Page 30 of The Chase

“It’s just really dense, and…” He trails off awkwardly.

It takes a second for the implication to sink in.

It’s not that he can’t believe I’ve read these books.

It’s that hedoesn’t believeI’ve read these books.

Indignation rises in my chest and sticks to my throat, forming a hot lump. Well, why would he, right? In his eyes, I’msurface level. The dumb sorority girl couldn’t possibly comprehend such lengthy, dense material! Hell, he probably thinks I’m illiterate too.

A growl rips out of my mouth. “I know how to fucking read.”

He startles. “What? I didn’t say—”

“And just because I don’t have dragons and fairies and elves tattooed all over my body, doesn’t mean I’m not allowed to read fantasy books—”

“Allowed? I didn’t say—”

“—howeverdensethey may be,” I finish with a scowl. “But it’s good to know your thoughts on the matter.” With a tight smile, I drop the book on the table.Thud. “Goodnight, Fitz. Try not to stay up too late.”

“Summer—”

I’m out of the kitchen before he can say another word.

9

FITZ

PREGAME SKATES AREN’T USUALLY GRUELING, BUT THISmorning Coach wants to run a few shooting drills he anticipates will help us tonight. Harvard has been unstoppable this year. They’re well on their way to a perfect season, and although I’d never say it out loud, I think they might be the better team in this matchup.

Coach must secretly think so too, because he pushes us harder than usual. I’m a sweaty mess by the time I lumber off the ice. My hair is plastered to my forehead, and I swear there’s cartoon steam rolling out of my helmet.

Coach smacks me on the shoulder. “Good hustle, Colin.”

“Thanks, Coach.”

“Davenport,” he says to Hunter. “Show me that same ruthlessness tonight, son. ShootthroughJohansson, not around him. Feel me?”

“Got it, Coach.”

We have thirty minutes to shower and change before a mandatory meeting in the screening room to review game tape. This will be our first of two games against Harvard this season, and we want to send a message. It’s an away game, toboot, so it’ll be extra tough—but extra sweeter if we can get a W in their arena.

In the locker room, I strip off my sweaty practice gear and duck into the shower area. The stalls are divided by partitions and have saloon-style doors that mean we can’t see each other’s junk, but chests are fair game. Stepping into the stall next to Hollis, I crank the cold water and dunk my head. I swear I’m still sweating even under the cool spray.

“Are we really not gonna acknowledge the fact that Mike shaved his chest?” Dave Kelvin, a junior defenseman, demands.

Laughter bounces off the acoustic tiles. I glance at Hollis and lift a questioning brow. I’ve showered, worked out, and gone swimming with the guy enough times to know that he usually has hair on his chest. Now it’s smoother than a baby’s bottom.

Nate Rhodes, our team captain this year, grins. “Home job or salon?”

Hollis rolls his eyes at the tall senior. “Home. Why would I pay someone to do something I can do myself? That’s stupid.” He twists around so he can wave at Kelvin. “And you? Get off your ivory horse, dude—”

“Ivory tower,” I say helpfully.

“Whatever. We all know you wax your chestandyour back, Kelvin. Hypocritical fucktard.”

I snort and rub soap over my chest. My body temperature is finally dropping.

“I don’t wax my back!” Kelvin protests.

---