The Play (Briar U, #3)(20)

“Yes,” Pippa tells me.

“One hundred percent, yes,” Darius concurs.

“How do you eat so much and never gain weight?” Corinne demands.

“I’d never judge you,” TJ assures me, grinning mischievously.

“Thank you, Thomas Joseph. The rest of you, guess what? You don’t get to taste my spinach balls. You can sit here in envy while—”

“He’s coming back,” hisses Pippa.

Sure enough, the hockey player in the red shirt strides by again. This time I do see his face, and promptly understand why Pippa is drooling all over the table. He’s got vivid gray eyes, and a beautiful smile that curves his mouth when he catches Pippa’s gaze on him. He keeps walking, though.

“Oh my,” I murmur, and Nico pokes me in the ribs.

“Definitely a hockey guy,” TJ confirms with a nod. “But I can’t remember his name.”

“Hold on, I’ll find out.” I slide my phone out of my purse.

“What do you mean, you’ll find out?” Pippa squawks.

I pull up Hunter’s name in my contacts list. We exchanged numbers at my house on Monday night.

ME: Hey, hockey man. Who’s the dude in the red t-shirt with the fuck-me face and tight ass?





Although I crane my neck toward the other room, I can’t pick out Hunter amidst the sea of jocks. But on my phone screen three gray bubbles pop up to indicate a response is being typed.

“Who are you texting?” Nico demands.

“Hunter Davenport.”

TJ looks up sharply. “You’re texting Davenport?”

“Yeah, we’re working on that project, remember? I have his number.”

“Who’s Hunter Davenport?” Corinne asks.

“Just a hockey player who thinks he’s God’s gift to the world,” TJ tells her, smiling wryly.

“You don’t even know him,” I tease.

“I had a tutorial with him last year, remember? He treated the library like his own personal motel?”

I don’t answer because Hunter’s message just appeared.

HUNTER: Conor Edwards. Right-winger, #62. Why? You want his number?? Are we cheating on the boyfriend??? Tsk tsk.





Nobody’s cheating on anyone, I type back, and when I sense Nico reading over my shoulder, I hammer the point home by adding, I love my boyfriend very VERY much.

Nico relaxes and drops a kiss atop my head.

ME: A friend of mine is eyeing him. Is he single?





HUNTER: Ya but I think he’s already picked his flavor for the night. I’ll come over and introduce them if you want?





I glance at Pippa. “You want an intro?”

Her jaw falls open again. “What! No. He’s way too good-looking.”

“You sure?” I wave my phone enticingly at her. “I got you an in.”

“Am I sure? I’ve got a zit on my forehead and haven’t washed my hair in four days, because I wasn’t planning on meeting Adonis tonight. Come on, Demi, what the fuck is wrong with you?”

I snicker and text Hunter back.

ME: Maybe another night.





He responds with, Okey dokey, and the gray dots disappear.

“Coward,” I tease Pippa.

“Whatever. You can’t throw something like that on me at the last second. I’m not mentally prepared to hook up tonight.”

I hadn’t realized mental preparation was required for casual hook-ups, but I suppose I’m clueless when it comes to modern dating. And I’m perfectly okay with that. Look at what’s happening around me—Hunter juggling different girls, Pippa squirming nervously at the notion of being introduced to a hot guy. Dating seems insanely stressful.

Relationships, meanwhile, are nice and secure. The world of relationships is where I belong.

I link my fingers through Nico’s and thank my lucky stars that I’m not part of that other, terrifying world.





8





Demi





Nico walks me to class on Monday morning. He’d spent the night, and I feel like we’re back on track again as we stroll hand-in-hand down one of the many walkways that weave through Briar. Although the weather hasn’t turned yet, the colors on campus are slowly beginning to change. I admire the massive trees that line the paths and dot the lawns, marveling at how pretty and quaint everything is. Sometimes it feels surreal. I lived in Miami until I was fifteen years old, so I’m accustomed to palm trees and colorful beach houses, not stately oaks and ancient buildings.

I remember putting up a huge stink when I found out we were moving to Massachusetts. My father had been offered a position at a prestigious hospital in Boston. Head of neurosurgery. Which is a HUGE DEAL. But I was a bratty, entitled teenager, and therefore I wasn’t having it.

Dad, however, doesn’t tolerate temper tantrums. Or rather, he lets me stomp and yell and bitch…and then offers a wry smile and pleasantly asks, Are you done? Because we all know he’s going to get his way at the end of the day. He does the same thing with my mother. Mom personifies the stereotype of feisty Latina, complete with a generations-old family hot sauce recipe and a temper that’s even more explosive than mine. But even Mom can’t win against my father.