HANNAH
He doesn’t know I’m alive.
For the millionth time in forty-five minutes, I sneak a peek
in Justin Kohl’s direction, and he’s so beautiful it makes my
throat close up. Though I should probably come up with another
adjective—my male friends insist that men don’t like being called
beautiful.
But holy hell, there’s no other way to describe his rugged
features and soulful brown eyes. He’s wearing a baseball cap today,
but I know what’s beneath it: thick dark hair, the kind that looks silky
to the touch and makes you want to run your fingers through it.
In the five years since my assault, my heart has pounded for only
two guys.
The first one dumped me.
This one is just oblivious.
At the podium in the lecture hall, Professor Tolbert delivers what
I’ve come to refer to as the Disappointment Speech. It’s the third
one in six weeks.
Surprise, surprise, seventy percent of the class got a C-plus or
lower on the midterm.
Me? I aced it. And I’d be lying if I said the big red A! circled on
top of my midterm hadn’t come as a complete shock. All I did was
scribble down a never-ending stream of bullshit to try to fill up the
booklet.
Philosophical Ethics was supposed to be a breeze. The prof who
used to teach it handed out brainless multiple choice tests and a
final “exam” consisting of a personal essay that posed a moral
dilemma and asked how you’d react to it.
But two weeks before the semester started, Professor Lane
dropped dead from a heart attack. I heard his cleaning lady found
him on the bathroom floor—naked. Poor guy.
Luckily (and yep, that’s total sarcasm) Pamela Tolbert stepped in
to take over Lane’s class. She’s new to Briar University, and she’s the
kind of prof who wants you to make connections and “engage” with
the material. If this were a movie, she’d be the young, ambitious
teacher who shows up at the inner city school and inspires the
fuckups, and suddenly everyone’s picking up their pencils, and the
end credits scroll up to announce how all the kids got into Harvard
or some shit. Instant Oscar for Jennifer Lawrence.
Except this isn’t a movie, which means that the only thing Tolbert
has inspired in her students is hatred. And she honestly can’t seem
to grasp why nobody is excelling in her class.
Here’s a hint—it’s because she asks the types of questions you
could write a frickin’ grad school thesis on.
“I’m willing to offer a makeup exam to anyone who failed or
received a C-minus or lower.” Tolbert’s nose wrinkles as if she can’t
fathom why it’s even necessary.
The word she just used—willing? Yeah, right. I heard that a ton
of students complained to their advisors about her, and I suspect the
administration is forcing her to give everyone a redo. It doesn’t
reflect well on Briar when more than half the students in a course
are flunking, especially when it’s not just the slackers. Straight-A
students like Nell, who’s sulking beside me, also bombed the
midterm.
“For those of you who choose to take it again, your two grades
will be averaged. If you do worse the second time, the first grade
will stand,” Tolbert finishes.
“I can’t believe you got an A,” Nell whispers to me.
She looks so upset that I feel a pang of sympathy. Nell and I
aren’t best pals or anything, but we’ve been sitting next to each
other since September so it’s only reasonable that we’ve gotten to
know each other. She’s on the pre-med path, and I know she comes
from an overachieving family who would lay into her if they found
out about her midterm grade.
“I can’t believe it either,” I whisper back. “Seriously. Read my
answers. They’re ramblings of nonsense.”
“Actually, can I?” She sounds eager now. “I’m curious to see
what the Tyrant considers A material.”
“I’ll scan and email you a copy tonight,” I promise.
The second Tolbert dismisses us, the lecture hall echoes with
let’s-get-the-hell-outta-here noises. Laptops snap shut, notebooks
slide into backpacks, students shuffle out of their seats.
Justin Kohl lingers near the door to talk to someone, and my
gaze locks in on him like a missile. He’s beautiful.
Have I mentioned how beautiful he is?
My palms go clammy as I stare at his handsome profile. He’s new
to Briar this year, but I’m not sure which college he transferred from,
and although he wasted no time becoming the star wide receiver on
the football team, he’s not like the other athletes at this school. He
doesn’t strut through the quad with one of those I’m-God’s-gift-to
the-world smirks or show up with a new girl on his arm every day.
I’ve seen him laugh and joke with his teammates, but he gives off
an intelligent, intense vibe that makes me think there are hidden
depths to him. Which just makes me all the more desperate to get to
know him.
I’m not usually into jocks, but something about this one has
turned me into a mindless pile of mush.
“You’re staring again.”
Nell’s teasing voice brings a blush to my cheeks. She’s caught me
drooling over Justin on more than one occasion, and she’s one of the
few people I’ve admitted the crush to.
My roommate Allie also knows, but my other friends? Hell no.
Most of them are music or drama majors, so I guess that makes us
the artsy crowd. Or maybe emo. Aside from Allie, who’s had an on
again/off-again relationship with a frat boy since freshman year, my
friends get a kick out of trashing Briar’s elite. I don’t usually join in (I
like to think gossiping is beneath me) but…let’s face it. Most of the
popular kids are total douchebags.
Case in point—Garrett Graham, the other star athlete in this
class. Dude walks around like he owns the place. I guess he kind of
does. All he has to do is snap his fingers and an eager girl appears
at his side. Or jumps into his lap. Or sticks her tongue down his
throat.
He doesn’t look like the BMOC today, though. Almost everyone
else has gone, including Tolbert, but Garrett remains in his seat, his
fists curled tightly around the edges of his booklet.
