She gives me a dry grin. “Is that what you think happened?”

“It is what happened. Your expression was broadcasting ‘Get me the hell outta here.’”

Brenna gives a throaty laugh before running a hand through her thick, glossy hair. “I did want to get out of here,” she confirms. “Because I saw you.”

I narrow my eyes.

“It’s true. I mean, come on, do I look like the damsel in distress type? You really believe I couldn’t have gotten away from that guy all by my lonesome?”

She has a point. A helpless damsel she is not. My stomach twists at the notion that she was trying to escape me and not Ronny. The hit to my ego is unwelcome. “So, what, I don’t get a thank you for trying to be nice?”

“Is that how you view yourself? As nice?” Brenna winks. “Haven’t you heard? Nice guys finish last.”

“You still haven’t told me why you’re here. Wearing that.” I direct a pointed nod at her dress—and hope my expression doesn’t reveal my thoughts on it.

Because, fuck, that dress. It’s indecently short, and cut so low my mouth runs dry. Where the hell is that beer? I’m dying here. The shimmery material clings to every tantalizing curve of her body, hugging a pair of high, round breasts that a man would give up his firstborn to get his hands on. And her legs… Jesus. She’s not too tall—I’d put her at average height, maybe five-five—but the length of the dress combined with her high-heeled boots make her legs appear endless.

“I was supposed to go clubbing tonight,” she answers tightly. “But my cousin bailed on me at the last minute.”

“Sucks.”

“Yup.”

Our drinks arrive, and I slug back a huge mouthful to bring much-needed moisture to my throat. Brenna Jensen is way too hot, and I definitely shouldn’t be in her presence tonight. I’m still riding the high from this afternoon’s victory, adrenaline still coursing through my veins. We destroyed Princeton. Crushed them. And now the universe has placed Brenna in my path, and it’s messing with my head, not to mention my intentions.

When I saw her with Ronny, I thought rescuing her from him could be my way of apologizing for the McCarthy thing.

But now that she’s standing in front of me in that dress, I’m not thinking about apologies. I’m thinking about kissing her. And touching her. Squeezing that tight ass again. Nah, more than squeezing it.

A slew of dirty images swamps my mind. I want to bend her over this table and fuck her doggy-style. Run my hands down her smooth ass cheeks. Slide my cock inside in one, slow stroke… I bet her back would arch and she’d moan when I did it.

I have to bite my lip to stop a groan. Thankfully, she doesn’t notice. She’s too busy stirring her drink with a thin plastic straw. She takes a sip, grimaces, and sets the glass down.

“Sorry, Connelly, I can’t drink this. I’ve already had two in less than an hour, and I’m feeling the buzz.”

“Where are you staying?” I ask gruffly. “You’re not driving back to Hastings tonight, are you?”

“No, but I’ll be Uber’ing there.”

“That’s one expensive ride.”

“Eighty bucks,” she says glumly. “But it’s better than going back to my cousin’s dorm.”

I whistle. The invitation to crash with me and Brooks tickles the tip of my tongue, but I manage to refrain. That’s one of the most boneheaded ideas I’ve ever had. Besides, she’d never say yes.

I curl my fingers around the bottle and force myself to accept the truth: I’m horny.

I’m still pumped up from the game. My blood’s hot and my dick’s hard and Brenna is sex on heels. Her presence is shorting out my common sense like a tripped circuit.

When warm fingertips suddenly touch my wrist, I jolt as if I’ve been electrocuted. I glance down to find Brenna toying with the beaded bracelet I’m wearing. She fingers one of the pink beads, her lips twitching as if she’s trying not to laugh.

“Nice bling,” she remarks. “Did you ransack an eight-year-old girl’s bedroom?”

“Funny.” I roll my eyes. “It’s my good luck charm. I always wear it on game day.”

“Athletes and their superstitions.” She purses her lips. “Guess number two: you held up a Girl Scout troop and robbed them blind.”

“Wrong again.”

“Guess number three: you’re a time traveler from the 1960s and—”

“Sorry to disappoint you,” I interrupt with a grin, “but this bracelet doesn’t have an exciting origin story. I lost a bet to a teammate freshman year of high school, and my punishment was to wear this for a month straight.”

Her tone is dry. “Was it was supposed to be a threat to your masculinity?”

“I know, right?” I wink. “Clearly he didn’t know me at all. My masculinity is rock solid.” And so is my erection, but I’m trying not to focus on it in hopes it’ll go away. I twist the pink-and-purple bracelet around my wrist. “I think he did steal this from his little sister, though. I hope she wasn’t attached to it, because she sure as shit ain’t getting it back.”

“Does it have magical powers?”

“Damn right it does. We didn’t lose a single game during the month I wore this thing. We swept every series we played. I’m talking four consecutive weekends. And then, when I took it off…” A cold shiver races up my spine.

Brenna looks fascinated. “When you took it off, what?”

“I can’t even discuss it. It’ll trigger my PTSD.”

Melodic laughter spills out of her throat. I can’t deny I like hearing it. No, I like knowing that I’m the one who made her laugh. This beautiful, bitchy girl with the prickliest attitude I’ve ever encountered, who doesn’t miss an opportunity to neg me.

“The first game we played AB—after bracelet,” I clarify. “That’s how I measure time now.”

Amusement dances on her face. “Of course.”

“Well, we lost. No, we lost hard. It was unfathomable how badly we played.” The memory still brings the heat of humiliation to my cheeks. “We might as well have bent over and let the other team spank us with their sticks. It was the ass-kicking of the century.” I pause for effect. “We got shut out. Eight-nothing.”

Brenna’s mouth falls open. “Eight-nothing? I don’t think I’ve ever seen a hockey game where a team scored eight goals. Wow. Don’t ever take that bracelet off, otherwise you’ll—” She stops. “Actually…” She smiles sweetly. “Can I borrow it?”

I smirk. “You wish. It’s gonna be on my wrist when we’re winning the finals. Speaking of which…” I pull out my phone. I’ve been monitoring the Briar-Yale game all night, but I haven’t checked the score in nearly thirty minutes. “Well, look at that, Hottie. Guess who’s in overtime.”

Her good humor fades. “What’s the score?” she demands.

“Two all.” I blink innocently. “If I recall correctly, Briar was up a goal until the last two minutes in the third. Looks like your boys choked under pressure and let Yale tie it up.”