Page 2

CHAPTER TWO

HUNTER

“ D o you want to share the spaghetti?” Holly Johnson asks me.

“I’m going to stick with pizza,” I respond, same as I have the last five times she’s suggested we share an entree. I’m rapidly running out of ways to say I already decided, get whatever you want in more polite terms.

Either Holly’s extremely indecisive or she has some Lady and the Tramp fantasy of us sucking noodles during this date.

Twin lines appear between Holly’s eyes as she leans forward. The neckline of her top gapes, showcasing a clear view of her cleavage. She’s also done that several times since we sat down. Intentionally, I think.

My knee bounces beneath the table. I wince when my shin bangs against the metal leg, swallowing the swear that wants to slip out.

Her frown deepens. “Is everything okay, Hunter?”

“Great,” I answer quickly. “I’m really glad we’re doing this.”

I must be a better actor than I thought, because Holly’s concern clears.

“Me too,” she says sincerely, reaching out and resting her hand on top of mine. Her fingers drag along the back of my hand in lazy circles. “And you’ll be even more glad later.”

The suggestive lilt to her words and enticing touch would work on most guys. It should work on me. Instead, it has me running through exit strategies and fighting the urge to knock her hand away. It’s ticklish—like a spider’s crawling across my knuckles.

Holly winks before settling back in her chair and scanning the menu for the thousandth time.

I keep the smile fixed on my face in case she glances up suddenly. And tug hard at the tight collar of my dress shirt, trying to let some heat out. The back of my neck feels like it’s being blasted by a furnace. Winter hasn’t left Somerville—I think the high today was thirty—so the radiators in here are cranking.

Plus, I sweat when I’m uncomfortable, and I’m rather uneasy right now.

Holly’s undeniably gorgeous. I’ve thought so since the first day of our shared International Affairs class. Before then, I’d seen her at parties and around campus. We’d never really talked, not until she took the seat next to mine back in January, flashed a megawatt smile, and immediately intrigued me. We usually make small talk before and after class, and once the season ended, I decided to ask her out. Mostly because I couldn’t think of any good reason not to ask her out, which I’m learning now wasn’t exactly solid reasoning.

I’ve accomplished everything I set out to in college. I’m graduating summa cum laude, I was accepted into every graduate school I applied to, and Holt’s hockey team won a national championship. I also met my two best friends—Conor Hart and Aidan Phillips.

By any metric—academically, athletically, socially—my four years at Holt University have been a smashing success.

But sometimes I feel like I overlooked something important. And I hear that niggling voice, the one that often accompanies the drop of dread when a necessity gets forgotten. The sensation hits randomly, and it hits hardest when I look at Eve Driscoll.

As soon as I think Eve’s name, my gaze veers in her direction. Looking that way is an urge I’ve been battling since I ran into her outside the restrooms. Eve’s fiddling with the white napkin on her lap, seemingly lost in thought, while the guy sitting across from her scans the bill.

Her hair is curly tonight, bouncy and cheerful and untamed. But her expression is blank, her shoulders stiff and the line of her jaw jutted straight.

My eyes wander to the guy across the table from her. Ben Fletcher. I know his name. Know he’s a film major. He’s from the Northeast—Maine or New Hampshire, I think.

Holt’s a small school, and I have a good memory.

Also, it’s hard to forget details about the guy who got your dream girl.

Ben looks even more miserable than Eve does. I wonder who ended it—him or her. None of my business, but the first question I wanted to ask Eve.

The odds are high they’ll get back together. They’ve been a couple for years. But right now, Eve Driscoll is single.

She’s also leaving. Standing and walking out the door without a single glance back at her ex. He stands, dejectedly shoving his wallet into the back pocket of his jeans. His posture isn’t proud, like Eve’s. It’s slumped. Defeated, like he’s given up on something.

Some foreign feeling—hope, maybe—sparks a little brighter in my chest.

“The sweet corn and basil ravioli sounds really good. What about sharing that?” Holly suggests.

I tear my attention away from the other side of the restaurant just in time to meet her gaze as she glances up. Smothering a sigh, I acquiesce. “Yeah, sure. Ravioli sounds good.”

Maybe if I agree to share, we can finally move on to a topic besides the menu.

Holly grabs the napkin from her lap and tosses it on the table. “I’ll be right back. Order if the waitress comes by, okay? I’m starving.”

“Okay.” I relax a little at the temporary reprieve.

Maybe my memory will improve while she’s gone.

I blow out a long breath and slump back against the booth when she disappears down the hallway, yanking at the collar of my shirt again in a feeble attempt to cool off. Is dating supposed to be this hard? This sweaty ?

My gut says no. My parents haven’t run out of words to say to each other in the twenty-five years they’ve been together.

I asked Holly out because I wanted to get to know her better. But she’s treating this like a prelude to a hookup. And it’s not that I’m uninterested in having sex with Holly—she’s gorgeous and I haven’t slept with anyone since the start of the season—it’s that I had higher hopes for tonight beyond tonight.

Conor talked to his girlfriend, Harlow, for two hours last night. Two hours . I doubt the mindless chatter Holly and I have exchanged even totals thirty minutes, and I’m already out of ideas.

