“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.

“I get it, they’re designer sweaters. But the whole point of spring cleaning is to get rid of stuff—and you haven’t thrown out a single thing.” I jab my finger at the meager pile of clothing at the foot of the bed. It’s the donation pile, and it consists of two T-shirts, a pair of jeans, and one cardigan.

“I have a hard time letting go of things,” she huffs, whipping her blonde hair over her shoulder.

“Don’t you have a walk-in closet at your place in Greenwich? And another one in Manhattan?”

“Yes. So?”

“So nobody needs that many closets, Summer! I get by with a handful of outfits that I rotate.”

“You only wear black,” she retorts. “Of course it’s easy to throw an outfit together when all you wear is black. You don’t give a shit about fashion—you put on a black shirt and black pants and black boots and red lipstick and you’re done. Well, black isn’t my color. It makes me look too BDSM. I need color, Brenna! My life is colorful. I’m a colorful person—”

“You’re a crazy person,” I counter.

“I am not crazy.”

“Yes, you are,” her boyfriend confirms as he waltzes into the room. Fitz’s full-sleeve tattoos ripple as he wraps his arms around Summer from behind, bending his head to plant a sweet kiss on her cheek.

“I hate you two,” I grumble. “You’re so disgustingly happy. Go be happy somewhere else.”

“Sorry, Bee, but we’re not going to hide our love from the world,” Summer says, and begins peppering kisses all over Fitz’s cheek, making loud smooch noises that make me want to vomit.

Well, not quite, but I pretend to gag because she is being ridiculous.

“What are you guys up to?” Fitz glances at me. “I didn’t even realize you were here.”

“You were sleeping when Bee got here,” Summer says. “We’re cleaning out my closet. I’m donating a bunch of stuff.”

He looks at the full closet and then the tiny pile on the bed. “Cool. Did you just get started?”

I snort. “We’ve been at it for more than an hour! In one hour she’s decided to give away a T-shirt.”

“It’s more than a T-shirt,” Summer protests.

Our voices lure Hollis in from the hall. He wanders into Summer’s room and flops down near the foot of her bed. He’s in sweatpants, a wife-beater, and when his bare feet knock over the meager donation pile, he doesn’t even notice.

“Sweet. Are you trying on clothes for us? When do we get to lingerie? Fitz, tell your girlfriend I require a lingerie fashion show as a reward for the emotional distress she’s caused me.”

“What are you babbling about now?” I ask him.

I’m at the head of the bed, so he has to crane his neck to meet my eyes. “Summer told me what you assholes did to me.”

I give him a blank look.

“My stalker?” he prompts. “I know you encouraged it.”

“She’s not stalking you,” Summer argues.

“Are you serious?” Hollis gapes at her. “She’s called me every single day since we went out for dinner.”

“You went out on Thursday,” Summer reminds him. “That was literally two days ago. Which means she’s called you twice. Chill the eff out.”

“Twice? I fucking wish! She calls at least three times a day.”

“Yeah, and you pick up every time,” Summer shoots back, “and talk to her for an hour, sometimes more.”

“I talk?” He rakes both hands through his hair. “She talks! That chick doesn’t shut up.”

“I assume we’re talking about Rupi?” I hedge, fighting laughter.

“Of course we’re talking about Rupi!” he roars. “She’s an insane person, you realize that, right? Are you sure she didn’t escape from a mental institution in Bali?”

“Bali?” I echo.

“She said that’s where her mom is from. She’s some movie star in Bali.”

“A Bollywood star.” Summer giggles. “That means India, not Bali.”

“Oh.” He thinks it over, then shakes his head. “Nope, that doesn’t make it better. She’s still nuts.”

“How did the dinner go?” I ask him.

He twists around to glare at me.

I blink politely. “Not well?”

His face is cloudy. “She talked the entire time, and she wouldn’t even let me kiss her good night.”