The Risk (Briar U #2)(92)

I change the subject, reaching for my margarita. “You ready for the game this weekend?” I ask him.

“Ready as we’re ever going to be. They’ll be tough to beat, though.” The intensity in his voice is promising. At least his head is in the game, and not on all the girls he’s hooking up with. “If we can find a way to contain Jake Connelly, stop him from wrecking us, then we’ve got a good shot.”

Ha. If they find a way to not be wrecked by Jake, I’d love to know it. God knows I haven’t found the solution.





29





Jake





Every player prepares differently for a game. Some guys are obsessive about their superstitions, like Dmitry, who got a paper cut once and went on to shut out the opposing team, so now he gives himself a paper cut before every game. Or Chilton, who needs his mom to say, “Break your leg, Coby!”—those exact words, because in high school it won his team a state championship.

Me, I just need my trusty beaded bracelet and some silence. I need to sit quietly and get my head ready, because hockey is as mental as it is physical. It requires laser focus, the ability to react mentally to any situation, any obstacle. And there’s no room for self-doubt on the ice. I have to trust my brain, my instincts, my muscle memory, to create opportunities and bring on a desired outcome.

This entire season, I haven’t given any pep talks. The guys don’t expect it of me. They know that when I’m hunched over on the bench, not looking at them, not saying a word, it’s because I’m mentally preparing.

Everyone stands to attention when Coach strides into the locker room. He sweeps his gaze over the uniformed bodies crowding the space. “Men,” he greets us.

We tap our sticks on the floor in a hockey salute. We need to get out there for our warmup skate, but Coach has a few words to say first.

“This game is the single most important game you play this season. We beat Briar, we go to the national tourney. We beat Briar, we’re one step closer to bringing home a national title.” He rumbles on for another full minute, pumping us up, telling us we need to win, growling that the title belongs to us, that we need to bring it home. “What are we gonna do?” he shouts.

“Bring it home!”

“Can’t hear you.”

“Bring it home!”

Coach nods in approval. Then he throws me a curveball. “Connelly, say a few words.”

My head jerks up in surprise. “Coach?”

“You’re the captain, Jake. Say something to your team. This could be the last game of the season. Hell, your last game at Harvard.”

Fuck, I don’t like that he’s messing with my ritual. But I can’t object, because unlike nearly every other athlete in the world, Coach doesn’t believe in luck or superstition. He believes in skill and hard work. I suppose I admire that philosophy, but…respect the rituals, dammit.

I clear my throat. “Briar’s good,” I start. “They’re really good.”

“Great speech!” Brooks breaks out in hearty applause. “Standing ovation!”

Coby snickers loudly.

“Can it, Bubble Butt. I wasn’t done.” I clear my throat. “Briar’s good, but we’re better.”

My teammates wait for me to go on.

I shrug. “I was done that time.”

Laughter rings out all around me, until Coach claps his hands to silence everyone. “All right. Let’s get out there.”

I’m about to shut my locker when the phone I left on the shelf lights up. I crane my neck to take a peek, and a satisfied smile tugs at my lips. It’s a message from Brenna, wishing me good luck. There’s also one from Hazel, offering the same sentiment, but I’d expect it from Hazel. From Brenna, it’s unprecedented.

“Coach, my dad’s calling,” I lie as I catch Pedersen’s attention. “Probably wants to wish us luck. I’ll just be a minute, okay?”

He gives me a suspicious look before muttering, “One minute.”

As he and my teammates lumber toward the tunnel, I call Brenna. But I don’t get the greeting I expect.

“Why are you calling me?” She sounds outraged. “You should be on the ice warming up.”

I chuckle. “I’d think you’d be happy to hear that I’m not out there.”

“Wait, is everything okay? You’re still playing, aren’t you?” Concern echoes over the line.

“Yes, I’m still playing. But I saw your text and I wanted to make sure you’re not in danger.”

“Why would I be in danger?”

“Because you said good luck. I assumed someone was holding a gun to your head.”

“Oh, don’t be a brat.”

“So you were seriously wishing me good luck?”

“Yup.”

“Did you mean it?”

“Nope.”

“Who’s the brat now?” I hesitate. “Look…whatever happens tonight, I don’t want to stop seeing you.” Then I hold my breath and wait, because I genuinely don’t know what she’ll say.

I know what I want her to say. I want her to say that she hasn’t been able to get me off her mind since we slept together, because I haven’t gotten her off my mind since we slept together. The sex was unreal. So goddamn amazing. And that was our first time. If it’s that good when we don’t even know each other’s turn-ons yet? When we don’t know exactly how to get each other off? Means it’s only going to get better. That blows my mind.