The Risk (Briar U #2)(50)

Dad nods, but he doesn’t look thrilled about it. This year the Division I Hockey Committee decided that every team would participate in a charity exhibition the weekend before the conference finals, rather than immediately playing the final game after the semifinal round. The exhibitions are hosted by various cancer societies throughout the country, and all proceeds from ticket sales and concessions go to these charities. It’s obviously a great cause, but I know Dad and his players are anxious for the finals.

“And what about the finals? Are you guys ready?”

He gives another nod. Somehow he manages to cram so much confidence into one nod. “We will be.”

“The Crimson’ll be tough to beat.”

“Yes. They will be.” That’s my dad, a gifted conversationalist.

I scrape the last bit of yogurt out of the plastic container. “They’re good this year,” I remark. “They’re very, very good.”

Not just at playing hockey, either. Jake Connelly, for example, is highly skilled in other areas. Like kissing. And turning me on. And—

And I need to derail this train of thought, pronto. Because now my body is tingling, and I’m not allowed to be tingling in such close proximity to my father.

“You know, you’re allowed to say a nice thing or two about Harvard,” I tell him. “Just because you hate the coach doesn’t mean the players are terrible.”

“Some of them are good,” he acknowledges. “And some of them are good but dirty.”

“Like Brooks Weston.”

He nods again. “Kid’s a goon, and Pedersen encourages it.” There’s venom in his voice when he says Pedersen’s name.

“What kind of player was he?” I ask curiously. “Pedersen, that is.”

Dad’s features grow taut, tension rippling from his broad frame. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, you played with him at Yale. You were on the same team for at least a couple seasons, right?”

“Right.” Now his tone is guarded.

“So what kind of player was he?” I repeat. “A power forward? An enforcer? Did he play dirty?”

“Dirty as mud. I never respected his gameplay.”

“And now you don’t respect his coaching.”

“Nope.” Dad takes a long sip of his coffee, watching me over the rim. “Are you saying you do?”

I think it over. “Yes and no. I mean, there’s dirty gameplay, and then there’s rough gameplay. A lot of coaches encourage their players to play rough,” I point out.

“Doesn’t make it right. It promotes violence.”

I have to laugh. “Hockey is one of the most violent sports there is! We’ve got guys skating around on ice with sharp blades on their feet, holding big sticks. They get slammed into the boards, they’re hit over and over again, they take pucks to the face…”

“Exactly. The sport is already violent enough,” Dad agrees. “So why make it even more so? Play clean and play honorably.” His jaw tightens. “Daryl Pedersen doesn’t know the meaning of clean or honor.”

He makes a valid point. And I suppose I can’t ascertain one way or the other about Pedersen’s level of dirtiness. I’ve only seen a couple of Harvard games this season, which makes it difficult to accurately gauge how dirty those boys play.

I know how dirty Jake kisses. Does that count?

“What do you have planned for today?” Dad asks, changing the subject.

“I need to finish up an article for my News Writing class, but I’ll probably do that later. I’m heading over to Summer’s house now.”

“On Saturday morning?”

“Yeah, she wants me to help her clean out her closet.”

“I don’t understand women,” Dad says.

“We are pretty fucking weird. I’ll give you that.”

“I’ve heard things about that girl Summer,” he adds, his trademark frown marring his face.

I frown back. “She’s a good friend of mine.”

“Her brother said she was crazy.”

“Well, yeah. I can’t deny that. She’s strange and melodramatic and hilarious. But you shouldn’t believe everything Dean says, anyway.”

“He said she burned down her school.”

I grin at him. “Considering Brown University is still standing, I think we can assume Dean exaggerated.” I slide off the stool. “I need to get dressed. I’ll see you later.”





An hour later, I’m lying on Summer’s bed scrolling through my phone. Needless to say, watching her try on every outfit in her closet and then model it for me got real old, real fast.

“Bee!” she complains. “Pay attention.”

I put the phone down and move into a sitting position. “No,” I announce. “Because this is insanity. You just tried on four different cashmere sweaters in the same shade of white. They were identical. And they all looked brand new!”

She starts to give me a whole speech about Prada versus Gucci versus Chanel until I hold up my hand to stop her, because I swear to God if she goes on about Chanel, I’m going to lose it. She’s obsessed with that fashion house and, unchecked, could talk about it for hours.