After the game, we don’t immediately leave the arena. Brenna wants to say hi to her dad before he boards the team bus back to Briar, and I want to track down Brooks Weston.
I remember he used to throw the best parties in high school. My parents are cool, but they knew better than to let me or my brothers have more than a few friends over. Mr. and Mrs. Weston, on the other hand, were always out of town, so their son had the huge mansion to himself almost every weekend. His backyard was legendary. It was actually modeled after the yard in the Playboy mansion, grotto included. I’m fairly sure I made out with a guy or two behind the manmade waterfall.
“I’ll meet you out front in ten,” Brenna says. “And if you’re dead-set on chatting up the enemy, at least try to get some trade secrets out of him.”
“I’ll do my best,” I promise.
She disappears in the crowd. I thread my way toward the wide hallway outside the team locker rooms, where I encounter a handful of security guards and a slew of females. Brenna warned me that the hockey groupies linger after the games, hoping to catch the eye of a player. I remember this phenomenon from my brother’s games too.
I stand a short distance away and shoot a quick text off to Weston, banking that he still has the same number from high school.
Hey!! It’s Summer H.D.L. Here w/ a friend and waiting for u outside locker room.
* * *
Come say hi! Would luv to see u.
I include my name just in case he deleted my number. There’s no reason he would, though. We’re not exes. Didn’t part on unfriendly terms after he graduated.
I decide to give him five minutes, and if he doesn’t show I’ll go find Brenna. But Weston doesn’t disappoint. Barely two minutes pass before he’s barreling toward me.
“Yessss! Summer!” He lifts me off my feet and spins me around happily, and I’m sure the groupies who were waiting for him are plotting my demise. “What are you doing here?” He seems thrilled to see me. I have to admit, it’s good to see him too.
His dirty-blond hair is longer than it was in high school, almost to his chin now. But his gray eyes are just as devilish. They always had this gleam to them, like he was plotting something naughty. That’s one of the reasons I never dated him, because he was (and I suspect still is) the definition of manchild. Plus, he went out with one of my friends, so girl code dictated he was off-limits.
“I go to Briar,” I inform him after he releases me.
His jaw drops. “Are you shitting me?”
“Nope. Started this semester.”
“Weren’t you supposed to go to Brown?”
“I did.”
“Ah, okay. What happened to that?”
“Long story,” I confess.
Weston slings one big arm over my shoulders and lowers his voice conspiratorially. “Let me guess—partying and shenanigans were involved, and you were very politely asked to leave.”
My outraged glare lasts about half a second. “I hate that we went to high school together,” I grumble.
“Why? ‘Cause it means I know you too well?” He smirks.
“Yes,” I say grudgingly. “But I’ll have you know, I wasn’t even partying when the shenanigans happened.” That’s all I say on the subject, though. I’m still horribly embarrassed by the entire incident.
Only my parents know the whole story, but that’s because I’ve never been able to hide anything from them. One, they’re lawyers, which means they can extract information as skillfully as any Russian spy. Second, I adore them and don’t like to keep secrets from them. Obviously, I don’t tell them everything, but there’s no way I could keep something as big as a sorority house fire from them.
“You have no idea how good it is to see you!” Weston says, hugging me again.
Oh yeah. The groupies hate me.
The temperature in the hallway becomes utterly glacial when another player approaches us. The covetous looks and hushed wave of whispers tell me that he’s the one most of them were waiting for.
“Connelly, this is Summer,” Weston introduces. “We went to high school together. Summer, Jake Connelly.”
The superstar who won the game for Harvard. Oh boy. I really am fraternizing with the enemy. This is the guy Brenna hates.
He also happens to be incredibly attractive.
I find myself speechless as I stare into eyes the darkest shade of green I’ve ever seen. And I swear his cheekbones are prettier than mine. He doesn’t look feminine, though. He’s chiseled as fuck, like a young Clint Eastwood. Which I guess would make him Scott Eastwood? Oh, who cares. All I can say is…yum.