He must have failed too, but I don’t feel much sympathy for the
guy. Briar is known for two things—hockey and football, which isn’t
much of a shocker considering Massachusetts is home to both the
Patriots and the Bruins. The athletes who play for Briar almost
always end up in the pros, and during their years here they get
everything handed to them on a silver platter—including grades.
So yeah, maybe it makes me a teeny bit vindictive, but I get a
sense of triumph from knowing that Tolbert is failing the captain of
our championship-winning hockey team right along with everyone
else.
“Wanna grab something from the Coffee Hut?” Nell asks as she
gathers her books.
“Can’t. I’ve got rehearsal in twenty minutes.” I get up, but I don’t
follow her to the door. “Go on ahead. I need to check the schedule
before I go. Can’t remember when my next tutorial is.”
Another “perk” of being in Tolbert’s class—along with our weekly
lecture, we’re forced to attend two thirty-minute tutorials a week. On
the bright side, Dana the TA runs those, and she has all the qualities
Tolbert lacks. Like a sense of humor.
“’Kay,” Nell says. “I’ll see you later.”
“Later,” I call after her.
At the sound of my voice, Justin pauses in the doorway and turns
his head.
Oh. My. God.
It’s impossible to stop the flush that rises in my cheeks. This is
the first time we’ve ever made eye contact, and I don’t know how to
respond. Say hi? Wave? Smile?
In the end, I settle for a small nod of greeting. There. Cool and
casual, befitting of a sophisticated college junior.
My heart skips a beat when the corner of his mouth lifts in a faint
grin. He nods back, and then he’s gone.
I stare at the empty doorway. My pulse explodes in a gallop
because holy shit. After six weeks of breathing the same air in this
stuffy lecture hall, he’s finally noticed me.
I wish I were brave enough to go after him. Maybe ask him to
grab a coffee. Or dinner. Or brunch—wait, do people our age even
have brunch?
But my feet stay rooted to the shiny laminate floor.
Because I’m a coward. Yep, a total chicken-shit coward. I’m
terrified that he’ll say no, but I’m even more terrified he’ll say yes.
I was in a good place when I started college. My issues solidly
behind me, my guard lowered. I was ready to date again, and I did.
I dated several guys, but other than my ex, Devon, none of them
made my body tingle the way Justin Kohl does, and that freaks me
out.
Baby steps.
Right. Baby steps. That was my therapist’s favorite piece of
advice, and I can’t deny that the strategy helped me a lot. Focus on
the small victories, Carole always advised.
So…today’s victory…I nodded at Justin and he smiled at me. Next
class, maybe I’ll smile back. And the one after that, maybe I’ll bring
up the coffee, dinner, or brunch idea.
I take a breath as I head down the aisle, clinging to that feeling
of victory, however teeny it may be.
Baby steps.
GARRETT
I FAILED.
I fucking failed.
For fifteen years, Timothy Lane handed out A’s like mints. The
year I take the class? Lane’s ticker quits ticking, and I get stuck with
Pamela Tolbert.
It’s official. The woman is my archenemy. Just the sight of her
flowery handwriting—which fills up every inch of available space in
the margins of my midterm—makes me want to go Incredible Hulk
on the booklet and rip it to shreds.
I’m rocking A’s in most of my other courses, but as of right now,
I’m getting an F in Philosophical Ethics. Combined with the C-plus in
Spanish history, my average has dropped to a C-minus.
I need a C-plus average to play hockey.
Normally I have no problem keeping my GPA up. Despite what a
lot of folks believe, I’m not a dumb jock. But hey, I don’t mind letting
people think I am. Women, in particular. I guess they’re turned on
by the idea of screwing the big brawny caveman who’s only good for
one thing, but since I’m not looking for anything serious, casual
hookups with chicks that only want my dick suit me just fine. Gives
me more time to focus on hockey.
But there won’t be any more hockey if I don’t bring up this
grade. The worst thing about Briar? Our dean demands excellence—
academically and athletically. While other schools might be more
lenient toward athletes, Briar has a zero-tolerance policy.
Fuckin’ Tolbert. When I spoke to her before class asking for extra
credit, she told me in that nasally voice of hers to attend the
tutorials and meet with the study group. I already do both. So yeah,
unless I hire some whiz kid to wear a mask of my face and take the
makeup midterm for me…I’m screwed.
My frustration manifests itself in the form of an audible groan,
and from the corner of my eye I see someone jerk in surprise.
I jerk too, because here I thought I was wallowing in my misery
alone. But the girl who sits in the back row has stuck around, and
she’s making her way down the aisle toward Tolbert’s desk.
Mandy?
Marty?
I
can’t remember her name. Probably because I’ve never
bothered to ask for it. She’s cute, though. A helluva lot cuter than I
realized. Pretty face, dark hair, smokin’ body—shit, how have I never
noticed that body before?
But I’m noticing now. Skinny jeans cling to a round, perky ass
that just screams “squeeze me,” and her V-neck sweater hugs a
seriously impressive rack. I don’t have time to admire either of those
appealing visuals because she catches me staring and a frown
touches her mouth.
“Everything okay?” she asks with a pointed look.
I grumble something under my breath. I’m not in the mood to
talk to anyone at the moment.
One dark eyebrow rises in my direction. “Sorry, was that
English?”
I
ball up my midterm and scrape my chair back. “I said
everything’s fine.”
