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“That’s it.” Maddy tosses her phone on the table and moves to stand. I swing my arm out to stop her.
“No, don’t. I’m serious. It’ll only make it worse.”
“I can’t stand by and let them talk crap about you. They’re nothing but a bunch of…”
“Jerks?” I offer a weak attempt at lightening the mood.
“Trying not to curse.” She grins, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. There’s something else there, a secret she’s not ready to spill. She glances at her phone and frowns.
“Appreciate the solidarity, but I’m fine, really.” I crack a smile, grateful for the distraction, even as my stomach churns with unease. Curiosity gnaws at me, but I push it aside. If Maddy wanted to share, she would.
“Let’s just leave.” She swipes her phone and tosses it into her backpack. “We can’t concentrate with them around.”
“Suppose you’re right.” I close my notebook, hanging my head as the tension in my shoulders dissolves. I’m glad to leave the hateful words behind, yet I hate allowing small-minded people to win. Who would’ve thought agreeing to be Blake’s girlfriend would cause such an uproar? Perhaps I should’ve known. I bite back a frustrated scream as I reach for my backpack. Is this deal even worth the trouble?
CHAPTERTWELVE
BLAKE
“The Delta Sigsare having a party in two weeks. Should be packed with girls. Their parties are the best.” Andrew looks up from his phone. “Are you all in?”
“I’ll have to let you know.” I’m sprawled on the worn-out couch, tossing a hockey puck. Ryan lounges beside me, his long legs crossed at the ankles, while Andrew claims the mismatched recliner like a throne. We just got back from a grueling practice. Coach is delivering on his promise to make us contenders for the tournament this year.
It feels good to kick back for the night, even though I have a shit ton of homework calling my name upstairs. Business calculus is kicking my ass this semester, but I need to unwind first. I’m antsy for some reason.
“When have you ever turned down a good time?” Ryan asks.
Since I have a fake girlfriend.
His question annoys me, but he isn’t wrong. I’m usually up for a good party. I just need to check with Amanda first. The whole idea of having a girlfriend is to fend off the bunnies. It’s pointless to go by myself if she can’t be there.
“I’m not turning it down. I’m just keeping my options open.” I slump back onto the couch, the worn leather groaning under my weight.
“Whatever. You fuckers are going,” Andrew says, typing on his phone with his tongue sticking out between his teeth.
Ryan’s mouth pulls down as he looks at me with that probing stare he reserves for post-game analyses and personal interrogations. No doubt he’s itching to ask about Saturday’s dinner date with Amanda.
“You good, Blake?” His brows furrow, all mock concern, but I know the genuine worry lurking underneath. He’s got this brotherly vibe that doesn’t quit, not even when it hovers over the line of annoying.
“Perfect,” I say, stretching my arms above my head, muscles pulling taut. The image of Amanda flashes through my mind—a flicker too quick to smother. I can’t believe I made us official.
Before I can delve into that thought process, Easton barges through the front door with Jonas flaking his side.
We live on jock row with four varsity-level athletes in each house, segmented by each sport. The houses are built the same—two-story, block-style homes with an open floor plan on the bottom level. Since there’s an upstairs, a massive beam supported by two metal poles runs across the ceiling between the kitchen and living room. The girls get rather creative with the poles during parties.
“Did you hear what that fucker Roman said during his interview today?” Easton asks as the door slams behind Jonas. Roman Beaulieu is the University of Colorado’s left D-man—a French Canadian who talked shit about playing us. Evidently, not everyone was thrilled about the League’s decision to expand the West Coast Division. As far as I’m concerned, Roman made a fatal error of judgment. That kind of trash talk fuels our need to prove ourselves.
“He’s a grade-A dickhead,” Jonas grumbled as he plopped on the far side of the couch. “The entire team is.”
I frown at Country, who seems edgier this week. I suppose, as captain, I should carve time to ask him if everything’s okay, but damn, I hate talking about feelings and shit.
“Yeah, but that dickhead may be a future teammate.” Andrew tries to be the voice of reason as he pushes to stand and ambles to the refrigerator.
“The fucker only wishes,” Ryan says.
“He may be an asshole, but he’s a good asshole.” All heads turn toward Drew. He shrugs while twisting off the bottle cap. “What? I just meant he’s a skillful player.”
“Cracking the beer already?” Easton says, concern lacing his tone.
