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“I’m not making decisions for you assholes,” I say irritably, and Darby laughs in delight. “Do whatever you want to do.”
Rand is already texting our other teammates. “I’ll get the rest of the guys over,” he says.
Right.
Because this sounds like a stellar idea.
CHAPTER TWELVE
GIGI
Sweetie. You’re Briar hockey.
“I’M GONNA MISS YOU, G.” MILLER SHULICK THROWS HIS ARM around me and rests his head in the crook of my neck.
We’re in the living room of the townhouse, carving out our own little spot on the couch while the party rages all around us. Well, it’s not quite a rager yet—Trager still has his shirt on. Once that comes off (which is often accompanied by him bellowing and beating his chest like Tarzan), it usually means it’s time to go.
Maybe tonight will end up being more low-key, though. The party is already suffering the strains of Chad Jensen’s email. For the past forty minutes, most of the guys have been bitching about the final roster. At least ten dudes here didn’t make the cut, and a few of them were so bummed they didn’t bother sticking around. They hugged Miller goodbye and glumly left the party. I feel for them.
Across the room, I spot Case standing with Whitney. He holds a plastic cup full of watered-down keg beer, sipping from it as Whitney chats with him about something. Every few seconds, his light-blue eyes flit in my direction.
“Aw, I’m gonna miss you too, Shu. Are you sure about this Minnesota thing?” I speak in his ear so he can hear me over the loud rock song blasting from the speakers.
“They won the Frozen Four last year. Of course I’m sure.” He shrugs ruefully. “Besides, change is good. I’m looking forward to the fresh start.”
I’ve always appreciated that about Miller. How adaptable he is. I don’t love change, personally. I prefer stability. Once I feel comfortable with something—a place, a person, a routine—I want it to last forever.
I hate that it never does.
“G, come have a drink with us,” Case calls.
Miller tugs me to my feet. “Come on. I need a refill and you need a fill.” He gestures to his empty cup, then my empty hands.
I grin.
We dodge four of his teammates who stumble into the room reeking of pot. The party is half indoors, half out. When we were outside earlier, the number of joints being passed around was astounding. But I guess the guys are allowed to let loose this weekend, considering the week Jensen put them through.
Case abruptly swivels from the doorway as we approach, and at first, I think he’s purposely turning his back to me. Then I become aware of a commotion at the front door. Trager is arguing with someone.
Miller and I exchange a look. “That doesn’t sound good,” he says.
I trail him to the hall and…nope, not good. A bunch of hockey players crowd the porch. Eastwood players, to be precise. Beckett Dunne, the blond hottie whose social media Camila has been drooling over since she saw him at practice, holds a twenty-four case of locally brewed lager.
Someone turns down the music, and now I can clearly hear every word being exchanged.
“Seriously, we come in peace.” Beckett’s gray eyes convey sincerity.
“Well, take your peace and get the fuck out of here,” Trager snaps.
“Relax,” Case interjects, placing a firm hand on Trager’s arm. He steps forward to address the newcomers. “Hey,” he says warily. “What’s up?”
I peer past Beckett’s big shoulders to get a better look at who else decided to brazenly crash this party. I don’t know why, but my gaze seeks out only Ryder. I suppose because he’s their leader, and I want to know where he stands on all this. I glimpse him at the edge of the porch, leaning against the railing, looking bored. Seems about right.
“Like we told your boy, we’re here to extend the olive branch,” Beckett tells Case.
“And like I said,” growls Trager, “fuck off.”
Shane Lindley steps forward, annoyance in his eyes. I’ve been doing my research too this week, and I’m starting to recognize individual Eastwood guys. Lindley is tall, dark, and handsome, where Dunne is tall, fair, and equally handsome.
“Look, we know you guys saw the list. We’re just here because going forward, we need to be one team, you know? I’m not sure how you do it here at Briar, but at Eastwood, we won as a team, we lost as the team, and we partied as a team.”
“Same here,” Case answers, albeit grudgingly.
“C’mon, C,” Trager says darkly. “We’re not partying with these guys.” He glares at the interlopers. “You fucking outnumber us in starters.”
“You outnumber us in total,” one of the Eastwood guys snaps back.
It’s the same guy Jordan fought the first day of camp. I think his name is Rand, and I get the feeling he’s the Eastwood version of Jordan. Same rude scowl. Same crimson cheeks tinged with rage. Like Trager, he’s a live wire, liable to explode at any time.
