The Chase

  He is noticeably drunk. I’m talking wasted. His broad, muscular body weaves and lurches as he wanders around my room. His gaze briefly connects with mine, and I can see him struggling to focus his eyes. They’re hazy with intoxication. He finally stops at the foot of the bed, then spreads his arms and lets himself fall backward onto the mattress. He lands with a thump and starts to laugh.

  He rises on his elbows and grins at me. Still hasn’t noticed that my ass is hanging out. “Fuckin’ hell, Fitz, your bed is way more comfortable than mine. Lucky bastard.”

  Summer’s hands tremble on my waist. She slowly slides them off and flattens them on the desktop. Her pussy spasms around my still-hard cock. I don’t know if it’s intentional or involuntary, but I choke back a groan all the same.

  “I just came from this party at Sigma Cow. Chow. Chi. Sigma Chi.” He’s slurring now. “And my buddy was like, what do you mean you’re pissed at Fizzy? You grow a vagina or something?”

  Summer shifts, and I give her a warning look. I’m waiting for the right moment to pull out. And it can’t be when Hunter’s gaze is on me like white on rice.

  It takes several seconds to find my voice. “Dude, can we talk about this later? Maybe in private?”

  “What are…” Hunter trails off. His eyes narrow. Then he laughs. “Are you inside her right now?”

  “Get the fuck out,” I growl.

  His shoulders shake with laughter. “You are. Jesus. That’s kind of hot.”

  Screw it. Despite his gaze boring into me, I withdraw from the heat of Summer’s body and hastily tuck my dick in my pants, condom still on. Summer shoves her skirt down and hops off the desk. Two red splotches stain her cheeks.

  “Aw, you didn’t have to stop on my account.”

  “Hunter,” I say flatly.

  “What?” He raises his hands in a gesture of innocence. “We’re roomies. Sometimes roomies watch each other fuck.”

  Summer exits my room without a backward glance. I don’t blame her. I see the tight set of her shoulders, but I know she’s not pissed at me. Hell, she’s probably not pissed at Hunter. If anything, that’s nothing but sheer embarrassment tensing her body.

  “Hello to you too, Blondie,” Hunter calls after her, but gets no response. Shrugging, he stumbles back to his feet. “Didn’t waste any time, did ya, Fitz? How long after I dropped her home did it take for you to dick her down?”

  I bite back my anger. He’s drunk. And as much as I hate to say it, he has a point. “Let’s talk when you’re sober, all right?”

  “Let’s not.” He shakes his head, continuing to laugh under his breath as he weaves toward the door. “You and Blondie do your thing. I’ll do mine. And they all live happily never ever. I mean, after. Happily ever after.”

  I frown at his retreating back. “Hunter.”

  “Mmmm?”

  “Are we good?” I ask warily.

  He glances at me over his shoulder. “No.”

  I do my best to keep my distance from Hunter after that, especially around the house. It’s the least I can do. On one hand, Summer and I didn’t do anything wrong—it’s not like she was officially dating him. But Hunter had made his intentions clear to me. He’d staked a claim, and I’d trampled over it. But at the time, I hadn’t thought Summer and I were possible. I thought I’d been friend-zoned.

  But that’s neither here nor there. You can’t change the past. You can only try to better the future.

  In this case, it means giving Hunter his space, which Summer and I both agree is probably for the best right now.

  If it were Hollis or Tuck, maybe I’d handle the situation differently, talk to them, try harder to fix shit. But Hunter and I, while friends, aren’t super close. He’s got a great sense of humor and he’s fun to be around, but the truth is, I don’t know him very well.

  So I maintain the distance. I thought it’d be harder to do, considering we live together, but Hunter isn’t around much in the days following our confrontation. I can’t completely avoid him, though, because we’re forced to interact during practice.

  Harvard is still leading our conference. We play them again in a few weeks, so Coach Jensen and Coach O’Shea are working us even harder these days. On Wednesday morning, we run several one-on-one drills, followed by a three-on-three mini-game—Jesse, Matty, and me, versus Hunter, Nate, and Kelvin.

  Hunter and I take center. As he gets into position, I glimpse his determined expression and know this ain’t gonna be pleasant.

