Page 120 of The Deal

As Hannah heads for the counter, I admire her ass for so long it gets me three loud snickers from my companions. And don’t get me started on how weird it is to be sharing a booth with my best friend and Hannah’s best friends.

I was certain that Hannah’s artsy friends would be all condescending and frigid around me—especially after she told me what they think about Briar’s jock crowd—but I think my natural charm has won them over. Allie and Dex already treat me like we’ve been buds for years. Stella, who discovered her passion for hockey during the Harvard game, now texts me every other day to ask hockey questions. And while that dude Jeremy is still a bit snarky whenever I see him, his girlfriend Megan is pretty cool, so I’m willing to give him a few more chances to not be a dick.

“She’s pissed,” Logan remarks as he watches Hannah chatting with the cook behind the pick-up counter.

“She should be,” replies Dex. “Seriously, what kind of selfish douchecanoe dumps his duet partner right before a show?”

Logan snickers. “Douchecanoe? I’m totally stealing that phrase.”

“She’ll be fine,” Allie says confidently. “Hannah’s originals are awesome. She doesn’t need Cass.”

“No one needs Cass,” Dex agrees. “He’s like the human being equivalent of syphilis.”

As everyone laughs, I tune them out and focus my attention on Hannah. I can’t help but remember the first time I came to Della’s, with the sole purpose of persuading Hannah to tutor me. It was only a little more than a month ago, yet I feel like I’ve known her forever.

I don’t know what I was thinking taking that whole anti-girlfriend position. Because having a girlfriend? Fucking rocks. Seriously. I get to have sex whenever I want without having to work for it. I have someone to vent to after a shitty day or a devastating loss on the ice. I can make the worst jokes on the planet and chances are Hannah will laugh at them.

Oh, and I love being with her, plain and simple.

Hannah returns to our booth carrying our drink orders. Or rather, Allie and Dex’s drink orders. Logan and I asked for sodas, but what we get is water.

“Where’s my Dr. Pepper, Wellsy?” Logan whines.

She levels him with a stern look. “Do you know how much sugar is in a soft drink?”

“A perfectly acceptable amount and therefore I should drink it?” supplies Logan.

“Wrong. The answer is too damn much. You’re playing Michigan in an hour—you can’t get all hopped up on sugar before a game. You’ll get a five-minute energy boost and then crash halfway through the first period.”

Logan sighs. “G, why is your girl our nutritionist now?”

I pick up my water glass and take a sip of defeat. “Do you want to argue with her?”

Logan looks at Hannah, whose expression clearly conveys: you’ll get a soda over my dead body. Then he looks back at me. “No,” he says glumly.

34

HANNAH

My phone meows just after midnight, but I’m not asleep. In fact, I’m not even in my PJ’s yet. The second I came home after work, I grabbed my guitar and got right back to work again. Now that Cass has thrown a selfish, vindictive wrench into my life, things like “sleep” and “relaxing” and “not panicking” don’t exist anymore. For the next month, I’m pretty much going to be a walking basket case, unless I magically find a way to juggle school, work, Garrett, and singing without having a nervous breakdown.

I put down the acoustic and check the screen. It’s Garrett.

Him: Can’t sleep. You up?

Me: Is this a booty call?

Him: No. Do you want it to be?

Me: No. I’m rehearsing. Totally stressed.

Him: All the more reason for this to be a booty call.

Me: Keep it in your pants, dude. Why can’t you sleep?

Him: Whole body hurts.

Sympathy flutters through my belly. Garrett had called earlier to say they’d lost the game, and apparently he’d taken some brutal hits tonight. Last time we talked, he was still icing his entire torso.

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