Predictably, O’Shea doesn’t take kindly to having his authority challenged. “Chad has given me free rein over the defensemen, and it would serve you well to remember that,” he spits out. “When it comes to the defense, I handle any issues that arise. And this, Mr. Di Laurentis, is an issue. You will not indulge in alcohol or drugs of any kind while you’re a member of this team, you hear me?”

For chrissake. I’m done with this shit.

“You got it, Coach. Can I get on the bus now?”

Anger reddens his face. “You want to join your teammates on the bus? Then you’d better take some fucking responsibility for your actions. Acknowledge that you did something wrong.”

I’m seconds away from losing it. My hands ball into fists, but by some miracle, I manage to stop myself from hitting him. “Out of curiosity, are you planning on delivering this same lecture to everyone else in that picture? Or am I just special?”

“I plan on talking to all of them, don’t you worry. I chose to speak to you first because I was already aware of your history with alcohol abuse.” He lifts one eyebrow, and holy fucking shit, I almost let my fist fly.

My history with alcohol abuse?

Fuck that. And fuck him.

He knows damn well I don’t have a problem with alcohol. He’s just being a spiteful ass and trying to find new ways to punish me for what happened with Miranda. But this? Referencing the one time I drank too much—when I was a goddamn teenager—and using it to imply I’m a drunk?

I’m. So. Done. With. This. Shit.

“Thank you for your concern,” I say pleasantly. “It’s much appreciated. Really.” Then I leave him standing on the pavement and stalk toward the bus.

Fortunately, he doesn’t stop me.

I’m still fighting to gather the scattered pieces of my composure as I slide into my usual seat next to Tucker, who shoots me a quizzical look. “What was that about?”

“Absolutely nothing.” I fish my earbuds out of my pocket and pop them in. If Tuck considers that rude, he doesn’t say anything—he just lowers his gaze to his phone, and a few minutes later, we’re on the road.

The rock track that comes up on my iPod shuffle only riles me up more, so I pull up the playlist Wellsy made for me this summer and try to calm down to the sounds of smooth jazz and easy crooning. Nope. Not working, either. I switch off the iPod and listen to the low chatter of my teammates instead.

Logan and Fitzy are babbling about a first-shooter video game that Fitzy is reviewing for the college blog. Hollis is trying to convince someone to meet him at his dorm—“I’ll make it worth your while, baby”—which means he’s either on the phone, or he and his seatmate just came out to the entire bus. Corsen and his seatmate are arguing about who the hottest actress on Game of Thrones is: the chick who plays Daenerys or the broad who plays Cersei.

“You’re both wrong,” Garrett calls out. “Melisandre is the hottest. Hands down.”

“The red witch? No way. She gave birth to a gross shadow creature. That pussy’s tainted, dude.”

“Spoiler alert!” Wilkes says irritably. “I was planning on starting season one this weekend!”

“Don’t bother,” Fitzy advises. “The show sucks. Read the books instead.”

“I swear to God, if you tell us to ‘read the books’ one more time, I’m going to strangle you,” Corsen announces. “I mean it. I’ll straight up strangle you, Colin.”

Our resident nerd shrugs. “Can’t help it if the books are better.”

I don’t join in, but secretly I agree with Fitz. The books are better. Though I doubt anyone will believe me if I said I read ’em. With the exception of my roommates, most of my teammates don’t take me seriously. I’m pretty sure they think I’m only attending Harvard Law because my rich parents bought my way in. Doesn’t bother me, if I’m being honest. I get a kick out of it when people underestimate my intelligence. Half the time I willingly play into the dumb blond stereotype, just for funsies.

As the chatter continues, I tune everyone out and reach for my phone. I don’t know what compels me to open the Facebook app and search her name. I’m on autopilot, barely aware of what I’m doing until the search results pop up.

There are dozens of Miranda O’Sheas on Facebook, but none of them are the one I’m looking for.

I do another search, this time with her name and the words “Duke University.” I have no idea if she even goes there, but it seems like a good place to start. When we were dating, all Miranda ever talked about was how much she wanted to get into Duke.

This time her profile appears on the screen.

I study the small thumbnail pic. She hasn’t changed in four years. She still has the same round face, the same unruly dark curls, the same brown eyes.

To my dismay, her profile is private. I can’t see anything except her profile pic and cover photo, which is a generic beach landscape. I stare at the little green button at the top of the page.

Add friend.

I don’t know what possesses me to click it. But I do.

With the friend request sent, I turn off the app and put my phone away. Tucker isn’t on his anymore either. He’s leaning back against the headrest with his eyes closed, and I decide to follow his lead. We’ve got two more hours until we reach Boston, then another hour to Hastings. Might as well get some sleep and try to forget tonight’s disastrous game.

The nap does the trick. I wake up feeling centered and relaxed, and when I peer out the window and wait for the next road sign to appear, I discover we’re only a half hour from campus.

In the seat beside me, Tucker is also awake, typing on his phone again.

“Dude, are you dating someone?” I can’t stop myself from asking. I’ve barely seen Tucker lately, and we live in the same house.

“No,” he says dismissively.

“You sure about that?”

“I think I would know if I was dating someone.” But there’s an odd note in his voice, which I can’t for the life of me decipher.

“Where’ve you been, then? You’re never home anymore.”

Tucker shrugs. “I go to class. Study at the library. Chill in my room.” He pauses. “I crashed at a friend’s place in Boston a few times.”

“What friend?”