“Okay, then.” She shrugs and continues down the steps.
As she picks up the clipboard that contains our tutorial schedule,
I fling my Briar Hockey jacket on, then shove my pathetic midterm
into my backpack and zip it up.
The dark-haired girl heads back to the aisle. Mona? Molly? The M
sounds right, but the rest is a mystery. She has her midterm in hand,
but I don’t sneak a peek because I assume she failed just like
everyone else.
I let her pass before I step into the aisle. I suppose I can say it’s
the gentleman in me, but that would be a lie. I want to check out
her ass again, because it’s a damn sexy ass, and now that I’ve seen
it I wouldn’t mind another look. I follow her up to the exit, suddenly
realizing how frickin’ tiny she is—I’m one step below her yet I can
see the top of her head.
Just as we reach the door, she stumbles on absolutely nothing
and the books in her hand clatter to the floor.
“Shit. I’m such a klutz.”
She drops to her knees and so do I, because contrary to my
previous statement, I can be a gentleman when I want to be, and
the gentlemanly thing to do is help her gather her books.
“Oh, you don’t have to do that. I’m fine,” she insists.
But my hand has already connected with her midterm, and my
jaw drops when I see her grade.
“Fucking hell. You aced it?” I demand.
She gives a self-deprecating smile. “I know, right? I thought I
failed for sure.”
“Holy shit.” I feel like I’ve just bumped into Stephen fuckin’
Hawking and he’s dangling the secrets to the universe under my
nose. “Can I read your answers?”
Her brows quirk up again. “That’s rather forward of you, don’t
you think? We don’t even know each other.”
I roll my eyes. “I’m not asking you to take your clothes off, baby.
I just want to peek at your midterm.”
“Baby? Goodbye forward, hello presumptuous.”
“Would you prefer miss? Ma’am maybe? I’d use your name but I
don’t know it.”
“Of course you don’t.” She sighs. “It’s Hannah.” Then she pauses
meaningfully. “Garrett.”
Okay, I was waaaay off on the M thing.
And I don’t miss the way she emphasizes my name as if to say,
Ha! I know yours, asshole!
She collects the rest of her books and stands up, but I don’t hand
over her midterm. Instead, I hop to my feet and start flipping
through it. As I skim her answers, my spirits plummet even lower,
because if this is the kind of analysis Tolbert is looking for, I’m
screwed. There’s a reason I’m a history major, for chrissake—I deal
in facts. Black and white. This happened at this time to this person
and here’s the result.
Hannah’s answers focus on theoretical shit and how the
philosophers would respond to the various moral dilemmas.
“Thanks.” I give her the booklet, then hook my thumbs in the
belt loops of my jeans. “Hey, listen. Do you…would you consider…” I
shrug. “You know…”
Her lips twitch as if she’s trying not to laugh. “Actually, I don’t
know.”
I let out a breath. “Will you tutor me?”
Her green eyes—the darkest shade of green I’ve ever seen and
surrounded by thick black eyelashes—go from surprised to skeptical
in a matter of seconds.
“I’ll pay you,” I add hastily.
“Oh. Um. Well, yeah, of course I’d expect you to pay me. But…”
She shakes her head. “I’m sorry. I can’t.”
I bite back my disappointment. “C’mon, do me a solid. If I fail
this makeup, my GPA will implode. Please?” I flash a smile, the one
that makes my dimples pop out and never fails to make girls melt.
“Does that usually work?” she asks curiously.
“What?”
“The aw-shucks little boy grin… Does it help you get your way?”
“Always,” I answer without hesitation.
“Almost always,” she corrects. “Look, I’m sorry, but I really don’t
have time. I’m already juggling school and work, and with the winter
showcase coming up, I’ll have even less time.”
“Winter showcase?” I say blankly.
“Right, I forgot. If it’s not about hockey, then it’s not on your
radar.”
“Now who’s being presumptuous? You don’t even know me.”
There’s a beat, and then she sighs. “I’m a music major, okay?
And the arts faculty puts on two major performances every year, the
winter showcase and the spring one. The winner gets a five
thousand-dollar scholarship. It’s kind of a huge deal, actually.
Important industry people fly in from all over the country to see it.
Agents, record producers, talent scouts…. So, as much as I’d love to
help you —”
“You would not,” I grumble. “You look like you don’t even want to
talk to me right now.”
Her little you-got-me shrug is grating as hell. “I have to get to
rehearsal. I’m sorry you’re failing this course, but if it makes you feel
better, so is everyone else.”
I narrow my eyes. “Not you.”
“I can’t help it. Tolbert seems to respond to my brand of bullshit.
It’s a gift.”
“Well, I want your gift. Please, master, teach me how to bullshit.”
I’m two seconds from dropping to my knees and begging her, but
she edges to the door. “You know there’s a study group, right? I can
give you the number for —”
“I’m already in it,” I mutter.
“Oh. Well, then there’s not much else I can do for you. Good luck
on the makeup test. Baby.”
She darts out the door, leaving me staring after her in frustration.
Unbelievable. Every girl at this college would cut her frickin’ arm off
to help me out. But this one? Runs away like I just asked her to
murder a cat so we could sacrifice it to Satan.
And now I’m right back to where I was before Hannah-not-with
an-M gave me that faintest flicker of hope.
Royally screwed.
