at the edge of the bed, naked as a jaybird. I take her hand and slip the beaded bracelet onto her delicate wrist. It sits a bit looser on her than it does on me, and when she lifts her arm to admire it, it slides halfway down to her elbow.
“There,” I say with a pleased nod. “You’re all set.”
“Thank you. I’ll probably head over there and talk to him while you’re at—” Her face suddenly pales.
Mine does too, panic careening up my throat. Shit. Shit. I glance at the alarm clock, which confirms my worst fear. It’s nine thirty, and I’m an hour late for practice.
Coach doesn’t let my tardiness go unpunished. After I’ve suited up in the empty locker room, I sprint down the tunnel—on skates—and practically hurl myself onto the ice. My teammates are running a shooting drill, but Coach blows his whistle when he spots me. He doesn’t even let the guys finish what they’re doing. He abandons them mid-drill and skates over to me.
His dark eyes burn like hard, angry coals. “You’d better have a damn good excuse for this, Connelly. We’re facing off against Michigan in three goddamn days.”
My shameful gaze drops to my skates. He’s right. This was a colossal screw-up on my end. The regionals are being held in Worcester this weekend. We’re the number-one seed, playing Michigan, the number-four seed. But that doesn’t mean we’re guaranteed a win. Anything can happen in the national tourney.
“My alarm clock didn’t go off,” I lie, because the alternative is not an option. I was having sex with Chad Jensen’s daughter who I’m pretty sure I’m in love with. Coach would have an aneurysm.
“That’s what Weston said probably happened,” Coach mutters.
I force myself not to send a grateful look in Brooks’s direction. He didn’t come home last night, otherwise he would’ve been pounding on my door earlier reminding me about morning skate. And obviously Brooks knows that Brenna is staying with us, so I’m beyond relieved he kept his mouth shut about it with Coach. I make a mental note to stop calling him Bubble Butt around the house. At least for a few days.
“I’m sorry. It won’t happen again. I’ll set three alarms tomorrow.” Fortitude rings in my voice. The reason I gave for being late is bogus, but that doesn’t alter my determination to never let this happen again.
“You’d better.” Coach spins around and blasts the whistle a couple times. “McCarthy! You’re up!”
Practice is particularly draining, since I’m going out of my way to kick ass. I need to make up for what happened this morning, to absolve myself of this cardinal sin.
I’ve only been late to practice twice in my entire athletic career—and to put that in perspective, that career began when I was five years old. Both times I was late occurred in high school. The first time, I had the stomach flu, yet I still dragged myself out of bed and drove to the rink. I was thirty minutes late and my coach took one look at me and ordered me to drive right back home. The second time, the coast was hit by an unexpected blizzard and I woke up to a foot and a half of snow outside the door. I spent most of the morning shoveling the driveway and trying to dig our cars out. And even then, I was only forty minutes late.
Today? There was no stomach bug, no blizzard. I was an hour late because of a girl.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m not blaming Brenna. And despite my complete dissatisfaction with myself, I don’t entirely regret what happened this morning. The sex was goddamn spectacular. It was our first time without a condom, and I shiver at the memory. Her tight heat surrounding me…fuuuck. So hot and so good.
I’m about to leave the ice when I glimpse a familiar figure waving at me from the stands. Fans are allowed to come and watch us when it’s an open practice, like today’s.
I execute a sharp turn and skate the opposite direction from the boards. Hazel descends the steps, her blonde braid swinging as she walks. She’s wearing a light jacket, and, as usual, her fingers are stacked with rings, including the one I got her for Christmas. She smiles at me through the plexiglass, reaching the little door on the boards at the same time I do.
“Hey. What are you doing here?” I ask.
“I didn’t get to properly congratulate you for winning this weekend.” Her expression