Total pages in book: 132
Estimated words: 129354 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 647(@200wpm)___ 517(@250wpm)___ 431(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 129354 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 647(@200wpm)___ 517(@250wpm)___ 431(@300wpm)
“Is that so?”
“Yup. Nothing holds your attention for long. And I know McCarthy—he’s a good kid. Funny, sweet, but that’s his downfall right there. ‘Sweet’ won’t cut it with a woman like you.”
“There you go again, thinking you know me so well.”
“I know you’re Chad Jensen’s daughter. I know you would take any opportunity to mess with my players’ heads. I know we’re probably going to be facing off with Briar in the conference finals in a few weeks, and the winner of that game gets an automatic bid to the national tournament—”
“That auto-bid will be ours,” I chirp.
“I want my boys sharp and focused on the game. Everyone says your dad’s a straight shooter. I was hoping the same thing could be said for his daughter.” He tsks in disapproval. “And here you are, playing games with poor, sweet McCarthy.”
“I’m not playing games,” I say irritably. “We hook up sometimes. It’s fun. Contrary to what you believe, the decisions I make have nothing to do with my father or his team.”
“Well, the decisions I make are for my team,” he retorts. “And I’ve decided I want you to stay the hell away from my boys.” He swallows another mouthful of pie. “Fuck, this is excellent. You want some?” He holds his fork out.
“I’d rather die than put my lips on that fork.”
He just laughs. “I want to try the pecan. You mind?”
I stare at him. “You’re the one who ordered the damn thing.”
“Wow, you’re cranky tonight, Hottie. I guess I would be too if I got stood up.”
“I didn’t get stood up.”
“What’s his name and address? Want me to go rough him up a bit?”
I grit my teeth.
He takes a bite of the untouched dessert in front of me. “Ah fuck, this one is even better. Mmmm. Ohhh, that’s good.”
And suddenly the captain of the 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.