Harvard hockey team is groaning and grunting in pleasure as if he’s acting out a scene from American Pie. I try to remain unaffected, but that traitorous spot between my legs has other ideas, tingling wildly at Jake Connelly’s sex noises.
“May I go now?” I growl. Except, wait a sec. Why am I asking for permission? Nobody is holding me hostage here. I can’t deny I’m mildly entertained, but this guy also just accused me of sleeping with his guys to ruin Harvard’s chances of beating Briar.
I love my team, but not that much.
“Sure. Go if you want. But first text McCarthy to tell him it’s over.”
“Sorry, Jakey. I don’t take orders from you.”
“You do now. I need McCarthy’s head in the game. End it.”
I jut my chin in a stubborn pose. Yes, I need to define things with Josh. I thought I’d stressed the casual nature of our involvement, but evidently he’s reading a lot more into it if his team captain is referring to him as “lovesick.”
However, I also don’t want to give Connelly the satisfaction of siding with him. I’m petty like that.
“I don’t take orders from you,” I repeat, tucking a five-dollar bill under my half-empty cup. That should cover my coffee, Stacy’s tip, and any emotional distress she may have suffered tonight. “I’ll do whatever I want with McCarthy. Maybe I’ll give him a call right now.”
Jake narrows his eyes. “Are you always this difficult?”
“Yes.” Smiling, I slide out of the booth and slip into my leather jacket. “Safe drive back to Boston, Connelly. I’ve been told that the roads get really wet when it’s raining.”
He chuckles softly.
I zip up my jacket, then lean forward and bring my mouth inches from his ear. “Oh, and Jakey?” I swear I hear his breath hitch. “I’ll be sure to save you a seat behind the Briar bench at the Frozen Four.”
2
Jake
It’s nine thirty-ish when I get home. The two-bedroom condo I share with my teammate Brooks Weston is nothing I could ever afford on my own, even with the sweet rookie contract I signed with the Oilers. We’re on the top floor of the four-story building, and our place is ridiculous—I’m talking chef’s kitchen, bay windows, skylights, a massive rear deck, even a private one-car garage for Brooks’s Mercedes.
Oh, and it’s rent-free.
Brooks and I met a couple of weeks before the start of freshman year. It was at a team event, a “get to know your teammates before the semester starts” dinner. We hit it off immediately, and by the time dessert was served, he was asking me to move in with him. Turned out he had a second bedroom in his Cambridgeport condo—for free, he insisted.
He’d already received special permission to live off campus, a perk of being the filthy rich son of an alum whose donations would be sorely missed if the school didn’t keep him happy. Brooks’s father pulled a few more strings, and I was given a pass from the dorms, too. Money really does pave the way.
As for the rent issue, at first I’d balked, because nothing in life is free. But the more I got to know Brooks Weston, the more apparent it became that for him? Everything comes free. The guy hasn’t worked a day in his life. His trust fund is huge, and he gets whatever he wants handed to him on a silver platter. His parents, or one of their minions, secured this condo for him, and they insist on paying the rent. So for the past three and a half years, I’ve been given a glimpse into what it’s like to be a rich boy from Connecticut.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m no mooch—I tried to give him money. Brooks won’t have it and neither will his parents. Mrs. Weston was aghast when I raised the subject during one of their visits. “You boys need to focus on school,” she’d clucked, “not worry about how to pay the bills!”
I’d choked back laughter, because I’ve been paying bills for as long as I can remember. I was fifteen when I got my first job, and the moment I held that first paycheck in my hand, I was expected to contribute to our household. I was buying groceries, paying for my cell phone, gas, our cable bill.
My family isn’t poor. Dad builds bridges and Mom’s a hairdresser, and I’d say we are solidly between lower and middle class. We were never rolling in the dough, so experiencing Brooks’s lifestyle firsthand