The Mistake (Off-Campus #2)(42)

“Can you take a break?” Garrett asks. “You too, Jeff. There’s enough pizza for three.”

I hesitate, picturing my dad’s reaction if he wanders outside and sees me chilling with my buddy instead of working. Fuck. I’m not in the mood to throw down with him again.

Jeff, however, answers before I can. “Don’t worry. John’s done for the night.”

I look over in surprise.

“Seriously, I’ve got this,” my brother tells me. “I’ll finish up here. You take G around back and relax.”

“You sure?”

Jeff repeats himself, his tone firm. “I’ve got this.”

I nod in thanks, then strip off my coveralls and leave the garage with Garrett on my tail. We walk down the path leading to the house, but right before we reach the sprawling bungalow, I veer off toward the grassy clearing at the far edge of the property. Years ago, Jeff and I had set up a fire pit out there and surrounded it with a semi-circle of Adirondack chairs. And in the woods beyond the clearing, there’s a tree house we built when we were kids, which any housing inspector worth his salt would condemn thanks to its shoddy workmanship and unstable facade.

Garrett sets the pizza box on the rickety wood table between two of the chairs, then picks up the six-pack, tugs a can off the plastic ring, and tosses it at me.

I catch it, but don’t open it.

“Right, I forgot,” Garrett says dryly. “Beer is for pussies.” He rolls his eyes. “There are no chicks around, man. You don’t have to pretend to be all sophisticated.”

Sophisticated? Ha. My friends know I don’t drink beer unless it’s the only option available, but I’ve always claimed my dislike for it stems from the fact that beer is weak and tastes like shit.

The truth? The smell serves as a depressing reminder of my childhood. So does the taste of bourbon, Dad’s backup beverage once he runs out of beer.

“Just don’t feel like drinking right now.” I place the can on the dirt and accept the bacon-loaded pizza slice he hands me. “Thanks.”

Garrett flops in the chair and reaches for a slice. “So how crazy is it about Connor? First round pick—that’s gotta be good for his ego.”

A bittersweet feeling washes over me. The NHL entry draft took place a couple of weeks ago, and I was thrilled to hear that two Briar players made the cut. The Kings snapped up Connor Trayner in the first round, while the Blackhawks drafted one of our D-men, Joe Rogers, in the fourth. I’m damn proud of my guys. They’re both sophomores, both talented players who deserve to be in the league.

But at the same time, it’s yet another reminder that I won’t be in the league.

“Connor earned that first-round pick. The kid is faster than lightning.”

Garrett chews slowly, a thoughtful glimmer in his eyes. “What about Rogers? Think he’ll make the Hawks roster? Or get sent down to the farm team?”

I mull it over. “Farm team,” I answer, albeit reluctantly. “I think they’ll want to develop him more before they set him loose on the world.”

“Yeah, me too. He’s not the best stick handler. And too many of his passes don’t connect.”

We continue talking hockey as we devour the entire pizza, and eventually I crank open the beer, though I only take a sip or two. I’m not looking for a buzz tonight. Actually, I haven’t felt like partying at all lately. If I’m being honest, my mood’s been in the dumpster since that night with Tori last month.

“So what’s Wellsy planning to do in the fall?” I ask him. “Is she moving in or what?”

Garrett is quick to shake his head. “Nope. First off, I would’ve asked you guys if it was cool before making that kind of decision. But she doesn’t want to, anyway. It made sense for the summer because our place is so close to her work, but she and Allie are definitely rooming together again when the semester starts.”

“Does she know yet what she wants to do after graduation?”

“No clue. She’s got a whole year to figure it out, though.” Garrett goes quiet for a beat. “Hey, you know Wellsy’s friend Meg?”

I nod, picturing the pretty drama major, who, last I remember, has a boyfriend who’s kind of a douche. “Yeah. She’s going out with that Jimmy guy, right?”

“Jeremy. And they broke up.” Garrett hesitates again. “Hannah asked if maybe you wanted her to set you two up. Meg’s fun. You might like her.”

I shift in my chair, uncomfortable. “Thanks for the offer, but I’m not interested in a set-up.”

He brightens. “Does that mean the freshman you’ve been obsessing over finally decided to forgive you?”

After the Stanley Cup game, I had confessed to Garrett about the whole Grace situation, the whiskey I’d consumed loosening my tongue and causing me to give him a sordid play-by-play of V-Night, which is what I’m calling that final hook-up. Now I regret telling him, because talking about her brings an ache to my chest.

“She still won’t talk to me,” I admit. “It’s over, man.”

“Shit. That sucks. So I assume you’re back to drilling anything in a skirt?”

“No.” My turn to pause. “I almost slept with this older chick a few weeks ago.”

He grins. “How much older?”