Page 64 of The Risk

“Nope.” Dad takes a long sip of his coffee, watching me over the rim. “Are you saying you do?”

I think it over. “Yes and no. I mean, there’s dirty gameplay, and then there’s rough gameplay. A lot of coaches encourage their players to play rough,” I point out.

“Doesn’t make it right. It promotes violence.”

I have to laugh. “Hockey is one of the most violent sports there is! We’ve got guys skating around on ice with sharp blades on their feet, holding big sticks. They get slammed into the boards, they’re hit over and over again, they take pucks to the face…”

“Exactly. The sport is already violent enough,” Dad agrees. “So why make it even more so? Play clean and play honorably.” His jaw tightens. “Daryl Pedersen doesn’t know the meaning of clean or honor.”

He makes a valid point. And I suppose I can’t ascertain one way or the other about Pedersen’s level of dirtiness. I’ve only seen a couple of Harvard games this season, which makes it difficult to accurately gauge how dirty those boys play.

I know how dirty Jake kisses. Does that count?

“What do you have planned for today?” Dad asks, changing the subject.

“I need to finish up an article for my News Writing class, but I’ll probably do that later. I’m heading over to Summer’s house now.”

“On Saturday morning?”

“Yeah, she wants me to help her clean out her closet.”

“I don’t understand women,” Dad says.

“We are pretty fucking weird. I’ll give you that.”

“I’ve heard things about that girl Summer,” he adds, his trademark frown marring his face.

I frown back. “She’s a good friend of mine.”

“Her brother said she was crazy.”

“Well, yeah. I can’t deny that. She’s strange and melodramatic and hilarious. But you shouldn’t believe everything Dean says, anyway.”

“He said she burned down her school.”

I grin at him. “Considering Brown University is still standing, I think we can assume Dean exaggerated.” I slide off the stool. “I need to get dressed. I’ll see you later.”

An hour later, I’m lying on Summer’s bed scrolling through my phone. Needless to say, watching her try on every outfit in her closet and then model it for me got real old, real fast.

“Bee!” she complains. “Pay attention.”

I put the phone down and move into a sitting position. “No,” I announce. “Because this is insanity. You just tried on four different cashmere sweaters in the same shade of white. They were identical. And they all looked brand new!”

She starts to give me a whole speech about Prada versus Gucci versus Chanel until I hold up my hand to stop her, because I swear to God if she goes on about Chanel, I’m going to lose it. She’s obsessed with that fashion house and, unchecked, could talk about it for hours.

“I get it, they’re designer sweaters. But the whole point of spring cleaning is to get rid of stuff—and you haven’t thrown out a single thing.” I jab my finger at the meager pile of clothing at the foot of the bed. It’s the donation pile, and it consists of two T-shirts, a pair of jeans, and one cardigan.

“I have a hard time letting go of things,” she huffs, whipping her blonde hair over her shoulder.

“Don’t you have a walk-in closet at your place in Greenwich? And another one in Manhattan?”

“Yes. So?”

“So nobody needs that many closets, Summer! I get by with a handful of outfits that I rotate.”

“You only wear black,” she retorts. “Of course it’s easy to throw an outfit together when all you wear is black. You don’t give a shit about fashion—you put on a black shirt and black pants and black boots and red lipstick and you’re done. Well, black isn’t my color. It makes me look too BDSM. I need color, Brenna! My life is colorful. I’m a colorful person—”

“You’re a crazy person,” I counter.

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