“He’s smitten,” Summer confirms.

“It’ll pass.”

She giggles, but the humor dies quickly. “Hunter is being a jerk to us,” she admits. “When he’s not screwing anything in a skirt.”

“I guess he was really into you?”

“Honestly? I don’t think it’s about me. I think it’s about Fitz.”

“I can see that. He wanted to fuck Fitz,” I say solemnly. “I mean, who doesn’t?”

“No, you brat. Fitz straight up lied when Hunter asked if he had a thing for me. Hunter views it as a betrayal of the bro code.”

“The bro code is holy,” I have to concede. “Especially among teammates.”

“I know. Fitz says there’s a lot of tension at practice.” Summer moans. “What if affects their performance in the semifinals, Bee? That means Yale will move on to the finals.”

“My dad will straighten them out,” I assure her. “And say what you will about Hunter, but he likes to win hockey games. He won’t let a beef over some girl—no offense—distract him from winning.”

“Should I—”

A buzz in my ear mutes her question.

“What was that?”

“Text message,” I explain. “Sorry, keep going. What were you saying?”

“I was wondering if I should try to talk to him again.”

“I don’t think it’ll make a difference. He’s a stubborn ass. But eventually he’ll put his big-boy pants on and get over it.”

“I hope so.”

We chat for a while longer, until my eyelids grow heavy. “Summer. I’m going to sleep now, babes. I’ve got that interview in the morning.”

“Okay. Call me tomorrow. Love you.”

“Love you, too.”

I’m about to turn off the bedside lamp when I remember the text. I click the message icon and narrow my eyes when I see McCarthy’s name.

Hey, B. It’s been really awesome chilling with you, but I need to take a step back for a while. At least till playoffs are over. Gotta focus on the game, you know? I’ll give you a call once everything settles down, k? xo

My jaw falls open. Is this a joke?

I read the message again, and, nope, the content doesn’t change. McCarthy actually ended it.

It appears that Jake Connelly just declared war.

4

Brenna

I can usually hold my own in most situations. I’ve never suffered from anxiety, and nothing really scares me, not even my father, who’s been known to make grown men cry with one look. That’s not hyperbole—I saw it happen once.

But this morning my palms are sweaty and evil butterflies are gnawing at my stomach, and it’s all thanks to this HockeyNet executive, Ed Mulder, who’s been off-putting from the word go. He’s tall, bald, and terrifying, and the first thing he does after shaking my hand is ask why a pretty girl like me is applying for a job behind the camera.

I hide a frown at the sexist remark. One of my TAs at Briar, Tristan, used to be an intern here and he warned me that Mulder is a total jerk. But Tristan also said none of the interns report directly to Ed Mulder, which means I won’t need to deal with him past this interview. He’s just one obstacle I have to get through to strike internship gold.

“Well, as my cover letter stated, I eventually want to be an on-screen analyst or a reporter, but I’m hoping to build experience behind the scenes, too. I’m majoring in Broadcasting and Journalism at Briar, as you already know. Next year I’ll be doing a work placement at—”

“This isn’t a paid internship,” he interrupts. “You’re aware of that?”

I’m caught off-guard. My palms feel slippery when I wring them together, so I place them on my knees. “Oh. Um. Yes, I’m aware.”

“Good. I find that while male applicants come in knowing the details, the female ones often expect to get paid.”

He’s gone from vaguely sexist to obscenely so. And the comment doesn’t make much sense, either. The job posting on the HockeyNet site clearly specified this was an unpaid internship. Why would men expect one thing and women expect another? Is he suggesting that the women didn’t read the posting correctly? Or that we can’t read at all?

Beads of sweat break out at the nape of my neck. I’m so off my game here.

“So. Brenda. Tell me about yourself.”

I gulp. He called me Brenda. Should I correct him?

Of course you should correct him. Screw this guy. You own him. Confident Brenda—I mean Brenna—rears her spectacular head.

“Actually, it’s Brenna,” I say smoothly, “and I think I’d be a good fit here. First and foremost, I love hockey. It’s—”

“Your father is Chad Jensen.” His jaw moves up and down, and I realize he’s chewing gum. Classy.

I answer in a careful tone. “Yes, he is.”

“A championship-winning coach. Multiple Frozen Four wins, right?”

I nod. “He’s a great coach.”

Mulder nods back. “You must be proud of him. What would you say is your biggest strength, aside from having a semi-famous dad?”

I force myself to ignore the snide note in his inquiry and say, “I’m smart. I think on my feet. I thrive under pressure. And most of all, I genuinely love this sport. Hockey is—”

Annnd he’s not listening to me anymore.

His gaze has shifted to the computer screen, and he’s still chewing his gum like a horse chomping on some oats. The window behind his desk provides a fuzzy glimpse of the reflection from his monitor…is that a fantasy hockey lineup? I think it’s the ESPN fantasy page.

He suddenly glances at me. “Who’s your team?”

I wrinkle my forehead. “My college team or—”

“NHL,” he interrupts impatiently. “Who do you root for, Brenda?”

“Brenna,” I say through gritted teeth. “And I root for the Bruins, of course. What about you?”

Mulder snorts loudly. “Oilers. I’m a Canadian boy, through and through.”

I feign interest. “Oh, that’s interesting. Are you from Edmonton, then?”

“I am.” His eyes flick back to his screen. In an absentminded tone, he says, “What would you say is your biggest weakness, aside from having a semi-famous dad?”

I swallow an angry retort. “I can be impatient at times,” I confess, because there’s no way I’m doing that cheesy bit about how my biggest weakness is that I care too much or work too hard. Gag.

Mulder’s attention is once again diverted to his fantasy hockey team. Silence falls over the spacious office. I shift irritably in my chair and examine the glass case against the wall. It displays all the awards the station has won over the years, along with signed paraphernalia from various pro hockey players. There’s a lot of Oilers merch in there, I note.

On the opposite wall, two big screens are showing two different programs: an NHL highlights reel from this weekend, and a Top Ten segment counting down the most explosive rookie seasons of all time. I wish the TVs weren’t on mute. At least then I could hear something interesting while I’m being ignored.