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I snicker as I duck into my bedroom. I’m not planning on seducing anyone, but I do choose an outfit that’s…racier than usual. A black skirt that barely covers my lower thighs and a ribbed gray crop top with no bra. I debate how I feel about everyone being able to see the outline of my nipples all night, then decide to live a little.
On the drive to Hastings, our loud singalong to a very cheesy eighties song is interrupted by a call from my dad.
“Hey, Dad,” I greet him. “You’re on speakerphone, so don’t say anything to embarrass me in front of Mya.”
“I’ll do my best,” he promises.
“Hi, Mr. G,” she chirps.
“Hey, Mya.” To me, he says, “Just returning your call from earlier, Stan.”
“Oh, it was nothing important. I just wanted to catch up.”
“You been working hard this week?”
“God, you don’t even know. Uncle Logan’s letting me use his rink after hours so I can fix my issues behind the net.” I pause, adopting a nonchalant tone. “Ryder’s been a big help.”
Mya is grinning at me. She knows about my arrangement with Ryder.
Dad is understandably suspicious. “I still don’t get why you asked him instead of Case.”
It’s the same thing he said earlier in the week when I first dropped Ryder’s name. So far, Operation Good Impression is not a smashing success.
“Because he’s a better player than Case,” I reply.
And I’m being honest. Case is an excellent hockey player, no doubt. He and Ryder have similar stats; they were both drafted by the NHL. But Ryder has an innate feel for the game that Case lacks.
“His instincts are incredible,” I say. “He’s amazing to watch.”
In the passenger side, Mya signals for me to dial it down a notch.
Good call. I was going to throw in a line about what a great asset he’d make to the Hockey Kings camp, but I decide to save that for our next chat. Can’t come on too strong.
“Anyway, what kind of trouble are you girls getting into tonight?” Dad asks.
“Just going to see some friends,” I say, keeping it vague.
We say goodbye just as I pull up in front of Ryder’s house. I park at the curb and uneasily glance toward the end of the street. Hopefully this isn’t a repeat of last weekend, but with Briar crashing the party this time.
The music is blasting so loud, we can hear it from the street. On the porch, I ring the doorbell, but I already know it’s a futile exercise. No one can hear it. But then the front door opens, and a pair of laughing girls tumble out. They greet us with that sheer unbridled joy only inebriated people can feel.
“Hi!” the first girl exclaims. “Oh my gosh, you two look so beautiful!”
“Stunning,” the other gushes.
Drunk girls give the best compliments.
“You’re sweet,” I tell the total strangers.
They bound down the porch steps and stumble off to a waiting Uber, throwing themselves into the back seat.
Mya and I shrug and enter the house without an invitation. The music is even more deafening now, a hip-hop track that makes you move your hips whether you want to or not. I poke my head into the living room and spot Beckett. He’s laughing with a bunch of Eastwood guys I recognize from Miller’s party. I still can’t remember a lot of their names. Rounding out the group are a few sorority girls wearing short skirts and Delta Nu sweaters.
Mya recognizes one of them. “Kate?” she shouts excitedly.
“Mya.” The pretty dark-haired girl breaks away from the group and bounds over.
“What are you doing here?” Mya exclaims. “I thought you transferred to LSU.”
“I did. I’m just home for the weekend.”
From the heated look that passes between them, I deduce they’re very familiar with each other.
“I was about to get a refill,” Kate says, holding up an empty red cup. “You want a drink?”
“Absolutely.”
Kate takes her hand, and Mya’s free hand tugs on mine. But I’m intercepted by Beckett, who strides toward me in a tight T-shirt and cargo pants. Blond hair artfully tousled.
“Go. I’ll meet you in the kitchen,” I tell the girls.
“You came,” Beckett says when he reaches me. He nods in approval.
“Yep. Here I am.”
“You look…really good.” I have no doubt he’s noticed the beaded tips of my nipples, but his gaze doesn’t linger there. It fixes on my abdomen instead.
“Fuck,” he groans, eyes glazing over.
“What?”
“Those abs.”
“Jealous?” I say smugly.
“Nah.” He lifts the bottom corner of his T-shirt to flash his own set of chiseled abs. Not a six-pack, but a solid twelve. Jesus. “I don’t know. Mine are pretty sick too.”
“They’re all right.”
Shane Lindley wanders into the hall holding a can of beer. He looks surprised but pleased to see me. “Hey,” he says, flinging his arm around my shoulder. “How’d they manage to lure you into enemy territory?”
