Chapter 7: : Chapter 7

I find myself in the kitchen at three in the morning chugging a glass of water at the sink. I’m not sure what woke me up. Maybe the thunder? It started pouring when Brooks and I got home from the bar and hasn’t stopped since. Not even a lull.

Or maybe it’s guilt that jolted me out of my slumber. I’d never admit it to Brenna, but…I do feel bad about sticking my nose in her business. When she’d confessed to liking McCarthy earlier, I can’t deny I felt like a total jerk.

“Oh!” a female voice squeaks. “I didn’t realize anyone else was up.”

I lift my head in time to see a shapely figure skid to a stop about six feet away. Either the shadows are playing tricks on me, or she’s wearing nothing but a thong. She takes a few steps forward, a curtain of blonde hair swinging behind her. The kitchen light flicks on, and yup, she sure is topless. Her tits are on full display for me.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “I thought I’d be alone in here.”

Yet for all her protests, she doesn’t make an effort to cover up.

And since I’m a man, I can’t help but stare at her chest. She’s got nice boobs. They’re on the small side, but cute and perky, with pale-pink nipples that are currently puckered from being exposed to the air.

But the coy twinkle in her eyes puts me off. Although I hadn’t heard anyone come in, I assume Brooks invited her over. And since she’s practically naked, I assume she and Brooks aren’t exactly pulling an all-night study sesh in his bedroom. Which means she definitely shouldn’t be looking at me like that.

“You’re crashing with Brooks tonight?” I ask as I rinse out my glass.

“Mmm-hmmm.”

I wrinkle my forehead. “When’d you get here?”

“Around midnight. And before you say it, yes, it was a booty call.”

I resist the urge to shake my head. Brooks Weston is something else. Making out with one chick all night, and then booty-calling another.

“Do you mind getting me a glass? I don’t know where anything is.” She licks her lips. “I’m thirsty.”

She’s thirsty, all right.

I open the cupboard, grab a drinking glass, and hold it out. Her fingertips brush my knuckles suggestively as she accepts it. “Thank you.”

“No prob.” I withdraw my hand. “You look cold,” I say with a pointed glance to her nipples.

“Actually, I’m feeling really hot right now.” She giggles. “And you’re looking it.”

“Looking what?”

“Hot.”

I try not to raise my eyebrows. This chick is bold. Too bold, considering whom she came to see tonight. “Weren’t you just with my roommate?” I nod toward the corridor.

“Yeah? So?”

“So you probably shouldn’t be telling some other guy he’s hot.”

“Brooks already knows what I think about you.”

“Does he.” An itchy feeling crawls up my spine. I don’t like the idea of people discussing me. And I seriously hope I’m not part of whatever kinky games the two of them play behind closed doors.

She pours herself a glass of water from the filtered dispenser in the fridge. Then she stands there and drinks, topless, no care in the world. She’s got a gorgeous body, but something about her rubs me the wrong way. It’s not the brazen attitude. I like outspoken girls. Girls who bust my balls. Like Brenna Jensen—she’s the very definition of bold, and she doesn’t make me want to sprint out of the room.

This girl, on the other hand…

“What’s your name?” I ask warily. I don’t know where the distrust in my gut is coming from, but her presence is unnerving me.

“Kayla.” She takes another long sip, propping one hip against the granite counter. She’s completely unfazed by the fact that she’s wearing teeny panties and nothing else. “We met before,” she tells me.

“Did we?”

Visible displeasure darkens her eyes. Yeah, I don’t imagine this is a girl who likes being forgotten. But I genuinely have no recollection of meeting her, ever.

“Yes. At Nash Maynard’s party?”

“You go to Harvard?”

“No. We talked about that at the party, remember?” she says tightly. “I’m at Boston University?”

I draw a blank. There’s a black hole in my memory where this alleged interaction is supposed to be.

“Babe,” a sleepy voice drifts from the hallway. “Come back to bed. I’m horny.”

I give her a dry smile. “You’re being summoned.”

She grins back. “Your roomie’s insatiable.”

“I wouldn’t know,” I say with a shrug.

“No?” She finishes her water and places the glass in the sink. Curiosity gleams in her expression as she studies my face. “You and Brooks have never…?” She lets the question hang.

“Nah. I don’t swing that way.”

She tilts her head thoughtfully. “What if there’s a girl in the middle to act as a buffer?”

Annnd we’re done here. It’s too late and I’m too tired to be discussing threesomes with a strange girl in my kitchen. “I don’t do that either,” I mutter on my way past her.

“Pity,” she tells my retreating back.

I don’t turn around. “Good night, Kayla.”

“Good night, Jake.” A teasing lilt.

Jeez. So many invitations in one measly encounter. She would’ve let me bang her on the counter if I’d made a move. If I were into threesomes, she’d have me and Brooks banging her together.

But neither notion appeals to me.

I go back to bed and make sure to lock my door, just in case.

Early the next morning, I make the trek to see my folks. This requires a quick ride on the Red Line, followed by a not-so-quick one on the Newburyport/Rockport line, which takes me all the way to Gloucester. It’d be faster to borrow Weston’s car and drive up the coast, but I don’t mind taking the train. It’s cheaper than gassing up the Mercedes, and it provides me with quiet time to reflect and mentally prepare for today’s game.

