Be the Girl(22)

“Jeez …” A bead of sweat runs down the side of Emmett’s face by the time we reach the end of our driveways. “I can’t believe you kept up. Your mom wasn’t kidding.” His breathing is as ragged as mine.

I bite my tongue against the urge to taunt him, to remind him that I only just started training again. The truth is, I wouldn’t have gone that hard had I not had the carrot of Emmett dangling there to push me. But my thighs and lungs burn, the three-kilometer route around Miller’s Park—a hilly conservation area with a small pond in the center—equal parts peaceful and grueling. We were the only ones out this morning, save for a lady walking her black Lab.

Emmett uses the hem of his T-shirt to wipe his face, giving me a sublime view of his six-pack and the dark trail of hair disappearing into his shorts.

I have to turn away to hide my bulging eyes.

Seriously, he’s only seventeen?

“Moretti’s gonna have a lady boner when she sees you run.” He checks his watch. “’Kay. We better grab a shower before school.” He frowns, and points at both our houses. “I meant separately. As in, two showers. In our own bathrooms.”

“Yeah, I figured.” I laugh it off, though in my head, I’m suddenly wondering all kinds of things, namely, has Emmett ever showered with a girl before? And what does the rest of him look like in the shower? And did he think I’d take that to mean something different?

Can he tell I’m crushing on him?

My heart, already racing from the run, takes on a whole new tempo as my stomach flutters with nerves.

“See you in a bit.” With one last grin, he jogs toward his house.





Forty-five minutes later, I’m waiting by the Santa Fe when Emmett walks out of the Hartfords’ front door, a half-eaten banana in his grip. He’s freshly showered and looking as hot as ever.

“Cassie, come on or we’ll be late!” He hits the button on his key fob to unlock the doors for me and then strolls to the end of the driveway to toss the peel into the green bin.

Cassie rushes out about thirty seconds later and climbs into the back seat. “I’m not ready!” she warns, as she does every morning.

He drums his fingers on the steering wheel, his lips pressed together tightly, as if he’s struggling to keep his patience this morning. What’s it like to have Cassie for a sister?

Her seat belt clicks. “’Kay, I’m ready.”

He pulls out of the driveway.

“When is your next hockey game, Emmett?” she asks.

“Thursday night.”

“Is it in Eastmonte?”

“Yup. Why?”

“AJ should come. Do you want to come with us to watch Emmett play, AJ?”

A rush of adrenaline courses through my body. Yes, I want to watch Emmett play. Now I have a valid excuse to go. “Uh … yeah, sure. Maybe?”

“You don’t have to,” Emmett offers in an apologetic tone.

“No, it’s cool. I’ve never been.”

“You’ve never been to a hockey game?” Cassie asks with exaggerated shock.

I laugh. “No. It wasn’t a thing for my family.”

“I’ve been to a lot of games,” she says. “How many games have I been to, Emmett?”

“I don’t know. Hundreds. You’re a rink rat.”

“I’m not a rink rat. What’s that thing on your neck?” she asks suddenly, changing topics without warning or pause.

I press my lips together to hide my smile as I steal a glance at the red bruise.

“It’s nothing,” he dismisses, his jaw tensing as he tugs at his shirt collar.

“There’s a dark mark right there. On your neck. I see it. What is it? Emmett?” A second later. “Emmett?” Another three seconds pass without answer. “Emmett.”

“It’s nothing, okay? A bruise, from hockey.”

“Oh. Okay.” There’s a long pause, as if she’s thinking about it, and then, “But don’t you wear a neck guard?” There’s a hint of skepticism in her voice.

“Of course you’d figure that out,” he says under his breath.

“Is that really a bruise from hockey?” When he doesn’t respond, she asks, “Is that really a bruise from hockey, AJ?”

Emmett shoots me a warning look.

I briefly consider keeping up his lie, but he’s not lying to protect her. He’s doing it to save himself from embarrassment. He should be embarrassed. “No. It’s a hickey.”

“I can’t believe you threw me under the bus like that!” Emmett groans.

I grin.

“A hickey?” Cassie tries out the word. “What’s a hickey?”

“I’m not explaining that to her.” His eyes are locked on the street ahead.

“What’s a hickey, AJ?”

How do you explain these things to a girl who is almost sixteen but is still so innocent? I guess the same way you’d explain it to a ten-or eleven-year-old—with gentle honesty. “It means Holly kissed your brother’s neck too hard.”

“What?” Cassie’s face scrunches up as she processes this. “So Holly’s like a vampire?”