2
GARRETT
M
y roommates are piss drunk when I walk into the living room
after study group. The coffee table is overflowing with empty
beer cans, along with a nearly depleted bottle of Jack that I
know belongs to Logan because he subscribes to the beer is for
pussies philosophy. His words, not mine.
At the moment, Logan and Tucker are battling each other in a
heated game of Ice Pro, their gazes glued to the flat screen as they
furiously click their controllers. Logan’s gaze shifts slightly when he
notices me in the doorway, and his split second of distraction costs
him.
“Hell to the yeah!” Tuck crows as his defenseman flicks a wrist
shot past Logan’s goalie and the scoreboard lights up.
“Aw, for fuck’s sake!” Logan pauses the game and levels a dark
glare at me. “What the hell, G? I just got deked out because of you.”
I don’t answer, because now I’m distracted—by the half-naked
make-out session happening in the corner of the room. Dean’s at it
again. Bare-chested and barefoot, he’s sprawled in the armchair
while a blonde in nothing but a lacy black bra and booty shorts sits
astride him and grinds against his crotch.
Dark green eyes peer over the chick’s shoulder, and Dean smirks
in my direction. “Graham! Where’ve you been, man?” he slurs.
He goes back to kissing the blonde before I can answer the
drunken question.
For some reason, Dean likes to hook up everywhere but his
bedroom. Seriously. Every time I turn around, he’s in the midst of
some form of debauchery. On the kitchen counter, the living room
couch, the dining room table—dude’s gotten it on in every inch of
the off-campus house the four of us share. He’s a total slut and
completely unapologetic about it.
Granted, I’m not one to talk. I’m no monk, and neither are Logan
and Tuck. What can I say? Hockey players are horny motherfuckers.
When we’re not on the ice, we can usually be found hooking up with
a puck bunny or two. Or three, if your name is Tucker and it’s New
Year’s Eve of last year.
“I’ve been texting you for the past hour, man,” Logan informs
me.
His massive shoulders hunch forward as he swipes the whiskey
bottle from the coffee table. Logan’s a bruiser of a defenseman, one
of the best I’ve ever played with, and also the best friend I’ve ever
had. His first name is John, but we call him Logan because it makes
it easier to differentiate him from Tucker, whose first name is also
John. Luckily, Dean is just Dean, so we don’t have to call him by his
mouthful of a last name: Heyward-Di Laurentis.
“Seriously, where the hell have you been?” Logan grumbles.
“Study group.” I grab a Bud Light from the table and pop the tab.
“What’s this surprise you kept blabbing about?”
I can always tell how plastered Logan is based on the grammar
of his texts. And tonight he must be shit-faced, because I had to go
full-on Sherlock to decrypt his messages. Suprz meant surprise.
Gyabh had taken longer to decode, but I think it meant get your ass
back here? But who knows with Logan.
From his perch on the couch, he grins so broadly it’s a wonder
his jaw doesn’t snap off. He jerks his thumb at the ceiling and says,
“Go upstairs and see for yourself.”
I narrow my eyes. “Why? Who’s up there?”
Logan snickers. “If I told you, then it wouldn’t be a surprise.”
“Why do I get the feeling you’re up to something?”
“Jeez,” Tucker pipes up. “You’ve got some major trust issues, G.”
“Says the asshole who left a live raccoon in my bedroom on the
first day of the semester.”
Tucker grins. “Aw, come on, Bandit was fucking adorable. He was
your welcome back to school gift.”
I flip up my middle finger. “Yeah, well, your gift was a bitch to
get rid of.” Now I scowl at him because I still remember how it took
three pest control guys to de-raccoon my room.
“For fuck’s sake,” Logan groans. “Just go upstairs. Trust me,
you’ll thank us for it later.”
The knowing look they exchange eases my suspicion. Kind of. I
mean, I’m not about to let down my guard completely, not around
these assholes.
I steal two more cans of beer on my way out. I don’t drink much
during the season, but Coach gave us the week off to study for
midterms and we still have two days of freedom left. My teammates,
lucky bastards, seem to have no problem downing twelve beers and
playing like champs the next day. Me? Even a buzz gives me a rip
roaring headache the morning after and then I skate like a toddler
with his first pair of Bauers.
Once we’re back to a six-days-a-week practice schedule, my
alcohol consumption will drop to the usual one/five limit. One drink
on practice nights, five after a game. No exceptions.
I plan on taking full advantage of the time I have left.
Armed with my beers, I head upstairs to my room. The master
bedroom. Yup, I was not above playing the I’m-your-captain card to
snag it, and trust me, it was worth the argument my teammates put
up. Private bath, baby.
My door is ajar, a sight that snaps me right back into suspicion
mode. I warily peer up at the frame to make sure there isn’t a
bucket of blood up there, then give the door a tiny shove. It gives
way and I inch through it, fully prepared for an ambush.
I get one.
Except it’s more of a visual ambush, because damn, the girl on
my bed looks like she stepped out of a Victoria’s Secret catalog.
Now, I’m a guy. I don’t know the names of half the shit she’s
wearing. I see white lace and pink bows and lots of skin. And I’m
happy.
“Took you long enough.” Kendall shoots me a sexy smile that
says you’re about to get lucky, big boy, and my cock reacts
accordingly, thickening beneath my zipper. “I was giving you five
more minutes before I took off.”
“I made it just in time then.” My gaze sweeps over her drool
worthy outfit, and then I drawl, “Aw, babe, is that all for me?”
