Boyfriend Material (Hawthorne University, #2)(28)

I can’t tell him any of that.

“Do you know how hard it is to get into law school with those scores? Even with the most glowing recommendations—”

“I know.”

“What do you have to say for yourself? Is hockey distracting you?”

Anxiety spikes.

Dad was fine with me playing hockey when Kurt was alive. I was the second son of royalty—free to do stupid shit.

I wasn’t the basket my parents put their eggs in.

Now, I’m the basket.

My hands clench the phone. “Hockey is not a distraction. I’m not good with tests. I’m not . . . maybe I’m not . . .”

Maybe I’m not cut out for law school.

“You’re a Hansen, for God’s sake. You’re better than this. You’ve disappointed me, Eric.”

“Yeah. What else is new? How’s Mom?” She’s been in therapy since Kurt died. She has these bouts where she forgets he’s dead.

There’s a pause and I picture him gnashing his teeth. Maybe throwing his pen across the room. He doesn’t want to talk about her.

She isn’t perfect. Not anymore.

“I’ll call Margorie on the board of trustees at Hawthorne Law. It’s not a top school, but it will do. No promises.”

I rub my eyes. “Okay.”

“Another thing, why did you take seven grand out of your account?”

My mouth dries. He’s never checked how much I spent before. Mostly because I’m not one to splurge and he doesn’t have the time, but since my scores are shit . . .

“Checking up on me?”

“Are you buying drugs?”

“No,” I snap. “It was for a friend. She’s paying me back, so don’t worry.”

“It’s a lot of cash. Why did she need it?”

“None of your business,” I mutter.

His pen taps on his desk over and over. My head starts to clang. Welcome back, monkey.

“Don’t worry,” I bite out. “I’ll keep my spending low for the rest of the year.”

More silence.

I sigh. “Are you coming to the game—”

The line goes dead.

“I’ll take that as a no,” I mutter.

Reece comes out and sits down on the steps next to me. “You ready for the game?”

I’ve gotten hockey together since August, thank goodness, but I still feel uneasy. “Yeah.”

Reece nods. “Where’s Boone? I checked his room and he wasn’t there.”

“Guess,” I say as I glance at Kappa House. I haven’t found him playing video games in two weeks. He spends most of his time next door.

“Is he even going to be upright tomorrow?” Reece says.

“He has time,” I say, but I’m recalling being a pledge and the hazing I went through. Either it was too much fun or not fun at all. “I’ll check in on him.”

He stretches out his legs. “My dad is coming. First game and all. Yours?”

“Nah.”

“You tell him about the scores?”

“He already knew.”

He nods, giving me a commiserating look. “You wanna talk about it?”

I shake my head. Z was my best friend, but he isn’t around anymore.

A sigh comes from him as he slaps me on the back. “I’m your friend, yeah? If you need me, I’m around.”





11





Eric





A few days later, after our first hockey win, I watch in the hallway as Boone fixes his hair in the mirror.

“You can’t rush perfection. Almost done.” He pulls at one strand, sliding it into place on top of his head.

I take a sip of my beer, then tip it at him. “I’m glad you’re hanging with us. Did you have to get permission from Kappa to go tonight?”

He throws me a look. “No. It’s not like that.”

I smile even though I bet it’s a lie. “Good. Let’s have fun, then.”

“Why did you quit Kappa anyway?” he asks as I head toward the stairs.

“Lots of reasons. Mainly because it interfered with hockey.” And your president is a dick.

I go downstairs ahead of him, slip on my leather jacket, and find Reece in the den. I nudge him and waggle my brows. “You wanna pass the puck on Boone?”

“Hell yeah. What’s the play? The picket fence?”

“Nah, I was thinking the ole lookey-loo,” I say.

We hear Boone coming down the stairs, and Reece rushes over to the front window and pulls back the curtains.

Boone hits the landing as I glance over at Reece.

“Yo. What’s going on at the window?” Boone asks as he follows my gaze.

Reece looks over at us. Eyes lit. “Guys, you won’t believe this. This girl is jogging topless down the street. Big jugs. Prettiest ones I’ve ever seen.”

Boone bolts to the window and nearly falls, steadies himself, then peers out the window. “Where? I don’t see her.”

I dart over and place my hand on his head, rubbing it. “I pass the puck!”

He struggles and tries to push my hand off, then lets loose with a long stream of curses, then grunts. “Jesus Christ on a bike! You’ve got to be kidding me. I invented the lookey-loo. That’s low down.”