I am definitely falling for this girl.

As she rides me, a flush rises on the tops of her breasts. “These are so pretty,” I mutter, squeezing them gently.

She leans forward. “Put your mouth on them.”

So I do, nuzzling the swell of one soft tit before capturing a nipple between my lips. Her pussy clenches around me, and she starts moving faster.

“Getting close?”

She nods wordlessly. Her breathing quickens. She’s no longer riding me so much as grinding furiously against me. I have to grip her hips to steady her, because she’s trembling so wildly.

“That’s a good girl. Give it to me.”

She comes apart, collapsing on my chest and struggling for breath. And as she’s climaxing I dig my fingers into her waist and thrust upward, pounding into her until I come too.

Within seconds of our respective orgasms, Brenna lifts her hips, grips the base of the condom so nothing spills out, and pulls me out of her. Then she turns on her side, snuggling up beside me. I hold her close to me and we fall asleep like that.

33

Brenna

I love Jake’s apartment. It’s big, roomy, and always nice and toasty, not frostbite cold like my basement in Hastings. I know I can’t stay forever, but for now I’m enjoying being here. Being with him.

It sucks that some of my friends still aren’t speaking to me, but to be honest, I’m starting not to care. Jonah Hemley didn’t purposely set out to break Hunter’s wrist. I do believe it was an accident. And yes, it wasn’t Hunter’s fault—he had no idea that he’d slept with Jonah’s girlfriend. Violet, or whatever her name is, was the one pretending to be single while cheating on her boyfriend. But at the same time, she was Jonah’s girlfriend, and the kid was upset. Sure, he handled the situation poorly, but not maliciously.

Speaking of upset, my friends are undoubtedly feeling the sting tonight. The Division I Men’s Ice Hockey Committee made its selections—and Briar won’t be one of the sixteen teams playing in the national tournament. Harvard has their auto-bid because they won the conference tournament. And from our conference, Princeton and Cornell received at-large bids from the committee over Briar.

Right now, the talking heads on TV are picking apart the conference finals. I’d been scrolling through my phone while Jake watched the segment, but my head jerks up when Kip Haskins mentions a familiar name.

“Are they talking about Nate? Turn it up.”

Jake hits a button on the remote control. The volume gets louder.

“Briar University should’ve won that game,” Kip is telling his cohost.

I turn to Jake with a huge grin. “Hear that, Jakey? Even the talking heads agree.”

“Uh-huh, well, you didn’t win the game, now did you?”

“Hush, baby, I’m trying to watch.”

He snorts.

On the screen, Kip is raising very good points. “Their two best players were ejected. How in good conscience can you call that a fair matchup? That’s like the ’83-’84 season Oilers playing in the Stanley Cup finals without Wayne Gretzky and Paul Coffey.”

“Oh fuck off,” Jake scoffs. “There’s no way he’s comparing Hunter Davenport and Nate Rhodes to Gretzky and Coffey!”

“They are really good,” I point out.

Jake is agape. “Gretzky-level good?”

“Well, no,” I relent. “But nobody is.”

“I am,” he says smugly.

I roll my eyes, because I don’t want to encourage his grandiose delusions, but deep down I suspect he might be right. Aside from Garrett Graham, there haven’t been many players out of college lately with Gretzky potential. Jake is definitely an anomaly.

“Playing with the big boys is a lot different than college,” I warn him.

“Oh really, played on a lot of NHL teams, have ya?”

“Absolutely. I did a few seasons with New York—Islanders and Rangers. Two seasons with the Maple Leafs—”

“Oh shut up.” He pulls me into his lap and starts kissing my neck.

“I’m not done watching,” I protest. The announcers are still arguing, but now it’s even more hilarious, because Trevor Trent is basically saying the same thing as Kip Haskins. They’re now both in complete agreement that the Briar-Harvard game was unequivocally lopsided.

“See!” I say victoriously. “Even they know the truth! You can’t say you won that game.”