Her blue eyes darken seductively. “You know it, stud.”
I’m well aware that we sound like characters from a cheesy
porno. But come on, when a man walks into his bedroom and finds a
woman who looks like this? He’s willing to reenact any trashy scene
she wants, even one that involves him pretending to be a pizza guy
delivering pies to a MILF.
Kendall and I first hooked up over the summer, out of
convenience more than anything else because we both happened to
be in the area during the break. We hit the bar a couple times, one
thing led to another, and the next thing I know I’m fooling around
with a hot sorority girl. But it fizzled out before midterms started,
and aside from a few dirty texts here and there, I haven’t seen
Kendall until now.
“I figured you might want to have some fun before practice starts
up again,” she says, her manicured fingers toying with the tiny pink
bow in the center of her bra.
“You figured right.”
A smile curves her lips as she rises to her knees. Damn, her tits
are practically pouring out of that lacy thing she’s wearing. She
crooks a finger at me. “C’mere.”
I waste no time striding toward her. Because…again…I’m a guy.
“I think you’re a tad overdressed,” she remarks, then grasps the
waistband of my jeans and teases the button open. She tugs on the
zipper and a second later my dick springs into her waiting hand. I
haven’t done laundry in weeks so I’ve been going commando until I
get my shit together, and from the way her eyes flare with heat, I
can tell she approves of the whole no-boxers thing.
When she wraps her fingers around me, a groan slips out of my
throat. Oh yeah. There’s nothing better than the feel of a woman’s
hand on your cock.
Nope, I’m wrong. Kendall’s tongue comes into play, and holy shit,
it’s so much better than her hand.
AN HOUR LATER, KENDALL SNUGGLES UP BESIDE ME AND RESTS HER HEAD ON
my chest. Her lingerie and my clothes are strewn on the bedroom
floor, along with two empty condom packages and the bottle of lube
we hadn’t needed to crack open.
The cuddling makes me apprehensive, but I can’t exactly shove
her away and demand she hit the road, not when she clearly put a
lot of effort into this seduction.
But that worries me too.
Women don’t get all decked out in expensive lingerie for a
hookup, do they? I’m thinking no, and Kendall’s next words validate
my uneasy thoughts.
“I missed you, baby.”
My first thought is shit.
My second thought is why?
Because in all the time we’ve been hooking up, Kendall hasn’t
made a single effort to get to know me. If we’re not having sex, she
just talks nonstop about herself. Seriously, I don’t think she’s asked
me a personal question about myself since we met.
“Uh…” I struggle for words, any sequence of them that doesn’t
consist of I, miss, you, and too. “I’ve been busy. You know,
midterms.”
“Obviously. We go to the same college. I was studying, too.”
There’s an edge to her tone now. “Did you miss me?”
Fuck me sideways. What am I supposed to say to that? I’m not
going to lie, because that’ll only lead her on. But I can’t be a dick
about it and admit she hasn’t even crossed my mind since the last
time we hooked up.
Kendall sits up and narrows her eyes. “It’s a yes or no question,
Garrett. Did. You. Miss. Me.”
My gaze darts to the window. Yup, I’m on the second floor and
actually contemplating jumping out the frickin’ window. That’s how
badly I want to avoid this convo.
But my silence speaks volumes, and suddenly Kendall flies off the
bed, her blond hair whipping in all directions as she scrambles for
her clothes. “Oh my God. You are such an ass! You don’t care about
me at all, do you, Garrett?”
I get up and make a beeline for my discarded jeans. “I do care
about you,” I protest. “But…”
She angrily shoves her panties on. “But what?”
“But I thought we were clear about what this was. I don’t want
anything serious.” I shoot her a pointed look. “I told you that from
the start.”
Her expression softens as she bites her lip. “I know, but…I just
thought…”
I know exactly what she thought—that I’d fall madly in love with
her, and our casual hookup would transform into the fucking
Notebook.
Honestly, I don’t know why I bother laying down ground rules
anymore. In my experience, no woman enters into a fling believing
it’s going to stay a fling. She might say otherwise, maybe even
convince herself she’s cool with a no-strings sex-fest, but deep
down, she hopes and prays it’ll lead to something deeper.
And then I, the villain in her personal rom-com, swoop in and
burst that bubble of hope, despite the fact that I never lied about
my intentions or misled her, not even for a second.
“Hockey is my entire life,” I say gruffly. “I practice six days a
week, play twenty games a year—more if we make it to the post
season. I don’t have time for a girlfriend, Kendall. And you deserve a
helluva lot more than I can give you.”
Unhappiness clouds her eyes. “I don’t want a casual fling
anymore. I want to be your girlfriend.”
Another why almost flies out of my mouth, but I bite my tongue.
If she’d shown any interest in me outside the carnal sense, I might
believe her, but the fact that she hasn’t makes me wonder if the only
reason she wants a relationship with me is because I’m some kind of
status symbol to her.
I swallow my frustration and offer another awkward apology. “I’m
sorry. But that’s where I’m at right now.”
As I zip up my jeans, she refocuses her attention on getting her
clothes on. Though clothes is a bit of a stretch—all she’s sporting is
lingerie and a trench coat. Which explains why Logan and Tucker
were grinning like idiots when I got home. Because when a girl
shows up at your door in a trench coat, you know damn well there’s
not much else underneath it.