  I’m not wrong. He gains possession and skates off. When he tries to pass the puck to Nate, it’s intercepted by Matt, who snaps it over to me. I fly toward the blue line and dump the puck, catching up to it again behind the net. I barely get my stick on it before I’m slammed into the boards. The hit is harder than necessary, and so is the elbow to the ribs, courtesy of Hunter.

  He flashes a humorless smile and steals the puck from me. Then he’s gone.

  Motherfucker, that hurt. But fine. Whatever. I let it slide. He has a right to be angry, and it’s better he let out his aggression on the ice rather than off it.

  Here in the arena, it’s controlled violence. Which is one of my favorite things about hockey. It might be stupidly primal, and maybe it makes men as dumb as women claim we are, but sometimes it’s nice to release our pent-up aggression in a place where we can’t get in trouble for it.

  As practice continues, the encounters between me and Hunter get more and more physical. Our teammates start to notice. Nate whistles softly when I give Hunter a bone-jarring crosscheck. I swear I hear the breath leave Hunter’s lungs.

  “Save it for the game,” Nate urges after the whistle blows.

  We line up for another face-off. Hunter’s eyes are blazing at me. He didn’t like that check. Well, I didn’t like his elbow in my ribs, but what can you do.

  This time I win the face-off. Jesse and I flip the puck back and forth as we plan our attack. Lazy and predatory. Hunter’s line doesn’t like being toyed with, and just as they go on the attack, Jesse snaps the puck to me and I take my shot. Corsen stops it with his stick, then passes to Hunter.

  I chase after him, and we wind up behind my net. Elbows are thrown. One hits me in the center of the throat. For a second I actually can’t breathe. I gasp for air, but my windpipe isn’t working. I feel like I’m choking.

  Hunter doesn’t care. He gives me a shove as he skates away, and I manage to catch my balance before I fall. That throat move? No way.

  I skate after him, the game all but forgotten. “What the hell was that?”

  A hush falls over the rink. I hear the hiss of Nate’s skate blades as he comes to a stop a few feet away from us.

  “It was a clean hit,” Hunter says.

  I growl. “Nothing clean about that.”

  “No? Sorry, then. My bad.”

  His careless tone grates on my last nerve. “Whatever, bro. If knocking me around makes you feel better, go for it.”

  “Aw, how generous of you, giving me permission to throw down. Totally makes up for the fact that you’re fucking the chick I like.”

  Yup, he went there.

  Nate skates closer, his stick dangling loosely from his glove. “C’mon, guys, we got work to do.”

  We ignore him.

  “Look, Summer and I have been dancing around each other for more than a year. I had a thing for her before I ever knew you.”

  “Funny, you didn’t mention having a thing for her when I told you that I did.”

  I can feel our teammates watching us, which gives rise to the familiar prickling sensation that means all eyes are on me because I’ve just been dropped into drama I can’t avoid.

  I push past him, but he grabs a handful of jersey.

  “Let’s not do this here,” I mutter.

  “Why not? You don’t want everyone to hear what a dick you are?”

  “Hey, ladies!” Coach shouts. “We don’t have all day. Get your asses back to the bench.”

  Hunter reluctantly obey
s. I happily do, because being the center of attention makes my skin crawl.

  Coach announces we’re running more battle drills. The first drill involves two players out of the corner—one needs to drive the net, the other has to stop him. From the bench, I watch as several pairs battle it out. Then it’s my turn, and I’m not at all surprised when Coach announces I’m up against Hunter. Maybe, like me, he’s hoping Hunter will release all his hostility and leave it on the ice.

  The second the whistle blows, Hunter uses every dirty trick in the book to keep me trapped in the corner. I finally break free and get a shot off, but the sophomore goalie, Trenton, easily captures the puck with his glove and then tosses it in the air with a grin.

  “Run it again,” Coach demands.

  So we do. Once again manhandling each other in the corner. I manage to gain possession and drive the net, but before I can shoot, pain jolts up my arm as the fucker two-hands me in the wrist.

  “What the fuck is wrong with—”

  I don’t get to finish the sentence. The next thing I know, I’m flat on my back, the wind completely knocked out of me.