“Of course I can say we won the game.” He’s exasperated. “Because we won the game! Hello? Auto-bid?”

“Yes, but… Okay, I’m not going to argue about this,” I grumble. “Just know that if Hunter and Nate were skating that night, the outcome could’ve been a lot different.”

“That is true,” Jake agrees.

“I heard it was about a girl,” Trevor is saying, and the two HockeyNet hosts chuckle at each other, until Kip dons a thoughtful look.

“But that raises a good question,” Kip muses. “If you’re so immature that you’re swinging your fists over a girl during the most crucial game of your season—do you not deserve to get ejected?”

“Hunter didn’t get ejected!” I yell at the screen.

Trevor backs me up. “Davenport wasn’t ejected. He was injured. The instigator was Jonah Hemley.”

“And what’s Rhodes’s excuse?” Kip shoots back. “He’s the team captain. What’s he doing throwing himself in the middle of a brawl?”

“Damn right!” Jake chimes in. “Rhodes made his own bed.”

“You know these hockey players—they’re hot-blooded,” Trevor counters. “They operate on aggression and passion.”

Jake hoots. “You hear that, Hottie? I’m aggressive and passionate.”

“I am so turned on right now.”

“Good. Get on your knees and suck me off. See how aggressive and passionate I am?”

I punch him in the arm. “That is so unappealing to me.”

“Fine, then spread your legs so I could eat you out.”

“I’ll think about that one.”

He grins at me. “Keep me posted.”

The lighthearted mood dies when the hosts bring up the topic of my father. “Jensen had a great season,” Trevor says. “Shame they didn’t get a berth, but hopefully next year will garner a different result. I really do believe he’s the best coach in D1 hockey right now.”

Sadness coats my throat. I wonder if I should text my dad. He must be so disappointed that Briar’s season ended this way.

“I should text my dad,” I say out loud. “You know, offer my condolences.”

Jake’s tone goes soft. “I’m sure he’d appreciate that.”

Would he? I have no idea, but I still send him a short message saying they played a good season and next year will be even better. He doesn’t immediately respond, but he’s not much of a texter. I simply hope he reads it and knows I’m thinking about him.

To my horror, actual tears well up.

“Are you…” Jake doesn’t miss my watery eyes. “Are you crying?” he asks with a note of concern.

“No.” I rub the side of my finger underneath my eye. “Sending that message made me a bit sad. I hate it when he’s mad at me. I mean, he doesn’t show much emotion around me anymore, but when he does, it’s usually more disapproval than anger.”

“Do you realize how messed up that sounds? You hate the anger, but you’re totally cool with the disapproval?” Jake asks incredulously.

“Well, no. I’m not cool with it. I’m used to it, is all.” I let out a sigh. “And I guess I understand it. I told you, I haven’t exactly been the perfect daughter.”

“Why? Because you ran wild in high school? What teenager doesn’t?”

“I did more than run wild. I…” A lump rises in my throat, and it’s difficult to talk through it. “Honestly, I think he’s ashamed of me.”

Jake looks alarmed. “What did you do, babe? Murder a teacher?”

“No.” I manage a weak smile.

“Then what?”

Hesitation lodges in my chest. I haven’t talked about this with anyone, save for the shrink my father made me see senior year. He’d consulted with the team therapist at Briar, who told him that after what I’d been through, it could be useful for me to talk about it with someone who wasn’t him. So I saw a therapist for a few months, and while she helped me come to terms with some of it, she couldn’t quite tell me how to fix my relationship with my father. And it’s only gotten worse in the ensuing years.

I study Jake’s patient expression, his supportive body language. Can I trust him? This story is embarrassing, but it wouldn’t be the end of the world if people found out. I just don’t like the idea of being judged by someone whose opinion actually matters to me.

But Jake hasn’t judged me, not even once, since we met. He doesn’t care that I’m a bitch. He doesn’t care that I taunt him—he enjoys taunting me right back. He’s been fairly open about his own life, but then again, it’s easy to be open when you don’t have skeletons in your closet.