“I can’t see you anymore,” she finally says, her gaze finding
mine. “If we keep doing…this…I’ll only get more attached.”
I can’t argue with that, so I don’t. “We had fun, though, right?”
After a beat, she smiles. “Yeah, we had fun.”
She bridges the distance between us and leans up on her tiptoes
to kiss me. I kiss her back, but not with the same degree of passion
as before. I keep it light. Polite. The fling has run its course, and I’m
not about to lead her on again.
“With that said…” Her eyes twinkle mischievously. “Let me know
if you change your mind about the girlfriend thing.”
“You’ll be the first person I call,” I promise.
“Good.”
She smacks a kiss on my cheek and walks out the door, leaving
me to marvel over how easy that went. I’d been steeling myself for a
fight, but aside from that initial burst of anger, Kendall had accepted
the situation like a pro.
If only all women were as agreeable as her.
Yup, totally a jab at Hannah there.
Sex always stirs up my appetite, so I head downstairs in search
of nourishment, and I’m happy to find there’s still leftover rice and
fried chicken courtesy of Tuck, who is our resident chef because the
rest of us can’t boil water without burning it. Tuck, on the other
hand, grew up in Texas with a single mom who taught him to cook
when he was still in diapers.
I settle at the eat-in counter, shoving a piece of chicken in my
mouth just as Logan strolls in wearing nothing but plaid boxers.
He raises a brow when he spots me. “Hey. I didn’t think I’d see
you again tonight. Figured you’d be VBF.”
“VBF?” I ask between mouthfuls. Logan likes to make up
acronyms in the hopes that we’ll start to use them as slang, but half
the time I have no idea what he’s babbling about.
He grins. “Very busy fucking.”
I roll my eyes and eat a forkful of wild rice.
“Seriously, Blondie’s gone already?”
“Yup.” I chew before continuing. “She knows the score.” The
score being, no girlfriends and definitely no sleepovers.
Logan rests his forearms on the counter, his blue eyes gleaming
as he changes the subject. “I can’t fucking wait for the St. Anthony’s
game this weekend. Did you hear? Braxton’s suspension is over.”
That gets my attention. “No shit. He’s playing on Saturday?”
“Sure is.” Logan’s expression turns downright gleeful. “I’m gonna
enjoy smashing that asshole’s face into the boards.”
Greg Braxton is St. Anthony’s star left wing and a complete piece
of shit human being. The guy’s got a sadistic streak that he’s not
afraid to unleash on the ice, and when our teams faced off in the
pre-season, he sent one of our sophomore D-men to the emergency
room with a broken arm. Hence his three game suspension, though
if it were up to me, the psycho would’ve been slapped with a lifetime
ban from college hockey.
“You need to throw down, I’ll be right there with you,” I promise.
“I’m holding you to that. Oh, and next week we’ve got Eastwood
heading our way.”
I really should pay more attention to our schedule. Eastwood
College is number two in our conference (second to us, of course)
and our matchups are always nail-biters.
And shit, it suddenly dawns on me that if I don’t ace the Ethics
redo, I won’t be on the ice for the Eastwood game.
“Fuck,” I mumble.
Logan swipes a piece of chicken off my plate and pops it in his
mouth. “What?”
I
haven’t told my teammates about my grade situation yet
because I’d been hoping my midterm grade wouldn’t hurt me too
bad, but now it looks like fessing up is unavoidable.
So with a sigh, I tell Logan about my F in Ethics and what it
could mean for the team.
“Drop the course,” he says instantly.
“Can’t. I missed the deadline.”
“Crap.”
“Yup.”
We exchange a glum look, and then Logan flops down on the
stool beside mine and rakes a hand through his hair. “Then you
gotta shape up, man. Study your balls off and ace this motherfucker.
We need you, G.”
“I know.” I grip my fork in frustration, then put it down, my
appetite vanishing. This is my first year as captain, which is a major
honor considering I’m only a junior. I’m supposed to follow in my
predecessor’s footsteps and lead my team to another national
championship, but how the hell can I do that if I’m not on the ice
with them?
“I’ve got a tutor lined up,” I assure my teammate. “She’s a frickin’
genius.”
“Good. Pay her whatever she wants. I’ll chip in if you want.”
I can’t help but grin. “Wow. You’re offering to part with all your
sweet, sweet cash? You must really want me to play.”
“Damn straight. It’s all about the dream, man. You and me in
Bruins jerseys, remember?”
I have to admit, it’s a damn nice dream. It’s what Logan and I
have been talking about since we were assigned as roommates in
freshman year. I didn’t enter the draft because I wanted to focus on
college, but there’s no doubt in my mind that I’ll go pro after I
graduate. No doubt about Logan getting drafted either. The guy’s
faster than lightning and a goddamn beast on the ice.
“Get that fucking grade up, G,” he orders. “Otherwise I’ll kick
your ass.”
“Coach will kick it harder.” I muster up a smile. “Don’t worry, I’m
on it.”
“Good.” Logan steals another piece of chicken before wandering
out of the kitchen.
I scarf down the rest of my food, then head back upstairs to find
my phone. It’s time to ramp up the pressure on Hannah-not-with-an
M.
3
HANNAH
“I
really think you should sing that last note in E major,” Cass
insists. He’s like a broken record, throwing out the same
unreasonable suggestion each time we finish running through our
duet.
