Page 62 of The Charlie Method

“I don’t think so. But they like to share.”

My head swings toward her.

I’m sorry—what?

She must mistake my shock for confusion, because she offers a smile and an explanation, “They enjoy, ah, threesomes.”

“With who?” Blake demands.

“No clue. They’ve never named names.”

My insides begin twisting into tight, uneasy knots. My gaze returns to the ice, where Beckett is being reamed out. The coach gestures for him to get out, his face red and sweaty.

“Shit, he’s been ejected,” Gigi says.

Beckett marches toward a shadowy corridor without a backward look. My gaze shifts from his retreating back to the line of hunched-over players on the bench. Will is taking a seat beside Ryder. I stare at the back of his jersey.

It reads Larsen.

Lars.

How did I not put this together?

Or maybe thereisn’tanything to put together. Maybe it’s just a coincidence. Maybe—

Lars and B!my brain shouts at me. Larsen and Beckett.

The names line up. The abs line up.

Those tight, rippled abs…

A groan of distress rises in my throat. Is it possible that I’ve been chatting with two Briar hockey players?

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHARLOTTE

The heart of the Method

IT’S MIDNIGHT, ANDICAN’T SLEEP. NOT A WINK. NOT A SINGLE STUPIDsolitary wink. My mind is racing too hard. It’s been spinning like a top since I left the hockey arena earlier.

I can’t get the idea out of my head that I might be sexting with my lab partner and my annoying classmate who calls mesugar puff.

The moment I got home tonight, I reread our chats, searching for any clues that Lars and B are Will Larsen and Beckett Dunne. All it achieved was coming up empty-handed in the identity department and becoming extremely horny from the content of our chats.

Like the fantasy I confessed to Lars a few nights ago, when I revealed that while I’ve had sex inside a car, I’ve never done itona car.

My cheeks grow warm as I read the exchange.

LARS:

Is that it, baby? You want to lie back on the hood of the car, legs spread wide while we take turns fucking you?

My thighs clench as I envision the dirty picture he painted. Except now the fantasy morphs. Instead of the vague, nondescript Viking faces I’ve conjured in my mind, the guy stepping in the cradle of my thighs is my lab partner, Will.

He runs his hands over my thighs, and I realize that if it reallyisWill, then I already know what his hands look like. Long, capable fingers. Short, blunt nails. He scrapes those familiar palms over my thighs as he stands there with his hard cock jutting out, a pearly drop pooled at the tip.

A moan slips out, and I cast a self-conscious glance at my bedroom door. I hate living in a house where ten other girls on the floor can hear every sigh and whimper that wafts out of my room. I’d much rather live in the dorms with a roommate. At least then I’d only have to be embarrassed about one person hearing me get myself off.

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