  His gloves drop. A fist slams into my chest. My helmet slides off, and another fist connects with my jaw. I hear the cheers and shouts of our teammates. Some are egging us on, others trying to break it up. Someone tries to pull Hunter off me. It doesn’t quite work, but it gives me the opportunity to ditch my own gloves and unleash a few decent retaliation blows. But then Hunter punches me again, and I taste blood in my mouth.

  Breathing heavily, we take a few more swings at each other, until Nate launches himself between us and forcibly shoves us apart. A couple of the other seniors come up and grab hold of each of us to stop us from attacking again.

  “Well? You ladies work it out?” From his perch near the home bench, Coach Jensen sounds utterly bored.

  O’Shea looks like he’s trying not to laugh. “Hit the showers,” he tells us.

  I look down and notice the red droplets staining the ice. It’s my blood—I didn’t draw a single drop from Hunter. But I’m gratified to note that his cheek is beginning to swell. He’ll have a bruise tomorrow. I’ll have a split lip. Not quite even, but at least I left some damage.

  I meet his hard gaze. “I’m sorry, man.”

  I think he’s scraping his teeth together, because his cheeks keep hollowing in and out. “Yeah.” He shrugs. “I think you actually mean that.”

  “I do.”

  We stare at each other. Hunter’s legs slide apart as he gets ready to skate, and the seniors tense, prepared to break us apart again. But he doesn’t move toward me—he skates backward for several feet, eyeing me in thought.

  Then he offers another shrug and rotates his body, leaving his discarded gear scattered on the ice behind him. He glances over his shoulder at me. “Don’t worry, Fitz. I’ll get over it.”

  I’m not so sure about that.

  27

  Fitz

  Three Weeks Later

  Six half-naked football players compete in a twerking contest while “It’s Raining Men” blasts out of the wireless speakers.

  No, that’s not the setup for a raunchy joke.

  It’s what Hollis and I come home to on this chilly Tuesday morning. We’d just finished practice and then grabbed breakfast at the diner in Hastings, because Summer said she needed the dining room and living room for her final fittings.

  Hollis’ jaw falls open as he takes in the scene before him. “Is this the wrong house?” he asks me.

  “Yeah, Rex!” Brenna is shouting from her spot on the armchair. She waves a dollar bill in the air, while Summer and a girl I don’t recognize laugh uncontrollably from the couch.

  The star wide receiver of the Briar football team shakes his ass before sauntering over to Brenna and proceeding to give her a lap dance.

  “Nope,” I hear Hollis mutter. “Nope, nope, nope.”

  A second later, he’s in front of the entertainment unit, powering off the speaker.

  The music stops.

  Rex’s dance comes to an abrupt end. At first the big guy looks disappointed, but then he notices me in the doorway and says, “Fitzgerald! Whadda ya think?” He points both index fingers at his Speedo.

  Well, technically not a Speedo, but a Summer Lovin’ original. Rex is wearing navy-blue briefs with silver stripes on the sides, and when he does a full turn, I grin at the S stitched on his ass.

  “It’s nice,” I tell him. But it’s a bathing suit, and I have no opinion one way or the other about bathing suits. I’ve owned the same pair of trunks for like five years.

  Summer rolls her eyes. “Don’t bother with Fitzy. He doesn’t understand fashion.” She gets up from the couch and approaches Grier Lockett. “Don’t move for a sec. Something’s not right with this seam.”

  And then my girlfriend drops to her knees in front of another man’s junk and starts fondling him.

  “Summer,” I say politely.

  She pokes her head from around Lockett’s crotch. “What is it, sweetie?”

  “Do you need help jacking him off?”

  Rex and the others break out in gales of laughter. Summer gives me the finger, and my jaw drops when she reaches around and pats Lockett on the butt.

  “Okay, take these off and put on real clothes. I’m gonna need to take that apart and restitch it.”

  Lockett hooks his fingers under the waistband.

  “In the bathroom!” she squeaks before he can yank his trunks down. “Jesus!”

  “Well, you’re no fun.” Pouting, Lockett lumbers out of the living room.

