Page 9 of Rule 1: Never Accidentally Marry Your Teammate

I set him up on the treadmill next to me. Weights clank, grunts grow more frequent, and chatter diminishes, as everyone gets further into their workouts.

Coach H announces he’s moving Axel up a line to replace Isaiah, sliding Jason into his place. Noah will be on the third line.

“You know what we need?” I announce. “Party at my place!”

“You threw a party yesterday,” Troy reminds me.

“Yeah, but that was a general party. This is a welcome-Noah-to-Boston party. Totally different.”

“You want another shot at banging Madison,” Troy says, and Noah gives me a curious look.

“Hey. That’s no way to talk about a lady. Besides, it’s all about the tension.” I fluff my hair, satisfied smirk in place. “Now, are you in?”

“Course I am,” Troy says, and I soon have a chorus ofyesses,awesomesandcan’t waits.

I jump onto the rebounder. “This is going to be the best.”

After all, what could possibly go wrong at a party?

CHAPTER SIX

Noah

This is the best party ever.

Finn’s apartment is in Seaport, which apparently is the fancy section of Boston if you like your buildings contemporary as well as expensive.

I know the layout from the various vlogs he’s done on his apartment, a fact I don’t mention to him. It was awkward enough to admit I’ve watched some of them. Some can mean three or something. All of them over four years is way more.

Finn is shorter than I imagined. Skates make him taller during the games, and cameras do the rest at his home. I’m two inches taller than him, and I can see the top of his curly hair. I have an odd urge to slink my fingers through his glossy locks; maybe that’s a sign he’s discovered that good product matters.

Large tourist boats drift around the harbor, and tourists in rows of closely packed seats dutifully take photos. I was in one of them in second grade. Other schools brought students to New York City, but Boston was the limit for my tiny New Hampshire town.

It was also about the best possible visit. I never thought I would one day be doing anything in Boston except craning my neck in utter awe.

Hip hop booms in the background, and the view changes from ethereal dusk streaked in tangerine and lilac to plain black. Lights sparkle, and my heart is light.

Finn wasn’t kidding about throwing a party. The room is thick with people. Slinkilydressed women totter in high heels, cozying up to the casually clad hockey players. Everyone looks super healthy, super perfect. Giggles erupt with ever-growing frequency, joined by the ever-growing booms of male laughter. Glasses clink, conversations gallop.

A few women in teeny sparkling dresses have approached me, tucking their hair behind their ears, and running fingers along their collarbones, but I’m no good at conversation, and they wander off, leaving me to enjoy the view of my new city and my beers. Wooziness fills me with every taste of the bitter bubbles. I never go out in Providence, and I let myself become relaxed.

Then a certain golden-brown haired man ambles toward me.

“There you are.” Finn slips a cocktail into my hand, taking my almost-empty beer bottle and adding it to the row of empty bottles on the windowsill. Condensation cools my fingers.

“What is this?”

“Tequila sunrise. You can taste test it for me.”

I swallow the drink, then cough.

Finn’s face falls. “You don’t like it.”

“N-no. I love it!”

His eyebrows rise. “Maybe I made it wrong. Is it too strong?”

I take another swallow. The liquid burns my throat, and it’s way sweeter, way fruitier than anything I’m used to. God, why are girls so crazy for cocktails? It does taste super strong. Maybe unusually strong. But I’m not going to have him test it to make sure.