was the headline of a recent article I read in one of the New England papers. It was a full-page write-up about how Briar is killing it this season. Unfortunately, so is Harvard, all thanks to the superstar across the booth from me.
“I was in the neighborhood.” There’s an amused gleam in his forest-green eyes.
The last time I saw him, he and a teammate were lurking in the stands of Briar’s arena, scoping us out. Not long after, we kicked their asses when our teams played each other. Which was tremendously satisfying and made up for our loss against them earlier in the season.
“Mmm-hmmm, I’m sure you just happened to be in Hastings. Don’t you live in Cambridge?”
“So?”
“So that’s an hour away.” I give him a smirk. “I didn’t know I had a stalker.”
“You got me. I’m stalking you.”
“I’m flattered, Jakey. It’s been a while since someone was so besotted with me that they drove to a whole other town to track me down.”
His lips slowly curve into a smile. “Look, as hot as you are—”
“Aw, you think I’m a hottie?”
“—I wouldn’t spend the gas money to come here just to get my balls put through the wringer. Sorry to disappoint.” He runs a hand through his dark hair. It’s a bit shorter now, and he’s rocking some scruff that shadows his jaw.
“You say that as if I have any interest in your balls,” I answer sweetly.
“My metaphorical balls. You wouldn’t be able to handle the real ones,” he drawls. “Hottie.”
I roll my eyes so hard I almost pull a muscle. “Seriously, Connelly. Why are you here?”
“I was visiting a friend. This looked like a good place to grab some coffee before I drive back to the city.”
“You have a friend? Well, that’s a relief. I’ve seen you hanging out with your teammates, but I assumed they have to pretend to like you because you’re their captain.”
“They like me because I’m fucking terrific.” He flashes another grin.
Panty-melting. That’s how Summer described his smile once. I swear, the chick has an unhealthy obsession with Connelly’s chiseled good looks. Phrases she’s thrown around to describe him include: hotness overload, ovary explosion, babelicious, and mackable.
Summer and I have known each other only a couple of months. We pretty much went from strangers to best friends in about, oh, thirty seconds. I mean, she transferred from another college after accidentally setting part of her sorority house on fire—how could I not fall hard for that crazy girl? She’s a fashion major, a ton of fun, and is convinced I have a thing for Jake Connelly.
She’s wrong. The guy is gorgeous, and he’s a phenomenal hockey player, but he’s also a notorious player off the ice. This doesn’t make him an anomaly, of course. A lot of athletes maintain an active roster of chicks who are perfectly content with 1) hooking up, 2) not being exclusive, and 3) always coming second to whatever sport the dude plays.
But I’m not one of those chicks. I’m not averse to hookups, but numbers 2 and 3 are non-negotiable.
Not to mention that my father would skin me alive if I ever dated THE ENEMY. Dad and Jake’s coach, Daryl Pedersen, have been feuding for years. According to my father, Coach Pedersen sacrifices babies to Satan and performs blood magic in his spare time.
“I have lots of friends,” Connelly adds. He shrugs. “Including a very close one who goes to Briar.”
“I feel like when somebody brags about all their friends, it usually means they don’t have any. Overcompensating, you know?” I smile innocently.
“At least I didn’t get stood up.”
The smile fades. “I wasn’t stood up,” I lie, except the waitress chooses that moment to approach the booth and blow my cover.
“You made it!” Relief fills her eyes at the sight of Jake. Followed by a gleam of appreciation once she gets a good look at him. “We were starting to get worried.”
We? I hadn’t realized we were partners in this humiliation venture.
“The roads were slick,” Jake tells her, nodding toward the diner’s front windows. Rivulets of moisture streak the fogged-up panes. Beyond the glass a thin stripe of lightning momentarily illuminates the dark sky. “Gotta be extra careful when driving in the rain, you know?”
She nods fervently. “The roads get really wet when it’s raining.”
No shit, Captain Obvious. Rain makes things wet. Somebody call the Nobel Prize judging committee.