight, frustrated as fuck as I read over the practice essay Hannah “graded” for me earlier. She left my house with orders for me to redo the paper, but I’m having a tough time with it. The answer is simple, damn it—if someone commands you to murder millions of people, you say no thanks, I’ll pass. Except going by the criteria laid out in this bullshit theory, there are pros and cons for both sides, and I can’t wrap my head around it. I guess I suck at putting myself in someone else’s shoes, and that’s kind of disheartening.
“Question,” I announce as Tuck wanders into the kitchen.
“Answer,” he replies instantly.
“I haven’t asked the question yet, asshole.”
Grinning, he washes his hands at the sink and then ties a neon pink apron around his waist. Logan, Dean and I gave him the frilly monstrosity as a joke for his birthday, on the argument that if he was going to be our mother hen, he might as well look the part. Tucker countered by insisting he’s masculine enough to pull off any item of clothing we throw his way, and now he wears the damn thing like a badge of macho honor.
“Okay, I’ll bite,” he says as he heads to the fridge. “What’s the question?”
“All right, so you’re a Nazi—”
“Fuck that,” he interjects.
“Let me finish, will ya? You’re a Nazi, and Hitler has just ordered you to commit an act that goes against everything you believe in. Do you say, cool beans, boss, I’ll kill all these people for you, or do you say fuck off, and risk getting killed yourself?”
“I tell him to fuck off.” Tuck pauses. “Actually, no. I put a bullet in his head. Problem solved.”
I groan. “I know, right? But this asshole—” I point to the book on the counter “—believes that government exists for a reason, and citizens need to trust their leader and obey his orders for the good of the society. So in theory, there’s an argument to be made for genocide.”
Tuck pulls a tray of chicken drumsticks from the freezer. “Bullshit.”
“I’m not saying I agree with that line of thinking, but I’m supposed to argue this guy’s point of view.” I drag a frustrated hand over my scalp. “I fucking hate this class, man.”
Tuck unwraps the meat tray and places it in the microwave. “The redo is on Friday, huh?”
“Yup,” I say glumly.
He hesitates. “Are you going to play in the Eastwood game?
”
I brighten up, because this morning I received official word from Coach that I’ll definitely be on the ice on Friday. Apparently the midterm grades aren’t entered into the system until the following Monday, so at the moment, my average is still what it needs to be.
Come Monday, if my Ethics grade is a D or lower, I’ll be benched until I turn things around.
Benched. Jesus. Just thinking about it makes me queasy. All I want to do is lead my team to another Frozen Four victory and make it to the pros. No, I want to excel in the pros. I want to prove to everyone that I got there on my own merit and not because I happen to be a famous hockey player’s son. It’s all I’ve ever wanted, and I feel sick knowing that my goals, that everything I’ve worked so hard for, is in jeopardy because of one stupid class.
“Coach said I’m playing,” I tell Tuck, who high fives me so hard my palm stings.
“Hell yeah,” he exclaims.
Logan enters the kitchen, an unlit cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth.
“You better not smoke that in here,” Tucker warns. “Linda will ream your ass.”
“I’m going out back,” Logan promises, because he knows better than to piss off our landlady. “Just wanted to let you guys know that Birdie and the guys are coming over tonight to watch the Bruins game.”
I narrow my eyes. “What guys?”
Logan blinks innocently. “You know, Birdie, Pierre, Hollis, Niko—if he can stop being pussy whipped for long enough to leave his dorm—um, Rogers and Danny. Connor. Oh, Kenny, too, and—”
I stop him before he can name every guy on our roster. “So the whole team, you mean,” I say dryly.
“And their girlfriends, those who have ’em.” He glances at Tuck and me. “It’s cool, right? Won’t be an all-nighter or anything.”
“As long as it’s BYOB, I’m cool,” Tuck answers. “And if Danny is coming then you better lock up the liquor cabinet.”
“We can move the hooch to G’s room,” Logan says with a snort. “God knows he won’t drink a drop of it.”
Tuck glances over at me with a grin. “Poor baby. When are you gonna learn to handle your liquor like a man?”
“Hey, I handle the drinking part just fine. It’s the morning after that does me in.” I smirk at my teammates. “Besides, I’m your captain. Somebody has to stay sober to keep your crazy asses in line.”
“Thanks, Mom.” Logan pauses, then shakes his head. “Actually, no, you’re the mom,” he tells Tucker, grinning at Tuck’s apron before turning back at me. “Guess that makes you the dad. You two are positively domestic.”
We both flip him the finger.
“Aw, are Mommy and Daddy mad at me?” He gives a mock gasp. “Are you guys gonna get a divorce?”
“Fuck off,” Tuck says, but he’s laughing.
The microwave beeps, and Tucker pulls out the defrosted chicken, then proceeds to cook our dinner while I do my homework at the counter. And damned if the whole thing isn’t domestic as hell.
14
Hannah
“Hey, Han-Han.” Allie surprises me at work tonight, sliding into my booth with a beaming smile. When Sean slides in next to her, I have a tough time fighting a grin. They’re sitting on the same side of the booth? Whoa, they must be getting serious again, because only couples who are madly in love do that.
“’Sup, Hannah,” Sean says as he slings his arm around Allie’s slender shoulders.
“Hey.” I’ve been dealing with pain-in-the-ass customers all evening, so I’m genuinely happy to see some friendly faces. “You guys want something to drink while you look at the menu?”
“Chocolate milkshake, please,” Allie announces.
Sean holds up his index and middle fingers. “Two straws,” he adds with a wink.
