Page 138 of The Risk

“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

ILOVEJAKE’S APARTMENT.IT’S BIG, ROOMY, AND ALWAYSnice 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 withhim.

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, shewasJonah’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, youdidn’twin 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—IslandersandRangers. 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 bothin complete agreement that the Briar-Harvard game was unequivocally lopsided.

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