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CHAPTER ONE
AIDAN
“Who is Brooke, and what are we doing tomorrow night?” Hunter Morgan asks me.
“Huh?” I say, glancing up from my phone.
Hunter spins his coffee cup toward me so I can read the black Sharpie scribbled on the brown paper sleeve.
Can’t wait for tomorrow night! XO, Brooke. A phone number—hers, I’m guessing—is scrawled beneath the message.
“Oh. That one must be mine.”
My best friend raises one eyebrow. “You think? Thought it tasted too sweet.”
I addedoneof those little sugar packets.
“Get your own next time,” I retort, taking the coffee from him and nudging the other cup closer with my elbow. “Thought this one tasted bland.”
Now both of Hunter’s eyebrows do that annoying judgmental lift. “What the hell crawled up your ass, Phillips?”
“Nothing,” I mutter, right as our third roommate Conor walks into the kitchen.
Hart is whistling, which is even more annoying than Hunter’s expressive eyebrows.
As long as I’ve known the guy, he’s been serious and focused. Sure, I’ve seen him let loose, but only when he’s physically incapable of playing more hockey. For the past few weeks he’s been uncharacteristically depressed, lazing around in sweatpants and sighing a lot. Ever since his trip to Seattle last week, he’s as cheerful as could be, right when I could really use a reliable wingman and drinking buddy.
He was a wet blanket our entire trip to Vail, refusing to do anything except snowboard and mope.
And now he’s in a committed relationship and so happy about it, he’swhistling.
It’s weird to witness.
“You headed out?” I ask as Conor grabs his Holt Hockeywindbreaker off the back of a kitchen chair. The entryway to our house, where you would normally store coats, is piled high with hockey equipment.
“Yeah. Going to Harlow’s, then to PeeWee practice.”
I stand, deciding to grab a yogurt. “That’s great, Hart. Coach will be thrilled you’re going back to basics.”
Hunter snorts, the sound audible over the slam of the fridge closing.
Conor just shakes his head. He’s harder to rile up than he used to be. Probably a side effect of getting laid on a very frequent basis. Since we share a wall, I have a good idea of just how often that is.
“Do Not Answeris calling you, Phillips,” Hunter tells me.
I don’t glance toward the spot on the table where I left my phone. “Is the name not self-explanatory?” I ask, ripping the flimsy top off the yogurt with more force than is necessary before tossing it in the trash can.
“Wow, you’re touchy. Just letting you know.”
I should apologize to Hunter for snapping at him, but I shove a bite of yogurt into my mouth instead.
My dad figured out I blocked his number and threatened not to send this semester’s tuition check unless I started taking his calls. So I unblocked him, but was petty enough to change his name in my phone and I haven’t answered a single time.
I’m sure I’ll have another pissed-off voicemail from Lincoln Phillips very soon.
My mood sours even more.
“You’re not coming back here before going to the rink?” I ask Conor.