Maybe I just suck at dating. My high school girlfriend, Jemma, would agree with that assessment. And I don’t have the same excuses now that I did then.

I glance at the empty table where Eve was seated earlier. A waitress is arranging clean plates and silverware on the white tablecloth.

My boyfriend and I just broke up .

Her voice reverberates through my hollow chest, and that flicker of hope appears again.

Just as quickly, I extinguish it.

Hope has burned me too many times before.

When I get home, there’s just enough of a dusting of snow on the front path for my boots to leave an impression. I walk slowly, listening to the low crunch as flakes collapse under each step.

I love snow. I love winter, which I associate with hockey. I love hockey, and ending the season hoisting a trophy didn’t entirely erase the ache of realizing I’ll never play competitively again.

Aidan is sprawled out on the couch in sweatpants, scrolling on his phone, when I enter the living room. A Kings game is muted on the flatscreen. Phillips is a California boy, born and raised in Los Angeles. The exposure to endless sunshine could explain his cheerful personality. He rarely takes anything as seriously as Conor and I typically do.

“Hey. How was your night?” he asks, glancing up.

“It was fine,” I reply, pulling off my jacket. The sleeves are damp with melted snow. I should have left my coat in the entryway with my wet boots, but there was no room. That’s where all of our hockey equipment is currently being stored.

I hang it off the knob of the television console instead.

Aidan whistles when he notices my outfit. “Damn. What’s with the fancy clothes?”

“I was out on a date.”

He makes a choking sound. “A date ?”

Phillips doesn’t need to sound so shocked. Tonight’s outing was partially his fault. Part of an unfortunate attempt to find the happiness my best friends discovered effortlessly.

I’m still confused how my two best friends—Conor the commitmentphobe and Aidan the jokester-slash-sex fiend—ended up in serious relationships while I, who got sick of casual sex a long time ago, am struggling to make it through a single date. I’d be a great boyfriend.

Unless you ask Jemma.

But I was seventeen. Young. Dumb. Overwhelmed. I apologized to her when we were both home for Thanksgiving freshman year, and she smugly informed me she was dating a football player at Lincoln University. And then, less smugly, said she hoped I was doing better.

Aidan’s still staring at me, his phone and the hockey game totally forgotten. I purposefully didn’t tell him or Conor about my date beforehand, and now I’m thinking I should have kept my mouth shut altogether.

“Yeah, it’s when you take a girl out to dinner and talk to her,” I explain.

Aidan rolls his eyes, then sits up. “I know what a date is, dick. I just didn’t know you were dating.”

“Yeah, well…” I loosen my tie before taking a seat in the armchair. It’s a relief to sit and sprawl without worrying about the expression on my face or any potential injuries. I’m going to have a bruise on my shin. “It didn’t go that great.”

Understatement.

The rest of dinner was fine. Slightly stilted, the conversation more of a leaky faucet than a steady flow, and unpalatable, because it turns out corn ravioli tastes terrible, but nothing catastrophic. That happened when I dropped Holly off. She invited me in, which wasn’t unexpected. What was unexpected was her response to me saying I wasn’t feeling well and should get home. That sounds like an excuse , she told me. If you’re not interested, just be honest .

And since I am honest, I told her I wasn’t interested. Plus a whole bunch of other stuff about how I enjoyed talking to her and how special she is, but those three words— I’m not interested —were the only ones she heard.

Holly proceeded to stomp inside her sorority house, but not before she slammed the door of my SUV so hard I’m surprised it isn’t dented.

So, yeah. Didn’t go that great is an understatement.

“Sorry,” Aidan says.

I nod, then sigh. “Thanks.”

“So how long have you been, uh, dating this girl?”

If I were in a better mood, I’d grin at his uncertain tone. Aidan is usually the guy you ask for a spare condom at a crazy frat party, not the one who prompts heartfelt conversations about feelings. He’s changed since meeting Rylan, and I’m happy for him. Also feeling a little left behind. I’m spending spring break with Aidan and Conor and their girlfriends, and if anyone has ever said fifth-wheeling is fun—they were lying.

I grunt, then toss my tie on the coffee table piled with textbooks. “Tonight was the second date. I don’t think we’ll make it to a third.”

I’m actually certain there won’t be a third date. But don’t think sounds a little less pathetic.

I’m not even sure whether I should consider getting coffee with her after class last week—when I asked her out to dinner—a date. But if it was one, it went a hell of a lot better than tonight did.

“Bummer. Isn’t that supposed to be the best one?” Aidan grins.

Like he ever waited for a third date. Or a first one.

“This isn’t about sex.”

“Then what is it about?”

I slouch down in the armchair, staring at the television. A car ad is playing on the screen. “You and Hart have both settled down. I thought it might be nice to meet someone. I was never crazy about the party scene, so I thought I’d try dating.”

“I have not settled down,” Aidan insists. “I’m twenty-two—still a wild stallion.”

I snort.