I manage to shake myself out of it. “Hi,” I say, sticking out my hand. “What should I call you? Connelly or Jake?”
He gives me a long onceover, and I think he likes what he sees because his lips curve slightly. “Jake,” he says, and briefly shakes my hand before pulling his long fingers back. “You went to high school with Brooks?”
I don’t think I’ve ever heard anyone call Weston “Brooks” before. Granted, it’s his first name. But even his own parents referred to him as Weston.
“Oh yeah, we go way back,” I confirm.
“We used to party,” Weston says, flinging his arm around me again. “Which is perfect, ’cause we’re hitting up a party now. And you’re coming.”
I hesitate. “Oh, I…”
“You’re coming,” he repeats. “I haven’t seen you in like three years. We need to catch up.” He pauses. “Just don’t tell anyone there that you go to Briar.”
Jake’s interest is piqued. “You’re at Briar?”
“Yup. I know, I know, I’m the enemy.” I glance at Weston. “Where’s this party?”
“A friend’s place west of Cambridge. It won’t be too rowdy. It’s a very chill crowd.”
I haven’t gone out since New Year’s Eve, so the idea of being social and having a drink or two sounds appealing.
“I’m here with my friend,” I say, remembering Brenna.
Weston shrugs. “Bring her.”
“I don’t know if she’ll want to come. She’s a rabid hockey fan, and by fan, I mean she roots for Briar and hates your guts.”
He snickers. “I don’t care if she roots for the devil himself. This isn’t Gangs of New York, babe. We’re allowed to socialize with people from other colleges. I’ll text you the address.”
When I notice Jake still watching me, I ask, “Are you sure you don’t mind if we come?”
“Not my place,” he replies with a shrug.
I don’t know if he means it’s not his place physically or not his place figuratively, as in he has no right to object. But I’ll take it.
“Okay. I’ll find my friend and meet you guys there.”
11
Summer
“This is blasphemy,” Brenna hisses as we approach the front door of a detached house with a white clapboard exterior. She twists around, longingly glancing at the Uber that’s speeding away from the curb.
I roll my eyes. “C’mon, let’s go inside.”
Her feet stay glued to the porch. “Don’t do this to me, Summer.”
“Do what?”
“Bring me into the den of Satan.”
“Oh my God. And people say I’m a drama queen.” I tug her toward the door. “We’re going inside. Deal with it.”
Despite what Weston said about it being a chill night, the place is overflowing when we walk in without ringing the bell. The music’s so loud, no one would’ve heard the doorbell, anyway.
And despite Brenna’s almost comical expression of horror, the party instantly puts a big smile on my face. I don’t know what it is about music and merriment and crowds that never fails to lift my spirits. At one point in my life I thought about becoming an event planner, but I realized fairly fast that I don’t actually like planning the parties—I like attending them. I get enjoyment out of putting together an outfit, picking a makeup palette, accessorizing. Making an entrance, and then wandering around to see what everyone else is wearing.
Maybe I need to be one of those interviewers who stands on the red carpet and admires the clothes. All I’d have to do is stick microphones in people’s faces and ask who they’re wearing. Damn. That actually sounds like it would be fun. But I think it’s a bit too late to switch my major to broadcasting. I’d have to start all over again. Besides, I’ve never had much interest in being on camera.
“I don’t like this. Look at these goons with their smug faces,” she growls, jabbing her finger in the air.
At that exact moment, a tall guy with scrawny arms poking out of a Celtics jersey backs directly into her pointed finger. “Hey! What the—” His protest dies when he spins around and sees Brenna. “Forget I said that,” he begs. “Please, please keep poking me. Poke me all night long.”
“No. Go away,” she orders.
He winks at her. “Come find me after you’ve had a couple drinks.”
My jaw drops. “Ew. Now you definitely need to go away.”
As Brenna and I brush past him, I search the crowd for Weston or Jake Connelly but don’t see either one of them. I know Weston’s here already, because he messaged me about ten minutes ago.