Devon and I had the kind of chemistry that could set a room on fire. I was with him for eight months, insanely attracted to the guy, but no matter how hard I tried, I wasn’t able to get past my…fine, I’ll call a spade a spade. My sexual dysfunction.

I couldn’t have an orgasm with him.

It’s so fucking mortifying even thinking about it. And even more humiliating when I remember how frustrating it was for Devon. He tried to please me. God, he tried. And it’s not like I can’t have orgasms on my own—because I can. Easily. But I just couldn’t make it happen with Devon, and eventually he grew tired of working so hard and not seeing any results.

So he dumped me.

I don’t blame him. Must be a major hit on your manhood when your girlfriend doesn’t enjoy your sex life.

“Hey, you’re white as a sheet.” Allie’s concerned voice jerks me back to the present. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” I assure her. “Sorry, I spaced out.”

Her blue eyes soften. “You’re really upset about not seeing your parents for Thanksgiving, huh?”

I eagerly take the exit she gives me, nodding in agreement. “Like you said, it sucks.” I manage a shrug. “But I’ll see them at Christmas. That’s something, at least.”

“It’s everything,” she says firmly. “Now brush your teeth and make yourself beautiful, babe. I’ll have coffee waiting for you when you come back.”

“Aw gee, you’re the best wifey ever.”

She grins. “Just for that, I’m spitting in your coffee.”

11

Garrett

Hannah shows up around five in a thick parka with a fur hood and bright red mittens. The last I checked, there wasn’t a speck of snow on the ground, but now I’m wondering if I somehow slept through a blizzard when I was taking my catnap.

“Did you just fly in from Alaska?” I ask as she unzips the puffy parka.

“No.” She sighs. “I’m wearing my winter coat because I couldn’t find my other one. I thought I might have left it here.” She glances around my bedroom. “I guess not, though. Ugh. I hope I didn’t leave it in the music room. I just know one of those freshman girls is going to steal it. And I love that coat.”

I snicker. “What’s your excuse for the mittens?”

“My hands were cold.” She cocks her head. “What’s your excuse for the ice pack?”

I realize I’m still holding an ice pack to my side, right where Greg Braxton’s behemoth body had slammed into me. I’m bruised to shit, and Hannah gasps when I lift the bottom of my shirt to show her the fist-sized purple bruise on my skin.

“Oh my God! Did that happen at your game?”

“Yup.” I slide off the bed and head for my desk to grab my Ethics books. “St. Anthony’s has the Incredible Hulk on their team. He loves to wail on us.”

“I can’t believe you willingly put your body through this,” she marvels. “It can’t be worth it, can it?”

“It is. Trust me, a few scrapes and bruises are nothing compared to the thrill of being on the ice.” I glance over at her. “Do you skate?”

“Not really. I mean, I have skated. But I usually just go around in circles on the rink. I’ve never had to hold a stick or chase a puck around.”

“Is that what you think hockey is?” I ask with a grin. “Holding a stick and chasing a puck?”

“Of course not. I know there’s a lot of skill involved, and it’s definitely intense to watch,” she admits.

“It’s intense to play.”

She perches on the edge of my bed, tilting her head curiously. “Have you always wanted to play? Or is it something your dad forced you into?”

I tense. “What makes you think that?”

Hannah shrugs. “Someone told me your dad is like a hockey superstar. I know there are a lot of parents out there who force their kids to follow in their footsteps.”

My shoulders are even stiffer now. I’m surprised she hasn’t brought up my father before now—I doubt there’s anyone at Briar who doesn’t know I’m Phil Graham’s son—but I’m also startled by how perceptive she is. Nobody has ever asked me if I actually enjoy playing hockey. They just assume I must love it because my father played.

“He pushed me into it,” I confess in a gruff voice. “I was skating before I even hit the first grade. But I kept playing because I love the sport.”

“That’s good,” she says softly. “I think it’s important to be doing what you love.”

I’m afraid she might ask more questions about my father, so I clear my throat and change the subject. “So which philosopher should we start with—Hobbes or Locke?”

“You pick. They’re both incredibly boring.”

I chuckle. “Way to make me enthusiastic about it, Wellsy.”

But she’s right. The next hour is brutal, and not just because of the mind-numbingly dull theories. I’m absolutely starving because I slept through lunch, but I refuse to end the session until I’ve mastered the material. When I studied for the midterm before, I focused only on the major points, but Hannah makes me examine every last detail. She also forces me to rephrase each theory, which I have to admit, gives me a better handle on the convoluted crap we’re studying.

After we’d muddled through it all, Hannah quizzes me on everything we’ve read these past few days, and when she’s satisfied I know my stuff, she closes the binder and nods.