Page 162 of The Risk

“Who?”

“Brenna,” Hazel says. “She came all this way to return your bracelet, and she gave it to me instead of giving it to you herself, which tells me there’s trouble in paradise. And there’s no way you’re putting one skate on the ice until you fix whatever’s wrong.” She unlocks her password screen, her silver thumb rings clicking against the side of the case. “Is she on Facebook or Insta? You can DM her from my phone.”

“We don’t need social media. I have her number memorized.”

“Really? You memorized her number?” I nod.

“Wow. I don’t even have my own mother’s number memorized.”

I respond with an awkward shrug. “I wanted it to be in my brain in case I ever lost it.”

Hazel goes quiet. “What?” I say defensively.

“It’s just…” She looks oddly impressed. “You really are in love, huh?”

“Yeah. I am.”

41

BRENNA

SINCE IT’S SACRILEGE NOT TO MAKE USE OF A PERFECTLYgood pair of hockey tickets, Dad and I end up sticking around in Worcester. We’re in the standing-room-only section of the arena, which happens to be near one of the cameras that are set up on the perimeter of the rink to capture and televise the game. I spot a cameraman in a HockeyNet jacket and wonder who Mulder sent to cover the game. Kip and Trevor don’t report live, so Geoff Magnolia probably got the gig.

I know who Mulderdidn’tsend: Georgia Barnes. I mean, come on. Vaginas and sports? The horror.

A lanky man in a suit approaches the cameraman, and I curse softly under my breath. Not softly enough, because Dad glances up from the email he was answering on his phone.

“What is it?”

“Geoff Magnolia,” I grumble, nodding discreetly toward the cameras. “That’s who HockeyNet assigned to cover this.”

Like me, Dad also isn’t a fan of Magnolia’s reporting. He follows my gaze. “Huh. He got a haircut. Looks like shit.”

Laughter bubbles in my throat. “Dad. Since when are you so snarky?”

“What? It’s a shitty haircut.”

“Meow.”

“Can it, Brenna.”

I watch as Magnolia converses with his cameraman. He uses a lot of hand gestures. It’s distracting. Thankfully, he never does that on camera.

“You know what? Screw HockeyNet,” I say. “I’m applying at ESPN this fall. They have a way better track record of hiring women. And if I intern there, that means I don’t ever have to see Ed Mulder again. Or that tool over there.”

I glance at Magnolia again, and oh my God—he’s drinking coffee out of a straw. Or if not coffee, it’s at least a hot drink, because steam is rising from the liquid.

“Ugh. I take it back. He’s not a tool. Tools are actually useful. That man is not.”

“And I’m snarky?” my father demands. “Take a good look in the mirror, Peaches.”

“Can it, old man.”

He howls with laughter, and then returns to his emails.

As I crane my neck trying to pick out any familiar faces in the stands, my phone rings. I peer down, register the unfamiliar number on the screen, and hitignore.

Three seconds later, a text pops up.

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