Summer and I have known each other only a couple of months. We pretty much went from strangers to best friends in about, oh, thirty seconds. I mean, she transferred from another college after accidentally setting part of her sorority house on fire—how could I not fall hard for that crazy girl? She’s a fashion major, a ton of fun, and is convinced I have a thing for Jake Connelly.

She’s wrong. The guy is gorgeous, and he’s a phenomenal hockey player, but he’s also a notorious player off the ice. This doesn’t make him an anomaly, of course. A lot of athletes maintain an active roster of chicks who are perfectly content with 1) hooking up, 2) not being exclusive, and 3) always coming second to whatever sport the dude plays.

But I’m not one of those chicks. I’m not averse to hookups, but numbers 2 and 3 are non-negotiable.

Not to mention that my father would skin me alive if I ever dated THE ENEMY. Dad and Jake’s coach, Daryl Pedersen, have been feuding for years. According to my father, Coach Pedersen sacrifices babies to Satan and performs blood magic in his spare time.

“I have lots of friends,” Connelly adds. He shrugs. “Including a very close one who goes to Briar.”

“I feel like when somebody brags about all their friends, it usually means they don’t have any. Overcompensating, you know?” I smile innocently.

“At least I didn’t get stood up.”

The smile fades. “I wasn’t stood up,” I lie, except the waitress chooses that moment to approach the booth and blow my cover.

“You made it!” Relief fills her eyes at the sight of Jake. Followed by a gleam of appreciation once she gets a good look at him. “We were starting to get worried.”

We? I hadn’t realized we were partners in this humiliation venture.

“The roads were slick,” Jake tells her, nodding toward the diner’s front windows. Rivulets of moisture streak the fogged-up panes. Beyond the glass a thin stripe of lightning momentarily illuminates the dark sky. “Gotta be extra careful when driving in the rain, you know?”

She nods fervently. “The roads get really wet when it’s raining.”

No shit, Captain Obvious. Rain makes things wet. Somebody call the Nobel Prize judging committee.

Jake’s lips twitch.

“Could I get you anything to drink?” she asks.

I shoot him a warning glare.

He responds with a smirk before turning to wink at her. “I would love a cup of coffee—” He squints at her nametag, “—Stacy. And a refill for my sulking date.”

“I don’t want a refill, and I’m not his date,” I growl.

Stacy blinks in confusion. “Oh? But…”

“He’s a Harvard spy sent here to get the goods on Briar’s hockey team. Don’t humor him, Stacy. He’s the enemy.”

“So dramatic.” Jake chuckles. “Ignore her, Stace. She’s just mad that I was late. Two coffees, and some pie, if you don’t mind. A slice of…” His gaze travels to the glass cases at the main counter. “Oh damn, I can’t decide. Everything looks so tasty.”

“Yes you are,” I hear Stacy mumble under her breath.

“What was that?” he asks, but his slight smile tells me he heard her loud and clear.

She blushes. “Oh, um, I was saying we only have peach and pecan left.”

“Hmmm.” He licks his bottom lip. It’s a ridiculously sexy move. Everything about him is sexy. Which is why I hate him. “You know what? One of each, please. My date and I will share ’em.”

“We most certainly will not,” I say cheerfully, but Stacy is already hurrying off to procure some stupid pie for King Connelly.

Fuck.

“Listen, as much as I enjoy discussing how your team is trash, I’m too tired to insult you tonight.” I try to tamp down my weariness, but it creeps into my voice. “I want to go home.”

“Not yet.” The lighthearted, somewhat mocking vibe he’s been giving off hardens into something more serious. “I didn’t come to Hastings for you, but now that we’re having coffee together—”

“Against my will,” I cut in.

“—there’s something we need to discuss.”

“Oh, is there?” Despite myself, curiosity pricks at my gut. I cover it up with sarcasm. “I can’t wait to hear it.”

Jake clasps his hands on the tabletop. He has great hands. Like, really, really great hands. I’ve got a bit of an obsession with men’s hands. If they’re too small, I’m instantly turned off. Too big and meaty, and I’m a bit apprehensive. But Connelly has been blessed with a winning pair. His fingers are long but not bony. Palms large and powerful but not beefy. His nails are clean, but two of his knuckles are red and cracked, probably from a skirmish on the ice. I can’t see his fingertips, but I’d bet they’re callused.

I love the way calluses feel trailing over my bare skin, grazing a nipple…

Ugh. Nope. I’m not allowed to be thinking racy thoughts in the vicinity of this man.

“I want you to stay the hell away from my guy.” Although he punctuates that by baring his teeth, it can’t be classified as a smile. It’s too feral.

“What guy?” But we both know I know who he means. I can count on one finger of one hand how many Harvard players I’ve fooled around with.

I met Josh McCarthy at a Harvard party that Summer dragged me to a while back. He initially threw a tantrum when he found out I was Chad Jensen’s daughter, but then recognized the error of his ways, apologized via social media, and we got together a few times after that. McCarthy’s cute, goofy, and a solid candidate in terms of FWBs. With him living in Boston, there’s no chance of him smothering me with affection or showing up at my door unannounced.

Obviously, he isn’t a long-term option. And that goes beyond the whole my-father-would-murder-me matter. Truth is, McCarthy doesn’t stimulate me. His sarcasm skills are severely lacking, and he’s a bit boring when his tongue isn’t in my mouth.

“I mean it, Jensen. I don’t want you messing with McCarthy.”

“Jeez, Mama Bear, retract those claws. It’s just a casual thing.”

“Casual,” he echoes. It’s not a question, but a mocking I-don’t-believe-you.

“Yes, casual. Would you like me to ask Siri to define the word for you? Casual means it isn’t serious. At all.”

“It is for him.”

I roll my eyes. “Well, that’s him, not me.”

Yet, inside, I’m troubled by Jake’s frank assessment. It is for him.

Oh boy. I hope that isn’t true. Yes, McCarthy texts me a lot, but I’ve been trying not to engage unless it’s something sexy. I don’t even respond with “LOL” when he sends me a funny video link, because I don’t want to lead him on.

But…maybe I didn’t make our fling status as clear as I thought I did?

“I’m tired of watching him walk around like a lovesick puppy.” Jake shakes his head in aggravation. “He has it bad, and this bullshit is distracting him at practice.”

“Again, how is that my problem?”

“We’re smack in the middle of the conference tournament. I know what you’re doing, Jensen, and you need to stop.”