Now, I’m a pacifist. I don’t believe in using fists to solve your
problems, I think organized fighting is barbaric, and the idea of war
makes me queasy.
Yet I’m thisclose to punching Cassidy Donovan in the face.
“The key is too low for me.” My tone is firm, but it’s impossible to
hide my annoyance.
Cass runs a frustrated hand through his wavy dark hair and turns
to Mary Jane, who’s fidgeting awkwardly on the piano bench. “You
know I’m right, MJ,” he pleads at her. “It’ll pack more of a punch if
Hannah and I end in the same key instead of doing the harmony.”
“No, it’ll have a bigger impact if we do the harmony,” I argue.
I’m ready to rip my own hair out. I know exactly what Cass is up
to. He wants to end the song on his note. He’s been pulling shit like
this ever since we decided to team up for the winter performance,
doing everything he can to single out his own voice while shoving
me into the background.
If I’d known what a fucking prima donna Cass was, I would’ve
said hell no to a duet, but the jackass decided to show his true
colors after we started rehearsals, and now it’s too late to back out.
I’ve invested too much time in this duet, and honestly, I truly do love
the song. Mary Jane wrote an incredible piece, and a part of me
really doesn’t want to let her down. Besides, I know for a fact that
the faculty prefers duets to solos, because the last four scholarship
winning performances have been duets. The judges go cuckoo
bananas for complex harmonies, and this composition has them in
spades.
“MJ?” Cass prompts.
“Um…”
I can see the petite blonde melting under his magnetic stare.
Cass has that effect on women. He’s infuriatingly handsome, and his
voice happens to be phenomenal. Unfortunately, he’s fully aware of
both these assets and has no qualms using them to his advantage.
“Maybe Cass is right,” MJ murmurs, avoiding my eyes as she
betrays me. “Why don’t we try the E Major, Hannah? Let’s just do it
once and see which one works better.”
Benedict Arnold! I want to shout, but I bite my tongue. Like me,
MJ has been forced to deal with Cass’s outrageous demands and
“brilliant” ideas for weeks now, and I can’t blame her for trying to
strike a compromise.
“Fine,” I grumble. “Let’s try it.”
Triumph lights Cass’s eyes, but it doesn’t stay there long,
because after we sing the song again, it’s clear that his suggestion
stinks. The note is far too low for me, and instead of causing Cass’s
gorgeous baritone to stand out, my part sounds so clumsily off that
it draws attention away from his.
“I think Hannah should stick to the original key.” Mary Jane looks
at Cass and bites her lip, as if she’s afraid of his reaction.
But although the guy is arrogant, he’s not stupid. “Fine,” he
snaps. “We’ll do it your way, Hannah.”
I grit my teeth. “Thank you.”
Fortunately, our hour is up, which means the rehearsal space is
about to belong to one of the first-year classes. Eager to get out of
there, I quickly gather my sheet music and slip into my pea coat.
The less time I have to spend with Cass, the better.
God, I can’t stand him.
Ironically, we’re singing a deeply emotional love song.
“Same time tomorrow?” He eyes me expectantly.
“No, tomorrow is our four o’clock day, remember? I work Tuesday
nights.”
Displeasure hardens his face. “You know, we could’ve mastered
this song a long time ago if your schedule wasn’t so…inconvenient.”
I
arch a brow. “Says the guy who refuses to rehearse on
weekends. Because I happen to be free both Saturday and Sunday
nights.”
His lips tighten, and then he saunters off without another word.
Dick.
A heavy sigh echoes behind me. I turn around and realize MJ is
still at the piano, still biting her lip.
“I’m sorry, Hannah,” she says softly. “When I asked you guys to
sing my song, I didn’t realize Cass would be so difficult.”
My annoyance thaws when I notice how upset she is. “Hey, it’s
not your fault,” I assure her. “I wasn’t expecting him to be this much
of a jerk either, but he’s an amazing singer, so let’s just try to focus
on that, okay?”
“You’re an amazing singer, too. That’s why I chose the two of
you. I couldn’t imagine anyone else bringing the song to life, you
know?”
I smile at her. She really is a sweet girl, not to mention one of
the most talented songwriters I’ve ever met. Every piece that’s
performed in the showcase has to be composed by a songwriting
major, and even before MJ approached me, I had already planned on
asking to use one of her songs.
“I promise you, we’re going to sing the shit out of your song, MJ.
Ignore Cass’s bullshit tantrums. I think he just likes arguing for the
sake of arguing.”
She laughs. “Yeah, probably. See you tomorrow?”
“Yep. Four o’clock sharp.”
I give her a little wave, then leave the choir room and head
outside.
One of my favorite things about Briar is the campus. The
buildings, ancient and covered with strands of ivy, are connected to
each other by cobblestone paths lined with sweeping elms and
wrought-iron benches. The university is one of the oldest in the
country, and its alumni roster contains dozens of influential people,
including more than one president.
But the best thing about Briar is how safe it is. Seriously, our
crime rate is next to zero, which probably has a lot to do with Dean
Farrow’s dedication to the safety of his students. The school invests
a ton of money in security in the form of strategically placed
cameras and guards that patrol the grounds twenty-four hours a
day. Not that it’s a prison or anything. The security guys are friendly
and unobtrusive. In all honesty, I barely notice them when I’m
wandering around campus.
