Page 39 of The Chase

“What name is on your jersey?”

He grins. “Ah gotcha. Number 61. McCarthy.”

She narrows her eyes. “You scored the tying goal in the third.”

McCarthy beams. “That was me.”

“Sweet wrist shot.”

My eyebrows soar. Wow. Is she actually complimenting him? I guess I’m not the only one who likes his smile—

“What’s the matter, your slap shot doesn’t have enough power behind it?”

Or not.

“Ouch,” he says with a mock-pout.

I should’ve known better than to believe she’d give a genuine compliment to a Harvard player. Still, I can tell she’s warming up to the party. Her hips, ever so slightly, begin moving to the dance beat blasting from the living room, and she seems more relaxed now as she sips her drink.

I’m about to take the glass McCarthy’s holding out to me when my phone buzzes in my purse. And keeps buzzing. I fish it out, realizing it’s a call. The display tells me it’s Hunter.

“Keep the bubbly on ice for me. I need to take this call.” I fix each guy with a stern look, holding two fingers up tomy eyes as I drift toward the doorway. “Don’t do anything stupid,” I warn them.

“She’s in good hands,” McCarthy promises. “I’m a total gentleman.”

“He’s a virgin,” one of his teammates says.

McCarthy nods solemnly. “I am.”

Brenna narrows her eyes. “Are you actually?”

“Fuck no.” He smiles again, and oh man, he has dimples. This guy is frigging adorable.

When I’m across the kitchen in a quieter spot, I answer the call. “Hey, what’s up?”

“Where you at, Blondie?” Hunter demands. “Figured you’d be home by now.”

“I ran into an old friend after the game and he invited us to a party.”

In the living room, someone raises the volume of the drum and bass track that just came on, and I swear the walls start expanding and contracting like a beating heart. The music drowns out Hunter’s response.

“Sorry, what? I can’t hear you.”

Suspicion fills the line. “Where exactly are you?”

“Cambridge. I told you, I ran into a friend from high school. Oh hey, you probably know him too. Brooks Weston?”

The silence that follows is thick with accusation.

“Hunter?”

“Are you kidding me right now? You’re at a Harvard party?”

“Yes, and before you start lecturing me about fraternizing with the enemy, don’t bother. I already got the speech from Brenna.”

“This is unacceptable,” he growls. “You can’t party with the assholes who beat us tonight.”

“Why not?”

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