Our entire season rides on this game.

If we lose…

You won’t lose.

I heed the self-assured voice in my head, tapping into the confidence I’ve been cultivating since I was a kid playing Pee Wee hockey. There’s no denying I was talented from an early age. But talent and potential mean nothing without discipline and failure. You need to fail in order for the win to mean something. I’ve lost games before, games that counted for rankings, trophies. Losing is not supposed to crush your confidence. It’s meant to build it.

But we won’t lose today. We’re the best team in our conference, maybe even the best in the entire country.

The train rolls into the station around nine o’clock, and since it’s actually not raining this morning I decide to walk home instead of Uber’ing it. I breathe in the crisp spring air, inhaling the familiar scent of salt and fish and seaweed. Gloucester is a fishing town, the country’s oldest seaport, which means you can’t walk five steps without seeing a lighthouse, a boat, or something nautical. I pass three consecutive houses with decorative anchors hanging over the front doors.

The two-story house where I grew up resembles most of the other homes lining the narrow streets. It has white siding, a sloped roof, and a pretty front garden that Mom tends to religiously. The garden in the backyard is even more impressive, a testament to her green thumb. The house is small, but it’s just the three of us, so we’ve always had more than enough room.

My phone rings as I’m approaching the porch. It’s Hazel. I stop to answer the call, because she’s supposed to show up this afternoon for the game. “Hey,” I greet her. “You still coming to Cambridge later?”

“Never. I’d die before betraying my school.”

“Oh shut up. You don’t even like hockey. You’re coming as a friend, not a fan.”

“Sorry, yes, of course I’m coming. It’s just fun to pretend we have a massive rivalry. You know, a forbidden relationship. Well, friendship,” she amends.

“There’s nothing forbidden about our friendship. Everybody knows you’re my best friend and nobody cares.”

There’s a slight pause. “True. So, what are you up to right now? If you want, I can drive up early and chill with you until the game.”

“I’m about to walk into my folks’ house. Mom’s cooking up a special game-day breakfast.”

“Aw, I wish you’d told me. I would’ve joined you.”

“Yeah right. That would have required you waking up before eight o’clock. On a Saturday.”

“I totally would’ve done that,” she protests.

“‘The world doesn’t exist before nine a.m.’ That’s a direct quote from you, Hazel.” I chuckle.

“What are we doing to celebrate after you win today? Oooh, how about a fancy dinner?”

“Maybe? I’m sure the boys will want to go out partying, though. Oh, and I’ve got somewhere to be around ten. You can come with if you want.”

“Depends what it is.”

“Remember Danny Novak? His band’s playing in the city tonight. It’s their first gig, so I promised I’d be there.” Danny was a teammate of mine in high school. One of the best stick handlers I’ve ever seen, and that dexterity with his hands serves him well as a guitarist, too. He never could choose what he loved more, hockey or music.

“What kind of music do they play?”

“Metal.”

“Ugh. Kill me now.” Hazel sighs. “I’ll let you know later, but right now it’s a tentative no from me, dawg.”

I snicker. “I’ll see you later, okay?”

“Yup. Tell your parents I said hi.”

“Will do.”

I hang up and walk through the unlocked front door. In the small entryway, I toss my hockey jacket on one of the iron coat hooks, which are shaped like—what else—anchors. “Mom?” I call as I unlace my boots.

“Hi, baby! I’m in here!” Her greeting wafts out from the kitchen, along with the most enticing aroma.

My stomach growls like a grumpy bear. I’ve been looking forward to this breakfast all week. Some guys don’t like to pig out on game days, but I’m the opposite. If I don’t eat a huge breakfast, I feel sluggish and off.

In the kitchen, I find Mom at the stove, a plastic red spatula in hand. The hunger pangs intensify. Fuck yeah. She’s making French toast. And bacon. And is that sausage?

“Hey. That smells fantastic.” I saunter over and plant a kiss on her cheek. Then I raise my eyebrows. “Nice earrings. Are those new?”

With her free hand, she rolls the shiny pearl on her right earlobe between her thumb and index finger. “Aren’t they pretty? Your father surprised me with them the other day! I’ve never owned pearls this big before.”

“Dad did good.” Rory Connelly knows the secret to a healthy marriage. Happy wife equals happy life. And nothing makes my mother happier than shiny baubles.

She turns to face me. With her dark hair pulled back in a sleek ponytail and her cheeks flushed from the stove, she appears way younger than fifty-six. My folks had me when they were in their mid-thirties, so she’s constantly referring to herself as an “old mom.” She definitely doesn’t look it, though.

“Hazel says hi, by the way. I just got off the phone with her.”

Mom claps happily. “Oh, tell her I miss her. When is she coming home for a visit? She wasn’t here for the holidays.”

“No, she was at her mom’s this year.” Hazel’s parents got divorced a few years ago. Her dad still lives in Gloucester, but her mom is in Vermont now, so she alternates holidays with them. “She’ll be at the game today. Are you guys coming?”

