“Oh, and you know who’s getting married,” Hazel is saying.

“Hmmm?”

“Are you even paying attention to me?” she demands.

I drag the back of my hand over my face. I had such a shit sleep last night. “Yeah,” I say absently. “You said you’re getting married—wait, what? You’re getting married?”

“No, not me. I’m not getting married, you dumbass.” She rolls her eyes and shoves a strand of dirty-blonde hair behind her ear.

Her hair is down, I suddenly realize. She usually braids it or has it in a ponytail. “Your hair’s down,” I blurt out.

A faint blush reddens her cheeks. “Yep. It’s been down for the last forty minutes.”

“Sorry.”

“What’s going on with you? Why are you such a space cadet today?”

“I’m thinking about the game this weekend.” Her skeptical expression tells me she doesn’t buy that, so I don’t give her the chance to follow up. “So who’s getting married?”

“Tina Carlen. She was a year behind us in school.”

“Petey’s sister?”

“Yep.”

“Wait, how old is she?”

“Twenty.”

“And she’s getting married? Did you get an invite to the wedding?”

“Yep. You probably did, too. You never check your email.”

My jaw falls open. “They sent e-vites for their wedding?”

“Millennials, am I right?”

I snicker.

The train rolls into the station ten minutes later, and then we’re on our way to my parents’ house. “Mom’s going to be thrilled to see you,” I tell Hazel as we approach the front stoop.

“Did you tell her I was coming?”

“No. I thought it would be a fun surprise.”

I’m not wrong. Mom is overjoyed when she spots Hazel in the entryway. “Hazel!” she exclaims, throwing her arms around my childhood friend. “I didn’t know you were coming! What a great surprise!”

Hazel hugs her back. “It’s so good to see you, Mrs. C.”

“Hang up your coat and come see what we’ve done with the family room! We completely redecorated.” She grabs Hazel’s hand and ushers her away. A moment later, they’re in the family room, where Hazel is pretending to like all the changes. I know it’s an act, because Hazel’s always been a tomboy. My mom’s flowered wallpaper and frilly curtains are way too feminine for her liking.

“Jake.” My father appears in the kitchen doorway, his dark hair messy as usual. “Sorry I wasn’t here last weekend, but I’m sure glad to see you today.”

“Good to see you, too.” We exchange the manliest of greetings: a combination of side hug, shoulder slap, and handshake.

I follow him into the kitchen. “Coffee?” Dad says.

“Yes, please.”

He pours me a cup, then goes to the fridge and starts pulling out ingredients. “I’m on breakfast duty today. What do you think about omelets?”

“Sounds great. Need any help?”

“You can chop up this stuff.” He gestures to the array of vegetables on the counter.

I find a cutting board, grab a knife, and start chopping. On the other side of the kitchen island, Dad cracks eggs into a ceramic bowl.

“So I was watching a segment on HockeyNet last night,” he says as he whisks the eggs. “Top ten most promising rookies for the upcoming season. You were number two.”

“Who was number one?” I demand. Because fuck that. Not to toot my own horn, but the last player out of college who came even close to my stats is Garrett Graham, and he’s killing it in Boston.

“Wayne Dodd,” Dad says.

I relax. Acceptable. Dodd is a goalie for one of the Big Ten schools. He’s an excellent player, but the goalie position requires a whole other set of skills. I might be number two, but technically I’m number one in the forward position. I can live with that.

“Dodd has a mean glove,” I say. “I saw one of their televised games, and he looked terrifying.”

Dad narrows his eyes. “Think you might face him in the Frozen Four?”

“Good chance. Once all the conference finals are decided, we’ll find out who’ll be moving forward.” And that should be my primary focus—getting my team to the national tournament. The pressure is insane. Sixteen teams will be whittled down to four in the course of a weekend. From four it’ll become two, and then one. We need to be that one.

Dad changes the subject. “Are you looking at places in Edmonton yet? Checking out the online listings?”

“I haven’t had time to do much browsing,” I admit. “I’ve been concentrating on preparing for the Briar game.”

“Yeah, you’re right, good call.” He takes the cutting board from me and uses the knife to scrape the diced mushrooms and green peppers into the omelet bubbling in the pan. “So…you brought Hazel home with you today…”

“Is that suddenly an issue?” I chuckle, because Hazel’s been over to our house hundreds if not thousands of times.

“No, of course not.” He looks over his broad shoulder and grins sheepishly. “That was my cool, macho way of asking if you two are finally together.”

My folks are incorrigible when it comes to this. “No, we’re not together.”

“Why not? Along with making your mother very, very happy, dating Hazel would be good for you. Keep you grounded when you move to Edmonton.”

I sit down at the counter. “We’re just friends, Dad.”

“I know, but maybe—”

“Something smells amazing,” Hazel declares, and I’m grateful for the interruption.

My mother comes up behind me and ruffles my hair, then kisses the top of my head. “You didn’t hug me hello,” she scolds.

“Yeah, because you were so eager to show Hazel the family room.”

Hazel slides onto the stool beside me, and the mood in the kitchen gets substantially lighter. But inside, I’m once again dwelling on the fact that I haven’t spoken to Brenna in three days.

It isn’t until we’re heading back to Cambridge that Hazel finally calls me on it. “Okay, what the heck is going on with you, Connelly? You’ve been distracted and grumpy all morning. Even your mom noticed.”

“Nothing’s going on,” I lie.

She searches my face. “Are you nervous about playing us this weekend?”

“Not at all. We’re gonna kick your ass.”

She sticks out her tongue. “I’m so torn about who to root for.”

“No, you’re not. Obviously you’re rooting for your best friend.”

Hazel rests her head on my shoulder as the train speeds forward. “You’re acting weird, whether you want to admit it or not. And you’ve sounded distant the last few times we’ve talked,” she admits. “Are you pissed at me or something?”

“Of course not. I just have a lot on my mind.”

There’s a long beat of hesitation. “Girl trouble?”

“Nah.”

Her head pops up, and suddenly there’s a pair of highly suspicious eyes fixed on me. “It’s actually girl trouble, isn’t it? Are you seeing somebody?”