his glass. “I’ll drink to that.”
“You guys are definitely due,” I tell them. “The Oilers haven’t won a cup since, what, the 1989 season? Not since the Gretzky era.”
Nils nods in confirmation. “You know your hockey.”
“We went to the finals in ’06,” Jake points out. He pauses. “Lost, though.”
And what followed was an eleven-year playoffs drought, which is embarrassing when you consider that more than half the teams in the league make it to the playoffs. I don’t mention that particular statistic, however. I wouldn’t dream it, not in front of an Oilers superfan, an Oilers active-roster player, and a soon-to-be Oilers rookie.
Speaking of the superfan, I feel Mulder’s gaze on me, and I turn to find him wearing a shit-eating grin. My first thought is that he’s impressed.
But I should know better by now.
“Sorry, it’s just funny sometimes.” Chuckling, he swirls the ice cubes in his glass. “You know, hearings hockey stats and breakdowns coming from a woman. It’s cute.”
It’s cute?
A red mist washes over my vision. Attitudes like that are the reason why women still face massive roadblocks when trying to break into sports journalism. It’s a historically sexist profession, and even now there really aren’t that many established female sports journalists. It’s not for lack of talent—it’s because of men like this, who think vaginas don’t belong in sports.
“Stats knowledge is one of the many talents Brenna brings to the table,” Jake says roughly.
Ed Mulder completely misconstrues that. I know Jake wasn’t trying to be sleazy, considering he went out of his way to include me in the hockey talk. But Mulder’s brain operates on a different level.
“I bet she does,” he drawls. He leers at my chest for several fist-inducing seconds before winking and clapping Jake on the shoulder.
Jake stiffens.
I grit my teeth, pressing my balled fists to my sides. This man is such a pig. I want nothing more than to smack him across the face and tell him to shove his internship up his ass.
Jake sees my face and gives a slight shake of the head. I force myself to relax. He’s right. I wouldn’t be doing myself any favors by causing a scene.
From the doorway, Mulder’s wife consults with the caterer before turning to address the group. “Dinner is served!”
15
Jake
Last summer I tagged along with Brooks and his parents to Italy for a couple weeks. The Weston family owns a villa in Positano, one of the wealthier regions on the Amalfi Coast. The coast was stunning, but Brooks and I explored other areas as well, including Naples and Pompeii and the infamous Mount Vesuvius. I imagine living anywhere near a volcano would be insanely stressful. I’d constantly be shooting wary glances at it, wondering when it was going to erupt—and knowing it can erupt. Knowing it has the power to wipe away an entire civilization, because it happened to Pompeii.
Tonight Brenna is that volcano.
The amount of times that steam has practically rolled out of her ears is almost comical. I’d laugh at her barely checked rage if it didn’t match my own.
Theo Nilsson is a cool dude, but the Mulder brothers? Not so much. Ed, in particular, is the supreme jackass that Brenna claimed he was. He cuts his wife down at every chance. He’s rude to the catering staff. And worst of all, he’s dismissive of Brenna and every word she says.
On the bright side, dinner is fantastic. I love to eat, so I’m all about this menu: fried scallops, stuffed cod cakes, roasted cauliflower. Jesus. And the pan-roasted white fish that serves as our entrée is to die for. Though if it were up to Brenna, Ed Mulder would be choking on his fish and dropping dead at the table.
“How long have you and Jake been together?” Lena Nilsson asks Brenna.
My fake girlfriend manages to find a smile for Nils’s wife. “Not long at all. Just a few months.”
“We started dating at the start of winter semester,” I supply.
“And how does her father feel about that?” Mulder says with a chuckle.
Her father. Rather than pose the question to Brenna herself, he asks me, and I notice Brenna’s fingers tighten around her fork. She looks like she wants to take that fork and stab Mulder in the eye with it.
Instead, she answers for me. “My father doesn’t know.”
His eyebrows sweep upward. “Why’s that?”
“We’re keeping the relationship under wraps for now. Our hockey teams have been competing against each other all year, and now we’ll be facing off in the conference championship.” Brenna