Page 90 of The Risk

But I don’t want to, dammit. So I voice the sentiment. “I want to keep seeing you.”

“That’s great, Jake. But I just told you, I’m done.”

Frustration rises in my chest. “I don’t think you mean it.”

“How about you don’t tell me what I mean or don’t mean?”

Sighing, she walks over to the window ledge and picks up my boots. “It’s time for you to go.”

“Are you sure your father isn’t going to pop out of the shadows?” I ask warily.

“He won’t. He might be a jerk sometimes, but he won’t cause a scene in front of a stranger.”

A stranger. Once again I feel a prick of hurt, which is irritating. I’m Jake Connelly, for chrissake. My feelings don’t get hurt, and I only give a damn about one thing: hockey. I shouldn’t care what Brenna thinks of me.

We creep out of her bedroom. Light spills out from under a door at the end of the hall. I assume Coach Jensen’s room. Luckily, the door remains closed. On the way downstairs, my socked foot connects with a step that creaks so loudly it’s like the entire house is groaning in displeasure.I hear ya, house. I’m not too happy right now, either.

In the front hall, I slip into my Timberlands and lace them up. “You really don’t want to see each other anymore?” My voice is slightly hoarse, and not because I have to whisper.

“I…” She drags one hand through her tousled hair. “I can’t deal with this right now. Just go, Jake. Please.”

So I go.

22

JAKE

HAZEL COMES WITH ME TOGLOUCESTER ONSATURDAYmorning to visit my folks. On the train ride up, she does most of the talking. I try hard to pay attention, because we haven’t hung out in a while, but my mind is elsewhere. It’s back in Hastings, at Brenna’s house, replaying that entire night.

I don’t understand the weird tension between Brenna and her father. She admitted to being a bad girl, but I can’t help but wonder—what on earth did she do to earn his complete distrust? Did she murder the family pet?

She’s been ignoring me for three days, and my ego has officially taken a dive. Four unanswered messages? This has never happened to me before. Meanwhile, we have one week until the conference finals, and my head is all over the place. I’m not worried about the exhibition tonight and tomorrow for the Boston Cancer Society, because it’s not about a win or a loss; it’s about helping a good cause. But I definitely need to get my shit together before next week.

“Oh, and you know who’s getting married,” Hazel is saying.

“Hmmm?”

“Are you even paying attention to me?” she demands.

I drag the back of my hand over my face. I had such a shit sleep last night. “Yeah,” I say absently. “You said you’re getting married—wait, what? You’re getting married?”

“No, not me. I’m not getting married, you dumbass.” She rolls her eyes and shoves a strand of dirty-blonde hair behind her ear.

Her hair is down, I suddenly realize. She usually braids it or has it in a ponytail. “Your hair’s down,” I blurt out.

A faint blush reddens her cheeks. “Yep. It’s been down for the last forty minutes.”

“Sorry.”

“What’s going on with you? Why are you such a space cadet today?”

“I’m thinking about the game this weekend.” Her skeptical expression tells me she doesn’t buy that, so I don’t give her the chance to follow up. “So who’s getting married?”

“Tina Carlen. She was a year behind us in school.”

“Petey’s sister?”

“Yep.”

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