I laugh. “God, you two are so sweet you’re giving me a toothache.”
But I’m happy to see them happy. For a frat boy, Sean is actually pretty decent, and he’s never fucked around on Allie, as far as I know. Their past breakups were always her decision—she’d thought they were too young to be so serious—and Sean had been infinitely patient with her every time.
I prepare their lovers milkshake, then deliver it to the booth with an extravagant bow. “Madam, monsieur.”
“Thanks, babe. Hey, so listen,” Allie says as Sean studies the menu. “Some of the girls on our floor are having a Ryan Gosling movie marathon tomorrow night.”
Sean groans. “Another Gosling fest? I don’t know what chicks see in that guy. He’s scrawny as shit.”
“He’s beautiful,” Allie corrects before glancing at me again. “You in?”
“Depends what time.”
“Tracy’s got a late class, but she’ll be back by nine. So around then?”
“Shit. I’m tutoring at nine.”
Allie’s face clouds with disappointment. “Can’t you try to tutor earlier?” She wiggles her eyebrows as if trying to entice me. “Val’s making sangrias…”
I have to admit, I am enticed. It’s been a while since I’ve hung out with the girls or consumed anything alcoholic. I might not drink at parties (and for a damn good reason) but I don’t mind getting my buzz on every now and then.
“Let me call Garrett on my break. I’ll see if he’s free earlier.”
Sean looks up from the menu, interested in the conversation again. “So you and Graham are best buds now?”
“Naah. It’s just a tutor/tutoree relationship.”
“Nuh-uh,” Allie teases. She turns to her boyfriend. “They’re totally friends. They text and everything.”
“Fine. We’re friends,” I say grudgingly. When Sean gives me a knowing grin, I promptly scowl at him. “Just friends. So banish all those dirty thoughts from your mind.”
“Oh come on, can you really blame me? He’s the captain of the hockey team and he goes through girls faster than he goes through a roll of toilet paper. You know everyone’s gonna think you’re his next conquest.”
“They can think whatever they want.” I offer a little shrug. “But it’s not like that with us.”
Sean seems unconvinced, which I chalk up to being a guy thing. I doubt there’s a guy out there who believes that men and women are capable of being purely platonic.
I leave Allie and Sean and tend to my other customers. When my break rolls around, I pop into the staff room in the back to call Garrett. The dial tone goes on forever before he finally answers, his gruff “hello” overpowered by the loud music in the background.
“Hey, it’s Hannah,” I tell him.
“I know. I have Caller ID, dumbass.”
“I was calling to see if we can change our tutoring time for tomorrow.”
A swell of hip-hop blasts into my ear. “Sorry, what?”
I raise my voice so he can hear me better. “Can we meet up earlier tomorrow? I’ve got plans at nine, so I was hoping I could come by around seven. Is that cool?”
His response is drowned out by the deafening pounding of Jay-Z.
“Where are you?” I’m practically shouting now.
“Home,” comes his muffled response. “We invited a few people over to watch the game.”
A few people? It sounds like he’s in the middle of Times Square.
“So you’re coming at nine?”
I swallow my aggravation. “No, at seven. Is that okay?”
“Garrett, beer me!” a voice ripples over the line. Judging by the faint Texas drawl, it must be Tucker.
“Hold on, Wellsy. One sec.” A rustling meets my ear, followed by a howl of laughter, and then Garrett comes back. “Okay, tomorrow at nine then.”
“Seven!”
“Right, seven. Sorry, I can’t hear you at all. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
He hangs up on me, but I don’t care. I’ve discovered this past week that Garrett never takes the time to say goodbye on the phone. It annoyed me at first, but now I sort of appreciate his time-saving approach.
I shove my phone in my apron and reenter th
e main room to tell Allie I’m good to go for tomorrow night, and she squeals in response. “Yay! I can’t wait to get my Gosling on. Hottest. Guy. Ever.”
“I’m sitting right here, you know,” Sean grumbles.
“Babe, have you seen that man’s abs?” she demands.
He sighs.
The following night, I show up at Garrett’s house at seven o’clock sharp and let myself in as usual. Before I head upstairs, I poke my head into the living room to say hi to Logan and the guys. Logan’s not there, but Tuck and Dean are, and they glance up in confusion when they spot me.
“Hey, Wellsy.” Tucker wrinkles his forehead. “Whatcha doing here?”
“Tutoring your captain, what else?” Rolling my eyes, I start to edge away from the doorway.
“You don’t want to go up there, baby doll,” Dean calls out.
I stop in my tracks. “Why not?”
His light-green eyes gleam in amusement. “Uh…he might have forgotten.”
“Well, then I’ll go up and remind him.”
A minute later, I completely regret that course of action.
“Yo, Graham, let’s get this over with so I can—” I halt midsentence, freezing like a deer in headlights after I open the door.
Embarrassment slams into me when I register what I’m seeing.
Garrett is lying on the bed in all his bare-chested glory…while a naked girl straddles his thighs.
Yep, Miss Thang is buck-naked, and she whirls around in a cloud of blond hair at the sound of my voice. Perky breasts assault my vision, but I don’t have time to judge them one way or the other because her ear-piercing screech cuts through the air.
“What the hell!”
“Shit. I’m so sorry,” I blurt out.
Then I slam the door and race downstairs like I’m being chased by a serial killer.
When I stumble into the living room a moment later, I’m greeted by two grinning faces. “We told you not to go up there,” Tucker says with a sigh.
Dean’s grin widens. “How was the show? We can’t hear much from down here, but I have a feeling she’s a screamer.”