Page 116 of The Play

Hunter pours another one, and I pass the shot to Conor. He swallows it, then starts a game. I watch as his skateboarder performs a series of tricks on a concrete half-pipe.

“Hey, that’s in Jacksonville!” I exclaim as I study the familiar setting on the screen.

“Kona Skatepark,” Conor confirms. “You been there before?”

“A few times. My ex”—Lord, it’s still so weird saying that—“was friends with a lot of skaters. Have you ever been to Florida?” I ask him.

“Nah, I’m a West Coast boy.”

“California?”

Conor nods. “Huntington Beach.”

“Never been,” I admit.

“You should come visit me this summer. I’ll show you around.”

Hunter rolls his eyes. “Watch out, Semi. He’s making his move.”

“I’m not making any moves,” protests Conor. “I’m just sitting here like a good little boy, playing my game.” He presses a few buttons on his controller, then gives me a cocky smile. “Unless you want me to make a move?”

I think it over. “Maybe.”

Hunter makes a grouchy noise. “Demi. I think I’m gonna have to cut you off.”

“I’ve literally had one shot!”

“And it’s clearly clouded your judgment if you’re openly flirting with this dumbass.”

On the bed, Andrea overhears him and giggles. “Um. You can’tnotflirt with Conor Edwards. He just brings out that side in women.”

“What about me?” Matt complains, and I notice they’ve inchedso close to each other they’re practically cuddling. “What side do I bring out in you?”

She whispers something in his ear. Matt chuckles in response, and I lose interest.

Conor passes the controller to Hunter, who leans forward and rests his forearms on his thighs. His forehead creases in concentration as his player performs a series of kick flips. I don’t recognize this next course, and to be honest my patience threshold for watching video games has officially exceeded its limit.

Meanwhile, I don’t miss that Conor has moved closer to me. He smells good, like sandalwood and citrus soap. His hair’s slightly damp from the shower he must’ve taken after the game. He’s wearing a T-shirt and cargo shorts, and he’s barefoot.

A perpetually high body temperature must be a hockey player thing—Hunter stripped out of his hoodie almost the second we arrived at the party, leaving him in his trademark white wife-beater.

“So.” Conor sounds thoughtful. “We’ve established that you want me to make a move.”

“I said maybe,” I remind him. Coyly.

“’Kay… What’ll it take to turn the maybe into a hell yes?”

“I don’t know. Make me an offer and let’s see what happens.”

“Hmmm.” His long fingers travel up my sleeve and toy with a strand of my hair. “How ’bout the best sex of your life?”

Hunter snorts. His focus remains on the screen.

“What else you got?” I lightly rest my hand on Conor’s knee, and this time Hunter’s gaze flicks over.

“How about the best massage of your life?”

“Dude, you gotta stop using superlatives. Only sets you up for failure.” Hunter tosses the controller in Conor’s lap. “You’re up. I have to take a leak.” He staggers to his feet and ducks into the bathroom.

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