Instead, I put him in the hot seat for something else.

“You weren’t supposed to be skiing.”

He blows out a quick breath. “No, we weren’t.”

“So why did you?”

“Because we’re idiots.”

I smile, then get mad at myself for smiling at something he said.

“Coach would freak if he found out. The other guys too, if I’m being honest. It was a real dick move on our parts,” he says roughly. “So let’s keep the ski trip between us, okay?”

Um…

I give him a sheepish look. “Too late.”

“What do you mean?” His tone has sharpened.

“I accidentally became best friends with your coach’s daughter earlier today. And I accidentally told her you guys went skiing.”

He gapes at me. “Fucking hell, Summer.”

I’m quick to defend myself. “Hey, Hollis didn’t say it was a secret when we spoke on the phone.”

Fitz shakes his head a few times. “How do you accidentally become friends with someone?” he sputters. “And why would our ski trip even be a topic of discussion? Did Brenna say if she was going to tell Coach?”

“She promised she wouldn’t.”

He curses under his breath. “That’s no guarantee. Brenna’s dangerous when she loses her temper. Never know what’ll come out of her mouth.”

“She won’t tell,” I assure him. “Like I said, we’re best friends now.”

His lips twitch as if he’s trying not to laugh.

“I’m going to your Harvard game with her tomorrow,” I add.

“Yeah?”

“Uh-huh.” I finish my yogurt and walk to the sink to wash the bowl. “She’s cool. We got along really well.”

I hear him sigh. Loudly.

I glance over my shoulder. “What was that for?”

“It’s in anticipation of all the trouble I envision you and Brenna getting into. I predict you two are gonna be terrible influences on each other.”

I can’t help but laugh. “That is a possibility.”

He sighs again. “An eventuality. I can already see it.”

Grinning, I turn off the faucet and set the clean bowl in the drying rack. My heart somersaults when Fitzy’s footsteps come up behind me.

“‘Scuse me, just grabbing a glass,” he murmurs. One long arm stretches out toward the cupboard, inches from my cheek.

His scent tickles my nostrils. Woodsy with a hint of citrus. He smells so good.

I wipe my hands on a dishtowel and turn to face him. His breath hitches slightly, dark eyes flicking toward my chest before hastily dropping to the glass in his hand.

Oh right. My T-shirt is see-through. And my nipples are hard little buds thanks to the cold water my hands were submerged in a minute ago. Well, that’s why they were hard. Now they’re poking through my shirt for another reason.

A reason named Colin Fitzgerald, whose bare chest is so close I can touch it. Or lick it.

I think I might be in trouble. I’m still attracted to him. Too attracted to him. I’m not allowed to lust over someone who harbors such negative thoughts about me.

I breathe through my mouth to avoid his masculine scent, and dart away from the counter. My gaze seeks out a distraction, something to focus on that isn’t Fitz’s big, muscly, amazing chest. It lands on the fat paperback novel sitting next to the drawing pencils he left on the table.

“Oh!” My voice sounds overly loud. I quickly lower it before I wake Hunter and Hollis. “I love this series.” I pick up the book and flip it over to skim the blurb. “Are you just starting to read it or doing a reread?”

When Fitz doesn’t answer, I look over and glimpse the skepticism flickering through his expression. When he speaks, his voice is laced with the same doubt. “You’ve read the Shifting Winds books?”

“The first three. I haven’t gotten around to number four yet.” I hold up the paperback, which is well over a thousand pages. “I heard it’s even longer than these ones.”

“Blood of the Dragon? Yeah, it’s double the length,” he says absently. Still eyeing me uncertainly. “I can’t believe you read this series.”

A frown forms on my lips. “Why’s that?”

“It’s just really dense, and…” He trails off awkwardly.

It takes a second for the implication to sink in.

It’s not that he can’t believe I’ve read these books.

It’s that he doesn’t believe I’ve read these books.

Indignation rises in my chest and sticks to my throat, forming a hot lump. Well, why would he, right? In his eyes, I’m surface level. The dumb sorority girl couldn’t possibly comprehend such lengthy, dense material! Hell, he probably thinks I’m illiterate too.

A growl rips out of my mouth. “I know how to fucking read.”

He startles. “What? I didn’t say—”

“And just because I don’t have dragons and fairies and elves tattooed all over my body, doesn’t mean I’m not allowed to read fantasy books—”

“Allowed? I didn’t say—”

“—however dense they may be,” I finish with a scowl. “But it’s good to know your thoughts on the matter.” With a tight smile, I drop the book on the table. Thud. “Goodnight, Fitz. Try not to stay up too late.”

“Summer—”

I’m out of the kitchen before he can say another word.

9

Fitz

Pregame skates aren’t usually grueling, but this morning Coach wants to run a few shooting drills he anticipates will help us tonight. Harvard has been unstoppable this year. They’re well on their way to a perfect season, and although I’d never say it out loud, I think they might be the better team in this matchup.

Coach must secretly think so too, because he pushes us harder than usual. I’m a sweaty mess by the time I lumber off the ice. My hair is plastered to my forehead, and I swear there’s cartoon steam rolling out of my helmet.

Coach smacks me on the shoulder. “Good hustle, Colin.”

“Thanks, Coach.”

“Davenport,” he says to Hunter. “Show me that same ruthlessness tonight, son. Shoot through Johansson, not around him. Feel me?”

“Got it, Coach.”

We have thirty minutes to shower and change before a mandatory meeting in the screening room to review game tape. This will be our first of two games against Harvard this season, and we want to send a message. It’s an away game, to boot, so it’ll be extra tough—but extra sweeter if we can get a W in their arena.

In the locker room, I strip off my sweaty practice gear and duck into the shower area. The stalls are divided by partitions and have saloon-style doors that mean we can’t see each other’s junk, but chests are fair game. Stepping into the stall next to Hollis, I crank the cold water and dunk my head. I swear I’m still sweating even under the cool spray.

“Are we really not gonna acknowledge the fact that Mike shaved his chest?” Dave Kelvin, a junior defenseman, demands.

Laughter bounces off the acoustic tiles. I glance at Hollis and lift a questioning brow. I’ve showered, worked out, and gone swimming with the guy enough times to know that he usually has hair on his chest. Now it’s smoother than a baby’s bottom.