Good Boy (WAGs #1)(56)

A peek at my phone shows a missed text from Jamie.

How did the final go? Tell us over an early dinner?

It was sent at five, so I’m not sure if he and Wes have eaten already yet. But I’m starving, so I sit up and dial his number.

“Hey,” I say after he picks up. “Just got your message. I was napping.”

“I figured.” He chuckles. “God, I do not miss college. The thought of cracking open a textbook again makes me shiver in horror.”

“It’s not fun,” I agree.

“So how do you think you did this morning? A-plus or A-plus-plus?”

“Neither. But I’d give up my firstborn for a C-plus. That’s all I need to pass.”

“Eh, you can pump out a C-plus in your sleep. You’ve always been one of the smart Cannings.”

My eyebrows shoot up. Uh, right. I’m one of the smart Cannings? “That’s very sweet of you to say, but we both know I’m at the bottom of our family smarts ladder.”

“Bullshit,” he argues. “Joe didn’t even learn how to spell his name—all three letters of it!—until he was five. Mom told me.”

I gasp. “Oh my God, really? I am so bringing that up at Christmas!”

“And Scottie almost flunked out of the police academy,” Jamie reminds me.

“Yeah, but that’s because he was getting drunk with all the other cadets every night instead of studying, not because he’s a dumb-dumb.”

“True.” Jamie’s voice softens. “But you’re not a dumb-dumb, either, Jessie. You know that, right?”

“Right,” I say lightly, before changing the subject. “Anyway, are you guys still up for dinner?”

“Aw, actually, no. We ended up going to this Indian place after we didn’t hear from you. Wes was grumbling about how hungry he was and didn’t want to wait.”

“That’s fine. Don’t worry about it.”

“I’d invite you over to raid our fridge, but it’s probably better if Wes and I have some alone time tonight. He’s all cranky because his practice was a complete disaster today.”

I frown. “Why? What happened?”

“Not sure. The team wasn’t gelling, I guess? And Blake bombed in practice so bad that Hal changed up the lines. He didn’t even want to come to dinner with us because he was in such a shit mood.”

Surprise jolts through me. Blake Riley, in a shit mood? That’s unheard of. The man is a perpetual Susie Sunshine. And he turned down a chance to eat food? Very troubling, indeed.

“Weird,” I say absently. “Okay, I’m going to let you go now. I need to forage for food.”

My brother laughs. “Come over tomorrow?”

“Sure.” Now that my last exam is in the can, I have a whole week off before the new term begins.

We hang up, but I don’t get up from my bed. Instead, I pull up Blake’s number and stare at the last messages we’d exchanged. They’re from the home game where I sat with Mama Riley and listened to her lecture me about birth control.

After a beat of hesitation, I take a page out of Jamie’s book and text, You alive?

I’m startled when my phone buzzes right away.

No, I’m dead.

I snicker to myself. Want to hang out tonight? Just wrote my final exam.

This time it takes several moments for him to respond.

Not in the best mood, J-Babe. Maybe another time.

Undeterred, I type, My mood’s not great, either. Let’s be miserable together. I’ll bring the ice cream if you provide the spoons.

There’s an interminably long pause before he answers.

Yeah, sure.

Okay, so it’s not the most…enthusiastic reply. But hell, I’ll take it.





23 Pick Your Poison





Jess


When I arrive at a certain sleek condo tower by the waterfront, the doorman waves me in. But instead of getting off on Jamie’s floor, I ride the elevator farther up, to Blake’s. I’ve never been to his apartment before, and I’m not sure what to expect. There are only four doors on his hallway. I knock on the one that has a doormat depicting a St. Bernard with a hockey stick.

Behind the door, I hear the muted sounds of TV, then the thump of footsteps. Blake opens the door wearing a cuddly-looking flannel shirt—unbuttoned to reveal his fabulous chest—and a pair of well-worn jeans that hug his sculpted thighs. In other words, he looks scrumptious. But then I check his face, and I see that something is wrong. His expression is pinched in a way that’s completely unfamiliar on him.

“Hey, Jess,” he says softly. “How are you?” He shuffles backwards to let me in.

How am I? Totally weirded out. That’s how.

“I’ve had better days,” I admit. “But I brought ice cream and wine. I would have brought a chick flick, too, but you’re not a chick.”

I step past him and take a closer look at the apartment. I’d expected it to look about the same as my brother’s, but it’s not the same at all. Blake’s pad is huge, and his kitchen must have been designed by a Swedish architect named Torvald. Everything is sleek wood or gleaming white. A thick wool rug pads the floor under my feet. Gentle light washes over all the surfaces from hidden fixtures near the ceiling. And there are sliding glass doors on the far wall leading to what must be a kickass terrace.