My dorm is a five-minute walk from the music building, and I
breathe a sigh of relief when I walk through Bristol House’s massive
oak doors. It’s been a long day, and all I want to do is take a hot
shower and crawl into bed.
The space I share with Allie is more of a suite than a regular
dorm room, which is one of the perks of being upperclassmen. We
have two bedrooms, a small common area, and an even smaller
kitchen. The only downside is the communal bathroom we share
with the four other girls on our floor, but luckily none of us are slobs,
so the toilets and showers usually stay squeaky clean.
“Hey. You’re back late.” My roommate pokes her head into my
bedroom, sucking on the straw poking out of her glass. She’s
drinking something green and chunky and absolutely gross looking,
but it’s a sight I’ve grown accustomed to. Allie has been “juicing” for
the past two weeks, which means that every morning I wake up to
the deafening whir of her blender as she prepares her icky liquid
meals for the day.
“I had rehearsal.” I kick off my shoes and toss my coat on the
bed, then proceed to strip down to my underwear despite the fact
that Allie is still in the doorway.
Once upon a time, I had been too shy to get naked in front of
her. When we shared a double in freshman year, I spent the first few
weeks changing under my blanket or waiting until Allie left the room.
But the thing about college is, there’s no such thing as privacy, and
sooner or later you just have to accept that. I still remember how
embarrassed I was the first time I saw Allie’s bare breasts, but the
girl has zero modesty, and when she’d caught me staring, she just
winked and said, “I’ve got it going on, huh?”
After that, I didn’t bother with the under-the-blanket routine
anymore.
“So listen…”
Her casual opening raises my guard. I’ve lived with Allie for two
years. Long enough to know that when she starts a sentence with
“So listen,” it’s usually followed by something I don’t want to hear.
“Hmmm?” I say as I grab my bathrobe from the hook on the
door.
“There’s a party at Sigma house on Wednesday night.” Her blue
eyes take on a stern glint. “You’re coming with me.”
I groan. “A frat party? No way.”
“Yes way.” She folds her arms over her chest. “Midterms are over,
so you don’t get to use that as an excuse. And you promised you’d
make an effort to be more social this year.”
I had promised that, but…here’s the thing. I don’t like parties.
I was raped at a party.
God, I hate that word. Rape. It’s one of the few words in the
English language that has a visceral effect when you hear it. Like a
bone-jarring slap to the face or the chill of ice water being dumped
over your head. It’s ugly and demoralizing, and I try so hard not to
let it control my life. I’ve worked through what happened to me.
Believe me, I have.
I
know it wasn’t my fault. I know I didn’t ask for it or do
something to invite it. It didn’t steal my ability to trust people or
cause me to fear every man that crosses my path. Years of therapy
helped me see that the burden of blame lies solely on him. There
was something wrong with him. Not me. Never me. And the most
important lesson I learned is that I’m not a victim—I’m a survivor.
But that’s not to say the assault didn’t change me. It absolutely
did. There’s a reason I carry pepper spray in my purse and have 911
ready to dial on my phone if I’m walking alone at night. There’s a
reason I don’t drink in public or accept beverages from anyone, not
even Allie, because there’s always a chance she might unwittingly be
handing me a cup that’s been tampered with.
And there’s a reason I don’t go to many parties. I guess it’s my
version of PTSD. A sound or a smell or a glimpse of something
harmless makes the memories spiral to the surface. I hear music
blaring and loud chatter and raucous laughter. I smell stale beer and
sweat. I’m in a crowd of people. And suddenly I’m fifteen years old
again and right back at Melissa Mayer’s party, trapped in my own
personal nightmare.
Allie softens her tone when she sees my distressed face. “We’ve
done this before, Han-Han. It’ll be like all those other times. You’ll
never be out of my sight, and neither of us will drink a single drop. I
promise.”
Shame tugs at my gut. Shame and regret and a touch of awe,
because man, she truly is an incredible friend. She doesn’t have to
stay sober and remain vigilant just to make me feel comfortable, but
she does it every time we go out, and I love her deeply for it.
But I hate that she has to do it.
“Okay,” I relent, not just for her sake, but my own. I had
promised her I’d be more social, but I also promised myself that I
would make an effort to try new things this year. To lower my guard
and stop being so damn afraid of the unfamiliar. A frat party might
not be my idea of a great time, but who knows, maybe I’ll end up
enjoying it.
Allie’s face brightens. “Boo-yah! And look, I didn’t even have to
play my trump card.”
“What trump card?” I ask suspiciously.
A grin lifts the corners of her mouth. “Justin is going to be there.”
My pulse speeds up. “How do you know?”
“Because Sean and I ran into him in the dining hall and he said
he’ll be there. I guess a bunch of the meatheads were already
planning on coming.”
I scowl at her. “He’s not a meathead.”
“Aw, look how cute you are, defending a football player. Hold on
—let me go outside to see if pigs are flying in the sky.”
“Ha ha.”
“Seriously, Han, it’s weird. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’m
totally on board with you crushing on someone. It’s been, what, a
year since you and Devon broke up? But I just don’t understand how
you, of all people, are into a jock.”
Discomfort climbs up my spine. “Justin is…he’s not like the rest of
them. He’s different.”
“Says the girl who’s never spoken a single word to him.”
“He’s different,” I insist. “He’s quiet and serious and from what
I’ve seen, he doesn’t bang anything in a skirt the way his teammates
do. Oh, and he’s smart—I saw him reading Hem