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I nod, not feeling the same desire, but it’s better than talking about the feelings coursing through me. “So Reid and Darla, huh?”

“Oh yeah, total drama,” she says, eyes lighting up. “We heard the whole thing.”

I smile, grateful for the distraction. “Tell me everything.”

“Sure you don’t wantto come?” Twyler asks, grabbing Reese’s hoodie and pulling it over her head. She fluffs out her long hair, letting it spill over her shoulders. “It should be fun.”

The guys are having a party over at the Manor to celebrate their narrow win. It may have been narrow, but they’re still undefeated and the vibe coming off the team tonight was intense.

“I really need to work on this project,” I say, pulling my computer into my lap, “and I have to work early.”

“Okay, but if you want to come up, just come in. The guys will be happy to have you there.”

I don’t react to that other than with a tight smile and feel a sense of relief when she’s out the door. After all those months of not wanting me around the hockey team, she’s shifted gears. It could be because she’s not working with the team anymore, but I suspect it’s something else: She just feels bad for me.

Checking my email, I see a message from Eric, adding me to a shared document for his notes. My emotions are still conflicted about how we left things–or well, how I freaked out on him and ran from the room. Was he being a douche? That’s the problem. I have no idea. He looked genuinely horrified at my accusations, but it wouldn’t be the first time I’ve been gaslit into feeling guilty over something I’m unsure about. I’m not used to nice guys, non-athletes, who don’t feed on ego and over-inflated confidence. Maybe Eric had been genuine, just wanting to give me back my scarf and the easiest way to do that was to stop by the frat house.

Or maybe he’s just like the rest of them, looking for an opportunity to hurt me.

Why are men so fucking confusing?

I type out a response:Thanks. I’ll get on this ASAP,and shut the laptop.

My phone buzzes and panic hits my gut. Is it him?

I pick up the phone and stare at the text:

GoalieGod: SOS.

11

Axel

Holy shit,I made a mistake.

All I wanted was a slice of pizza and a bottle of Gatorade. Fine, two slices of pizza. I’m fucking starving after that brutal game. Instead of food, I found a fluffle of puck bunnies in my kitchen, half dressed and clustered around the island. I almost turned around and went right back upstairs, but fuck no. This is my house. My kitchen.

My pizza.

For the past couple of weeks, the guys have held off on partying, doing their best to keep me from temptation, but tonight they deserved it. It was a tough win–one that requires celebration. Booze, chicks, loud music, and fun. All things that are on hold for me until my probation is over.

While they went to the liquor store and announced the party across social media, I showered, changed into sweats and a black tank, and figured I’d stick to the second floor.

Then I got hungry.

At first, I handled it. Smiling. Talking up the girls. Giving them enough attention to keep things cool between us, while giving each one an easy brush off. It’s a skill I learned from my father of all people. Being a minister is half man of god, half politician. Being smooth comes with the job.

I move like Moses, parting the red sea, if that sea was made up of short skirts, tight jeans, and unrelenting cleavage. When I finally get to the refrigerator, I stick my head in, letting the cold air wash over me.

A small hand rests on my lower back.

There’s only one girl I want touching me right now, and I say a quick prayer that maybe she showed up. I turn, stomach and balls tight, only to feel a surge of disappointment.

Chantelle.

She hasn’t gone full stage 5 clinger, but I can tell from the curve of her upper lip, and the low cut of her shirt, that she’s determined to finish where we left off. That’s not what puts me on edge. It’s the cup of brown liquid she’s holding out to me.

“I brought you a drink. You like whiskey, right?”