The Risk (Briar U #2)(8)

They’ll never get together again.

I don’t voice the thought, but I know it’s true. Brenna Jensen would never condone being “put on hold” by anyone, let alone a Harvard player. If McCarthy ends it, even temporarily, she’ll make it a permanent split.

“Briar has won three national championships in the last decade,” I say flatly. “Meanwhile, we’re over here, winless. That’s unacceptable, kid. So tell me, what’s more important to you—getting mind-fucked by Brenna Jensen or beating her team?”

“Beating her team,” he says immediately.

No hesitation. I like that. “Then let’s beat them. Do what needs to be done.”

With a nod, McCarthy walks out the door. I lock up after him.

Do I feel bad? Maybe a little. But anyone can see that he and Brenna aren’t destined to be together. She said as much herself.

I’m simply speeding up the inevitable.





3





Brenna





“Where have you been? I called you three times, Brenna.”

My dad’s brusque tone never fails to raise my hackles. He speaks to me the way he speaks to his players—curt, impatient, and unforgiving. I’d like to say that it’s always been this way, that he’s been barking and growling at me for my entire life. But that would be a lie.

Dad didn’t always snap at me. My mother died in a car accident when I was seven, which thrust my father into a maternal role as well as a paternal one. And he was good at both. He used to speak to me with love and tenderness on his face and in his voice. He’d pull me onto his lap and ruffle my hair and say, “Tell me how school was today, Peaches.” His nickname for me was “Peaches,” for Pete’s sake.

But that was a long time ago. Nowadays, I’m just Brenna, and I can’t remember the last time I associated the words “love” or “tenderness” with my father.

“I was walking home in a downpour,” I reply. “I couldn’t pick up the phone.”

“Walking home from where?”

I unzip my boots in the cramped corridor of my basement apartment. I rent it from a nice couple named Mark and Wendy, who both travel quite a lot for work. Add to that my separate entrance, and I can go weeks without having any interaction with them.

“From Della’s Diner. I was having coffee with a friend,” I say.

“This late?”

“Late?” I crane my neck toward the kitchen that’s even tinier than the hallway and glance at the clock on the microwave. “It’s barely ten o’clock.”

“Don’t you have your interview tomorrow?”

“Yes, so? Do you think me getting home at nine thirty means I’m going to sleep through my alarm?” I can’t keep the sarcasm out of my tone. Sometimes it’s difficult not to snap at him the way he snaps at me.

He ignores the taunt. “I spoke to someone at the network today,” he says. “Stan Samuels—he runs the master control booth, solid fellow.” Dad’s voice becomes gruff. “I told him you were coming in tomorrow and put in a good word for you.”

I soften a little. “Oh. That was nice of you. I appreciate that.” Some people might feel awkward about calling in favors to get ahead, but I have no problem using my father’s connections if it helps me secure this internship. It’s hyper competitive, and although I’m more than qualified—I’ve worked my ass off to be—I’m at a disadvantage because I’m female. Unfortunately, this is a male-dominated field.

The broadcasting program at Briar offers official work placements for students in their senior year, but I’m hoping to beat everyone to the punch. If I can land a summer internship at HockeyNet, there’s a fair chance I’ll be able to continue working there for my senior placement. That means an advantage over my peers and a potential job when I graduate.

My end-game has always been to become a sports journalist. Yes, HockeyNet is only a decade old (and the originality coffers must’ve been running low the day they chose their name), but the network covers hockey exclusively, and when it launched, it filled a deep void in the sports coverage market. I watch ESPN religiously, but one of the major complaints about it is its lackluster hockey coverage. Which is egregious. I mean, in theory, hockey is the fourth major sport in the country, but the bigger networks often treat it as if it’s less important than NASCAR or tennis or—shudder—golf.

I dream of being on camera and sitting with those analysts at the big boys’ table, breaking down highlights, analyzing games, voicing my predictions. Sports journalism is a tough route for a woman, but I know my hockey, and I’m confident I’ll slay my interview tomorrow.

“Let me know how it goes,” Dad orders.

“I will.” As I cross the living room, my left sock connects with something wet, and I yelp.

Dad is instantly concerned. “You all right?”

“Sorry, I’m fine. The carpet’s wet. I must have spilled something—” I stop when I notice a small puddle in front of the sliding door that opens onto the backyard. It’s still raining outside, a steady pounding against the stone patio. “Crap. There’s water pooling at the back door.”

“That’s not good. What are we dealing with? Runoff directing water into the house?”