Page 23 of Our Hearts to Break

Slinging my backpack over my shoulder, I dodge a group of loud students and sigh. “Technically, I need you to help one of my teammates. So, will you?”

“Who?” Dad growls. “River?”

“No, Jimmy Waters,” I say, covering my mouth as I speak, paranoid someone will overhear.

“Why? What did you do?”

“Does it matter?”

“Yes,” he shouts.

With a few minutes to spare, I sit on the bench outside the lecture hall and take a sip of my latte.

“He has a sex tape of us,” I lie, hoping that will do the trick.

A beat passes before he says, “Not this shit again. What does Jimmy Waters want from you?”

“A passing grade in Financial Accounting. He’s failing the class and will lose his scholarship and spot on the team.”

“One more fuck up like this, and I’ll pull you from that school,” he drawls. “I will personally come to Connecticut, gag and hogtie you, and drag your ass back to the ranch.”

So fucking dramatic.

I hold back a laugh because I’d love to see him try. We’re the same height, but I have an extra fifty pounds of muscle. One hit and I would have him on the floor crying.

“Can you make this happen or what?”

“Yes,” he bites out. “But if I do this, you’ll spend the summer at home.”

“What?” I protest. “Fuck, no. I’m going with River to The Hamptons.”

My father laughs. “River won’t be home to get drunk and make sex tapes with you. He’ll be preparing for his next NHL season.”

“Next? He hasn’t signed with anyone yet.”

“River’s meeting with NHL teams over the Thanksgiving break,” he says as if it’s a fact. “Ryan told me the last time we spoke. He’s very proud of River. Wish I could say the same about you.”

I grip the coffee cup so tightly the lid pops off, falling onto the bench. If I don’t shut my mouth and agree to his terms, Waters will ruin River’s career. He can’t be a gay hockey player. Not with all the bigoted assholes out there.

“Fine,” I agree, even though it’s a lie. “I’ll come home this summer if you fix Waters’ grade.”

“I’ll get it changed by the day’s end,” he says, his tone smug and victorious. “And no more fuck-ups, boy, or I will disown you.”

I groan. “I’ll be on my best behavior.”

“I know the author’s identity,” Dad says in a nasty tone. “Does the name Sofia Daly ring any bells?”

“Not even the slightest.”

“The lawyers don’t have an NDA for this girl. I have my PI looking into her. I just sent you an image.”

My phone beeps with a new text message. When I open it, I gasp. Her New York driver’s license image shows the same heart-shaped face, button nose, and long, blonde hair that mirrors Samantha’s.

Except it’s Sofia Daly.

“That lying bitch,” I hiss, teeth gritted. “Yes, I know her. She said her name is Samantha Donovan. She signed an NDA this summer.”

Thank god I deleted those videos from her cell phone. But she knows my other secret, and now everything I thought was covered under the non-disclosure agreement is void.

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