  “The rest of you can get dressed too. Everything looks great.” She turns to address Rex, who I know is the unofficial leader of the offense. His quarterback, Russ Wiley, might be the actual captain, but I hear Russ is an egomaniac. Rex, meanwhile, is universally loved.

  “So we’re all set for next week? The show starts at nine, but I’ll need you guys there at least an hour before.”

  “Don’t worry, cutie. We’ll be there with balls on.”

  “Bells,” Brenna’s friend corrects from the sofa.

  Rex fixes her with a stern look. “Audrey. When I say balls, I mean balls.”

  She snorts and goes back to checking her phone.

  “Are you sure the timing is okay?” Summer presses. “I heard Bibby mention something about a team-building retreat, but isn’t it the off-season?”

  “It is,” Bibby grumbles.

  Jules, another wide receiver, rolls his eyes. “Coach is making us attend this hippie-dippie bullshit course because we fell apart in the playoffs.”

  “Because Wiley fell apart in the playoffs,” Lockett corrects, referring to their quarterback.

  I don’t miss the disappointment in their expressions. Before this season, it had been a while since Briar had produced a football team with a good record. The fact that they’d ranked so high this year only to lose in the postseason must kill them.

  “He thinks we have trust issues,” Jules says. He shrugs. “So we’ve been sentenced to five days of forced camaraderie.”

  Brenna raises her eyebrows. “Five days? That’s savage.”

  “We get back on the day of the show,” Rex says. When he notices Summer’s worried eyes, he ruffles her hair reassuringly. “But we’ll have plenty of time to spare. The bus is dropping us at campus around seven-thirty, eight.”

  Summer nods with relief. “Okay. Perfect.”

  As the players leave the room to change into their street clothes, Summer gathers her supplies and tucks them into the huge sewing case on the coffee table. Audrey is now chatting with Lockett, who returns in track pants and a Patriots hoodie. And in the armchair, Brenna is now bent over her phone, her long hair forming a dark curtain around her face.

  “Who are you texting?” Summer asks her.

  “Nobody.”

  But it’s clearly somebody, based on her secretive tone and the quick glance she flicks in Hollis’ direction. The cloud of hurt in his blue eyes i
s unmistakable, and sympathy tugs at my gut. I don’t think he’s given up on the idea of him and Brenna yet, but it’s been about a month since they hooked up, and it’s evident she’s not looking for a repeat.

  “I’m making a coffee,” he finally mutters, tearing his gaze off Brenna. “Want one, Fitz?”

  “No thanks.” I had two cups at Della’s and I’m still wired.

  The moment he disappears into the kitchen, Summer launches an interrogation. “Spill, Bee. Who is he? Do I know him?”

  Brenna shrugs. “You met him once.”

  Summer continues watching her like a hawk. “Who is it?” I’m pretty sure she’s holding her breath as she awaits Brenna’s response. When she doesn’t get one within three seconds, she blurts out, “Is it Jake Connelly?”

  My head swivels toward Brenna. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

  “God, no. It’s not Connelly. He’s such a prick.”

  “Then who!” Summer demands. “Just tell me. Otherwise I’ll steal your phone and—”

  “Relax, crazy girl. It’s Josh, okay?”

  “Who?”

  “McCarthy,” Brenna clarifies.

  Summer gasps. “The Harvard guy? Oh my God. How do you even have his number?”

  “He messaged me on Facebook. Wanted to apologize for losing his shit when he found out who my dad was.” Brenna offers another shrug. “We’re just fooling around, though. Nothing serious.”

  I don’t miss how she discreetly slips the phone into her purse, as if a part of her is worried Summer might actually try to snatch it from her. And there’s no more discussion after that, because the rest of the guys file into the room and exchange their goodbyes with Summer. Brenna and Audrey announce they’re taking off too, so our front hall turns into a can of sardines as eight people (six of them enormous football players) put on their coats and boots and various winter gear.

  “Hey, Summer.” One of the players hesitates at the door. He’s got a mop of curly brown hair and a shy expression. “Are there any tickets still available? I checked online and it said the show’s sold out.”

  “It is, but all the designers get a block of tickets to give away. I think I have about five left. How many do you need, Chris?”