“I’m afraid not. Your dad won’t be home in time, and you know I don’t like driving on the freeway alone.”

I hide my disappointment. My parents have never been too invested in my hockey career. Dad was always too busy with work to attend any of my games, and Mom just plain wasn’t interested. When I was little, it hurt my feelings. I’d see all my friends’ families in the stands, mine would be nowhere in sight, and envy would flood my chest.

But whatever. It is what is. That’s my attitude about most things. Can’t change the past, don’t cry over the present, don’t stress about the future. It’s all pointless, especially regret.

“Well, try to make it to the finals if we’re playing in them, okay?” I say lightly.

“Of course. Now stop looming over me and go have a seat, superstar. I’ll take care of everything.”

“At least let me set the table,” I argue, trying to grab plates from the cupboard.

She swats my hands away. “No. Sit down,” she orders. “This might be the last time I’ll be able to serve you before you have your own staff waiting on you hand and foot.”

“Nah, that’s not gonna happen.”

“You’ll be a professional hockey player this fall, honey. That means you’ll be famous, and famous people employ household staff.”

I made the mistake of showing my folks the paperwork for my NHL contract, and when they saw how much money I’ll be earning soon (not to mention all the performance incentives my agent persuaded the club to include) their eyes nearly bugged out of their heads. I can’t predict the actual amount I’ll end up bringing in, but the value of my contract is around two million, which is definitely on the high end for a rookie.

According to my agent, that’s what they give the “projected superstars.” Damned if my ego didn’t inflate hearing that. My mother liked it too, because that’s all she calls me now. Superstar.

“I don’t want household staff.” But I chuckle and sit down anyway, because if she wants to spoil me today, why not? She’s partly right. Next year I’ll be in Edmonton, freezing my balls off in the Canadian winters. I’m going to miss Saturdays in Gloucester with my folks.

“Where is Dad, anyway?”

“He’s at the job site,” Mom answers as she turns off the burner.

“On Saturday?” And yet I’m not surprised. My dad is a superintendent for a construction company that specializes in bridges and tunnels, usually handling city contracts. And city contracts mean tight deadlines and a lot of red tape, which in turn means Dad is always under tremendous stress.

It’s the kind of job that gives you heart attacks—literally. He went into cardiac arrest at a bridge site a few years ago, scaring the shit out of Mom and me. I’m surprised she actually let him go back to work, but I suppose he didn’t have a choice. He’s nowhere near retirement age.

“There was a problem there yesterday,” Mom explains. “Don’t ask me what, you know I tune him out when he blabbers on about his bridges. All I know is that it’s crunch time, they need to finish before the winter, and they’re in danger of falling behind because some of the crew are acting like, and I quote, motherfucking morons.”

I bark out a laugh. My father has a way with words. “I’m sure it’ll be fine,” I assure her. “Dad’s good at yelling at people. And he enjoys it, so win-win.”

Mom starts carrying serving plates to the large cedar table that my dad and I built one summer when I was a kid. I try to stab a piece of French toast with my fork and she swats at my hand again. “Wait until I bring everything. And, truth be told, I don’t know if ordering the crew around is bringing your father much pleasure anymore. He’s tired, honey. He’s been doing this job for so long.”

She places a stack of buttered rye toast on the tabletop. “But tell me about you! Are you going to bring home a you-know-what one of these days?”

I play dumb. “A you-know-what? Like, a puppy? A car?”

“A girlfriend, Jake. You need a girlfriend,” she huffs.

“Oh, I do, do I?” I can’t help but tease. My parents have been on my case for a while now about my bachelor status.

“Yes,” she says firmly. “You do. You need a nice, supportive girlfriend. Like Hazel—I still don’t understand why you won’t date Hazel. She’s perfect for you!”

Hazel is always the first candidate whose hat Mom throws into the ring. “I’m not going to date Hazel,” I say, as I’ve said about a dozen times prior. “I’m not interested in her that way.”

“Fine, then go out with someone.”

That’s always Mom’s second option: someone. She’s dying for me to settle down already.

But that’s not in the cards at the moment. “I don’t want to,” I answer with a shrug. “Hockey’s my main priority right now.”

“Hockey has been your main priority since you were five years old! Don’t you think it’s time for some new priorities?”

“Nope.”

She shakes her head in disapproval. “You’re in college, Jake. You’re young and handsome, and I just don’t want you to one day reflect on this time in your life and regret not having someone special to share it with.”

“I don’t have regrets, Mom. Never have.”

Although if I’m being totally honest, I am feeling regretful about something.

I can’t seem to shake off the guilt over my interference with Brenna and McCarthy. Sure, it’s not as if they were engaged to be married, but she’s right—I did ask him to dump her. That was a dick move. I wouldn’t want someone dictating my sex life, either.

I’d hoped the guilt would simply fade away, but it hasn’t. It was gnawing on my insides last night, and it’s still chewing at me this morning.

Game day, a stern voice reminds me.

Right. Today’s game against Princeton is all that matters right now. We need to win.

We will win.

The alternative is not an option.