Aidan doesn’t take much seriously, but it’s obvious he’s helmet over skates for Rylan. He still gets shit—and gained legendary status—about the scene they made at the championship game. Rylan is Coach Keller’s daughter. Aidan snuck into her hotel room before the game, and then kissed her in front of the entire team after it. You don’t do that and then keep your options open.

“Please never say that again. And call yourself whatever you want. It’s a Friday night, and you’re on the couch, sober, waiting for Rylan to text you. You’ve changed, and it’s a good thing. So has Hart. If he and Harlow don’t get married, I’ll be shocked.”

Conor in a relationship was less of a surprise than Aidan. He’s had an intense personality as long as I’ve known him, it was just always focused on hockey. And, based on how he used to act around Harlow Hayes—entirely ignoring her—I wouldn’t have bet any money she’d be the one to shift Hart’s priorities. But now, he’s as serious about Harlow as he is about going pro. Very fucking serious, in other words.

I miss playing hockey, but a break from Hart’s drill sergeant routine has been nice. We still skate together on the weekends, but it’s not the same grueling pace of practices and weight sessions and film sessions and traveling to away games.

“Did you mention marriage on the second date, Morgan?” Aidan teases. “Because that might have been where you went wrong.”

I flip him off. “You hear about your retake yet?”

That’s how Aidan met his girlfriend. He failed Stats last semester, and she got assigned as his tutor. Maybe straight As are why I’m single.

“No.” Aidan glances at his phone. His expression is suddenly sober, and I immediately feel badly for reminding him about the impending decision. He needs to pass the retake in order to graduate.

“I had this weird moment earlier,” I blurt.

Partly to distract him, and partly because…I have this strange urge to talk about it.

“What do you mean?” Aidan asks. “What kind of weird moment?”

“I was talking to this girl, and it was just…I dunno. Weird.”

If I tell him I feel an inexplicable buzz of electricity around Eve—a girl I talked to once and who has been dating someone else most of the time since—I’m ninety percent certain Phillips will burst out laughing. A couple of months ago, I would’ve said a hundred, but he hasn’t changed that much. I’d laugh, if our roles were reversed. Internally, at the very least.

“Dude, you’re going to have to come up with another adjective. Weird how ? She was staring at your dick the whole time? She was bleeding? She was on a date with you, and you mentioned marriage?”

“No, I…” I don’t know how to describe my short conversation with Eve earlier. Around her, it’s just…different. I noticed it the first time we spoke. Since then, I’ve waited for it to dissipate. To see her and feel nothing. That still hasn’t happened. I shake my head, second-guessing sharing. She and Ben might already be back together. “Never mind.”

The front door opens and slams closed.

Conor’s eyebrows rise when he strolls into the living room, bringing a gust of cold air with him. “Wow. You’re both home.”

“Phillips is waiting for girls’ night to end,” I say.

“Morgan had a shitty date,” Aidan shares at the same time.

“Oh-kay.” Conor sinks down onto the couch next to Aidan. “I got none of that.”

“Hunter just got back from a bad date that involved a weird moment,” Aidan tells him.

Panic seizes my chest as Phillips cheerfully relays that information. What if Hart mentions my weird moment to Harlow? What if she says something about it to Eve? She’ll assume it was about my date, not her, I think . But what if she doesn’t?

Nearly four years of friendship, and I’ve never mentioned the girl I met the first week of freshman year to either of my best friends. It was stupid to break that streak now, especially since Hart is dating her best friend.

But I’m always careful and constrained and guarded, and I wish it hadn’t worked so well because it makes it a hell of a lot harder to change.

“Phillips is waiting for his girlfriend to invite him over,” I inform Conor.

“How’d you know that?” Aidan asks, frowning.

“Because you told me Rylan had a girls’ night on Friday two days ago.”

“Oh.” Aidan shrugs before he glances at Conor. “What are you doing home?”

“He got kicked out.”

A realization I meant to say in my head, yet accidentally got spoken aloud. Another slip.

Conor and Aidan are both staring at me. I shrug a shoulder, attempting to act casual. “Right?”

Harlow would have wanted to comfort her best friend. As soon as she heard about the breakup, I’m sure she kicked Hart out for girl talk.

“Yeah,” Hart grumbles.

“Shit,” Aidan says. “What’d you do?”

“Nothing. Eve had some emergency and Harlow went to pick her up.”

“What kind of emergency?” Aidan asks the question before I can.

Did something else happen? My brain is trained to always leap to the worst-case scenario.

“Something about her boyfriend, I think. I dunno. I only heard Harlow’s end of the conversation.”

I relax some. It doesn’t sound like anything else happened, and Harlow is with her now.

“Huh,” Aidan says. “Well, since we’re all home, sitting around like losers instead of champions, why don’t we?—”

His phone buzzes, and Phillips snatches it before I can blink.

Conor snickers.

I smile, holding in another sigh. No matter what he says, Aidan is smitten.

“See you guys.” Aidan leaps off the couch, then hustles toward the entryway. He has no jacket on. I hope he stops for shoes, or else he’s going to have an unpleasant surprise when he steps outside.

“You’re a fucking tamed stallion, Phillips!” I call after him.

Conor’s still laughing when the door slams shut.